Saturday came. The Sky Cloud Mall buzzed with energy. Spectators leaned over glass railings, watching the contestants below. Dozens of cooking stations filled the open courtyard, each armed with an electric burner and a tray of random ingredients.
Li Wei arrived early, dressed in his father's old chef coat. It was oversized, sleeves rolled up three times, but he wore it with calm pride.
A judge called out, "Contestant 17, Li Wei."
He stepped forward.
Some of the other kids giggled. Adults stared. One woman whispered, "They're letting children compete now?"
But Li Wei didn't flinch. His hands hovered over the ingredients. His mind blanked. He wasn't nervous. He was listening—to the wok, to the flame, to something deeper.
The timer beeped. The round had begun.
Li Wei lit his burner. He grabbed scallions, bell peppers, garlic, and a half block of tofu. His knife moved like it had a mind of its own—swift, silent, sure.
He crushed garlic, seared tofu, and stirred in a swirl of vinegar and sugar. The aroma changed, deepened. Heads turned.
A judge sniffed the air. Another leaned forward.
Li Wei moved quickly, plating with elegance. A sprig of cilantro. A drop of sesame oil.
Done.
The timer buzzed again.
When the judges took a bite, silence fell.
"This flavor..." one judge murmured. "It's… refined."
"Balanced," said another. "And this technique… impossible at his age."
Li Wei simply bowed and stepped back.
He didn't smile. Didn't speak.
He had no reason to.
This was just the beginning.