The first to emerge from the backstage rooms was Countess Genevieve. She wore a simple but elegant replacement gown, and a faint, uncharacteristic blush colored her high cheekbones. She walked stiffly toward Soma's station, her eyes, which had previously held only sneering disgust, now carried a complex mixture of hesitation, bewilderment, and a deep, unnerving curiosity.
The male MC, desperate to move on from the frankly scandalous noises the judges had made, seized the opportunity. "And the Countess returns! So, Countess, tell us, how was... Soma's cooking."
"We will wait for the other judges before delivering our verdict for Chef Soma," she cut him off, her voice sharp. The pointed use of his title was a shocking concession, and it silenced the MC instantly.
One by one, the other judges emerged, each looking similarly dazed and wearing fresh clothes. Baron Kael came out with a wide, ear-to-ear grin, looking happier than he probably had in years. Master Chef Borin, the dwarf, looked utterly baffled, his judgmental eyes still fixed on Soma, but now they were filled with confusion rather than scorn.
"Hah! That's what I'm talking about!" 'Big' Sal bellowed as he approached, clapping his hands together. "That dish could go toe-to-toe with my signature five-meat chili! And my chili makes a grown man weep!"
"Sal, hush," Countess Genevieve ordered, though her rebuke lacked its usual venom. "We are waiting for Magister Elara."
As if he understood something she didn't, Sal just laughed cheerfully and gave Soma a huge thumbs-up.
This wasn't the reaction Soma had expected. The protocol had been broken. Before, the judges gave their comments individually as they moved down the line. Now, they stood together as a silent, waiting group. It seemed Magister Elara's opinion was needed to contextualize what they had all just experienced.
Finally, Elara herself emerged from her room. But unlike the others, she hadn't changed. She still wore the same elegant scholar's robes, looking completely composed.
The Countess nodded slightly. "It seems my guess was correct," she murmured, before speaking up. "So, what do you think of Chef Soma's dish, Magister?"
Elara didn't answer her. She stepped forward until she was directly in front of Soma's station, and her piercing eyes seemed to look straight through him. "What is your dominant hand, chef?" she asked, her voice calm and analytical.
The question was so out of left field that Soma was momentarily perplexed. "Uh... my right hand," he answered.
"Give it to me," Elara commanded. "I need to check something."
The tension in the plaza became thick enough to taste. The other contestants stared, mouths agape. What was happening? Soma, trusting his instincts, slowly raised his right hand and extended it over the counter.
Elara placed two slender fingers on the veins of his wrist. A cool, probing surge of mana crept from her fingertips into Soma's arm. He felt it scan him, a strange, tingling sensation that cataloged him in a way he couldn't comprehend. Her eyes widened fractionally.
"Impossible," she muttered, so quietly it was almost lost in the silence.
"What is it?" Soma asked, a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach.
Magister Elara ignored him completely. She pulled her hand back and turned, gesturing for the other judges to convene with her in a tight, serious huddle.
The MCs, seeing their event spiraling into bizarre confusion, scrambled to regain control. "Well, folks," the male MC said with a forced, tinny laugh, "while our judges... deliberate... this fascinating dish, let's go to the crowd for some interviews!"
While the judges huddled in a tight, serious circle, the MCs scrambled to fill the dead air. The male MC, Ken, jogged down the stage steps with a magically amplified microphone.
"What a turn of events, folks!" he said with forced enthusiasm. "Let's see what the fine people of Evercrest think!" He shoved the microphone in front of a burly human man. "Sir, what's your take on this so-called 'lone chef'?"
"I think he's a cheat!" the man declared. "Used some kinda magic trick to fool the judges! There's no way food can do... that!"
Ken quickly moved on, finding a young elven woman. "And you, miss?"
"I think it's romantic!" she gushed. "A mysterious, handsome young chef with a secret technique! I hope he wins!"
Meanwhile, the female MC, Lyra, scanned the crowd, her eyes looking for a more interesting subject. They landed on a tall, strangely elegant figure standing near the edge of the crowd, away from the main throng. He was dressed in flowing purple robes and wore a wide-brimmed hat with a veil that completely obscured his face. He was an island of calm mystery in a sea of noisy excitement. Intrigued, she made her way toward him.
"And you, sir," she said, her voice smooth as she held her own crystal microphone out. "You've been watching very intently. What are your thoughts on this... unconventional competition so far?"
The mysterious man turned his head slightly. "It has been most illuminating," he replied, his voice calm and measured, muffled slightly by the veil. He clearly had no intention of showing his face.
"A man of few words!" Lyra said with a professional smile. "Given the surprising developments, who are you betting on to win today?"
"Chef Soma, of course," the man answered without a shred of hesitation.
Lyra was caught completely off guard. "Chef Soma?" she repeated, surprised. "But... the judges haven't even given their verdict on his first dish. Most people would bet on a proven name like Jacquard."
A soft chuckle came from behind the veil. "Perhaps," the man said. "But as his boss, I can't very well bet on anyone other than my own chef, can I?"
The revelation rippled through the people standing nearby who had been listening in. His boss? This mysterious, theatrical figure was the owner of the unknown Café LeBlanc?
"You're the owner?" Lyra asked, her journalistic instincts flaring. This was a story. "Tell me, what kind of establishment—"
Before she could ask another question, a loud chime echoed from the main stage, signaling that the judges had finished their deliberation and were returning to their seats. Lyra gave the mysterious man a final, curious look before rushing back to the stage, the story left tantalizingly unfinished.
The judges broke from their huddle, their expressions a mixture of grave seriousness and profound awe. The plaza was dead silent. Countess Genevieve stepped forward, her voice ringing out with cold, aristocratic clarity.
