"Hmm," Tifa glanced down at the colorful ball in her hand and declared, "The theme of the second round will be... breadmaking!"
"What? Bread? Something that basic?" the host blinked in disbelief. "Are you sure you don't want to go with something more complex or less common that you're especially good at?"
"We'll compete on bread," Tifa affirmed. "Baking bread gives me a distinct edge."
The host turned toward the mayor for confirmation. Seeing the mayor nod, he continued, "Very well then. The theme of the second round is... breadmaking!"
Hearing that the next challenge was just bread, many of the chefs smirked with easy confidence.
After all, steamed bread was about as basic as it got in cooking. But not everyone looked so assured some frowned, knowing that the simplicity of the challenge would make it difficult to stand out.
Once the theme was announced, the mayor had his staff wheel out all the necessary tools and ingredients into the plaza.
Since breadmaking required time-consuming steps like fermentation and proofing, the time limit for this round was set at two hours.
Plenty of time, but no one dared waste it. As soon as the signal was given, every chef dove into the work, each preparing their own specialty bread.
Tifa did the same kneading, proofing, and preparing her dough in a steady, unhurried rhythm, then letting it rest.
"Miss Tifa, are you stopping already?" The host came over to interview her. "Aren't you preparing fillings or side dishes for the bread?"
"No need," she replied with certainty. "Simple is best."
The host peeked at the covered dough fermenting in the bowl, sealed under cling wrap, then said no more and moved on to interview another chef.
That chef was preparing a rich soup-filled bread bowl, packed with generous chunks of beef visually appealing and clearly delicious.
Tifa's bread was far simpler. Once the dough had risen, she divided it into equal portions and placed them in a steamer. When she lifted the lid, out came rows of plump, snow-white buns, steaming hot.
Visually, they were... ordinary.
Some of the judges looked at the plain, chubby buns in front of them and hesitated to touch them. In their minds, "bread" meant something golden-brown, crusty from baking, with a fragrant, toasty aroma.
"This kind of bread is popular in the Flower Kingdom, the Land of Wano, and the Kingdom of Tainakena," the food-savvy elder among the judges said as he examined the buns. "I remember seeing buns like these when I was sailing through Tainakena in my youth some had fillings, some didn't. There was quite a variety. But it's been so long, I don't even remember what they tasted like."
"These are plain ones. They're called mantou," Tifa explained. "This is my proudest creation. Please, have a taste."
Selling steamed buns had once been Tifa's way of surviving in the slums.
In the beginning, she'd just helped out at a bakery, selling buns on commission. For every one she sold, she earned a small cut about twenty percent.
No matter how hard she tried, she could only manage to sell about a hundred buns a day, which barely made ends meet.
That's when she realized the problem wasn't the seller it was the flavor. With the owner's permission, she modified the recipe and began selling her own improved version.
Her buns became a sensation. Not just in Sector 7's slums, but even folks from other districts came looking for them and always left satisfied.
Soon, she was selling over a thousand buns a day ten times what she used to.
That experience taught Tifa the true power of taste, and she had absolute faith in her steamed buns.
The judges said nothing more. They picked up their knives and forks, ready to try a bite.
"Wait," Tifa stopped them. "You eat mantou with your hands. Knives and forks will ruin the texture."
The judges exchanged glances, then nodded and set down their utensils. Each picked up a bun and took a bite.
At first, their expressions didn't change. But as they chewed, the natural starch began to break down into maltose, releasing a gentle, sweet aftertaste that slowly blossomed on their tongues. Their faces subtly shifted.
Seeing this, the tension in Tifa's chest gradually eased. She asked, "How does it taste?"
"Perfect score," the elder judge replied. "The bun is fluffy and soft, richly aromatic, and easy to eat. It's also simple to prepare just flour, fermentation, and steam. Compared to oven-baked bread, this is more accessible and just as satisfying.
Most importantly, even children or elders without teeth can enjoy it. As a staple food, it's nearly flawless."
The other judges echoed the sentiment, all awarding full marks. With her years of experience selling buns in the slums, Tifa had earned a perfect fifty out of fifty.
Though the round wasn't over yet, their advancement to the finals was now all but guaranteed.
Tifa quickly packed up the remaining buns, eager to share her joy with her companions.
"Here, these buns were a hit back in the slums. Try them while they're still hot."
"Thanks!" Ethan Chen accepted one of the fluffy white buns without hesitation. It was soft, warm, and springy to the touch. He took a bite and nodded. "Not bad at all."
With buns this good, it was no wonder Tifa had clawed her way out of poverty, rising from a street vendor to the owner of the Seventh Heaven bar.
"Delicious," Mona chimed in. "No wonder you chose buns as the theme for the second round."
"Yeah, but we've still got one more match to go... I'm a little nervous about what's next."
"We'll find out soon," Ethan said. "The next round is the final."
Ethan was nervous too. Whether or not they'd be able to protect Jerusalem depended on the outcome of this match.
The weight of it all made time itself seem to slow.
After glancing at the plaza's clock for what felt like the tenth time, Ethan finally reached out, took Tifa's hand, and turned to 2B and Mona.
"We're heading out for a bit. We'll be back soon."
Without waiting for questions, he led Tifa down the street.
"Boss, we'll take a room. Just two hours."
The innkeeper glanced up at the pair and slapped a key on the counter. "Two thousand Berries. First door on the left, second floor."
"Thanks." Ethan paid, took the key, and led Tifa upstairs.
By now, Tifa had figured out what he was up to. Her cheeks flushed. "We have another match coming up soon... isn't this a bit inappropriate?"
"Exactly why we should relax now," Ethan said, shutting the door and pulling her into his arms.
"Take a breather while we can. You'll be sharper for the finals."
"But..."
"No buts." He silenced her with a kiss, hands already tracing the curves of her back.
Tifa stopped resisting, even helping unbutton her pants, surrendering to this brief moment of warmth amidst the chaos of competition.
Ethan didn't hold back. His lips traced a path from her neck to her chest, down across her stomach, until he finally claimed her like a man savoring the fruit of victory.
As heat pooled in her core, Tifa's thighs instinctively locked around his head, fingers tangled in his hair.
Somewhere in her pounding heart, she knew she absolutely couldn't afford to lose the next round.
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