"From this moment forward," she announced, "Chef Sōma Yukihira will not be participating in the Grey Tide Cooking Festival."
The announcement landed like a thunderclap. A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Soma stared, his mind going completely blank with shock. Beside him, Gaylord Jacquard's face split into a triumphant, sneering grin. "I told you," he muttered to his trembling assistant, "that country bumpkin was up to no good. Finally, some decorum."
Soma's mouth opened, a protest forming on his lips, but the Countess held up a single, imperious hand, silencing him before he could speak.
"He will not be participating," she continued, her voice resonating with unshakeable authority, "because his skill has far surpassed the qualifications of this competition. We have unanimously concluded that to allow him to continue would be fundamentally unfair to every other participant here."
If the first announcement was a thunderclap, the second was an earthquake. The silence of the crowd shattered into a roar of disbelief. The MCs, mouths agape, could only stare. The other contestants looked as if they'd been struck by lightning.
Then, Master Chef Borin, the dwarven traditionalist who had looked at Soma with such scorn, took a step forward. He faced Soma and gave a short, stiff bow from the waist—a gesture of immense respect from a master of his craft.
"It is an honor," the dwarf rumbled, his voice filled with a new, grudging reverence, "to meet a young Master Chef such as yourself."
The revelation blew the minds of everyone listening. Master Chef? That title was reserved for the giants of the culinary world. The male MC finally found his voice, a cheer breaking through his professionalism. "A Master Chef! An unknown, young Master Chef has appeared at the Grey Tide Festival!"
Through it all, Soma remained genuinely, utterly confused. 'Big' Sal, seeing the look on Soma's face, let out a hearty laugh. "I see you seem to be the only one who doesn't get it, kid." He turned and flagged down a nearby event organizer. "Bring Master Chef Soma to my personal waiting room," he ordered. "We'll talk to him after the second round of the competition begins."
The other contestants stared, their faces a gallery of raw emotion: awe, disbelief, and in many cases, a bitter, seething envy. The latter was personified by Gaylord Jacquard, whose face was no longer smug, but twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He had been publicly humiliated, his family's name eclipsed by a no-name from a café, a boy who was now being escorted away not as a failure, but as a legend in the making.
Soma walked numbly into the waiting room, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The space was comfortable but felt like a cage. He could hear the muffled voice of the male MC announcing the winner of the first round, followed by the roar of the crowd. The second round was beginning, with Baron Kael revealing the next challenge ingredient, but none of it mattered to Soma anymore. He wasn't in the competition. He sank onto a plush sofa, a profound sense of failure washing over him. He was supposed to promote Café LeBlanc, to put them on the map. Instead, he hadn't even finished the first round before getting kicked out.
The door opened again, and the five judges filed in, their expressions now unreadable without the pressure of the crowd.
"What's going on?" Soma asked, his voice quiet. "Did I break a rule?"
'Big' Sal let out a booming laugh that seemed to shake the room. "Kid, you didn't break a rule, you broke the whole damn scale! It seems what Magister Elara suspected is right. You're an autodidact Master Chef!"
Soma stared at him blankly. "A what? Master Chef? Does that mean something important?"
The question was so genuine, so utterly without guile, that Baron Kael, 'Big' Sal, and Master Chef Borin all burst into hearty laughter. Even the Countess let out a small, dry chuckle, shaking her head in disbelief.
Magister Elara, however, simply smiled. "Well," she said, her calm voice cutting through the laughter, "that would be the downside of being self-taught. You have the knowledge without the context. Listen, Chef."
She began to explain, her voice clear and precise, like a professor giving a lecture. "In this realm, culinary skill is not just a trade; it is a recognized path of magical and spiritual development. We measure it in Ranks, or Realms of mastery. Most chefs spend their entire lives hoping to advance just one or two steps."
She held up a finger. "The first realm is Steward. This is where a practitioner awakens their senses and can perceive the natural magical essence in ingredients. They learn to preserve it."
She held up a second. "The second is Hearth Tender, where they learn to go beyond preservation and actively enhance that natural essence, making things taste more vibrant, more themselves."
Baron Kael chimed in, leaning forward eagerly. "Then you get to Artisan Chef, where you can start infusing your own energy to create tangible effects—a stew that warms you against the cold, a jerky that boosts your stamina. That's where most good restaurant chefs top out."
"Beyond that is the Sous-Chef of Harmony," Elara continued, "who can weave multiple effects together and even touch upon the diner's emotions, creating dishes that bring comfort or joy."
She paused, her gaze becoming incredibly intense. "But the fifth realm... the fifth realm is Master Chef. A Master Chef achieves a spiritual connection to the five fundamental flavors. They don't just enhance essence; they command it. They can cook abstract concepts into their food—loyalty, clarity, inspiration."
Soma's mind reeled as he tried to process the information. "So... what I did... that 'clothes magic' dish..."
"Yes," Elara confirmed, a slight blush touching her cheeks as she remembered the... effects. "But your mana control, your ability to manipulate the essence you perceive, is still only at the Steward level. Meanwhile, your knowledge of how to combine flavors and concepts is somehow at the Master Chef rank. This profound imbalance is the cause of..." she hesitated, "...the clothes-tearing debacle. The raw, conceptual power of the dish was too overwhelming and uncontrolled for a normal person's senses to handle."
Soma frowned, a new question forming. "But your clothes didn't tear."
Elara gave a small, knowing smile. "I am a mage myself, Chef," she said simply. "Any side effects from magical food can be contained and managed with my own mana. A regular person, however, cannot."
**A/N**
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**A/N**