When we stepped into the exam site for the Second Phase, I could already feel a shift in the atmosphere. The damp weight of the swamp air was behind us now, and ahead stood a long table, a kitchen setup that looked like something out of a five-star culinary institute, and more importantly, two examiners with very different energies radiating from them.
Buhara was massive. Round, cheerful, cheeks so puffed they looked like they were storing spare meals. He practically radiated warmth… and hunger. His eyes glittered with anticipation at the mention of food, and I could already tell that if you gave him something halfway edible, he'd probably love it. The man looked like he considered chewing optional.
And then there was Menchi.
Slender, sharp-eyed, and intense, with her blue hair tied up in a spiky ponytail and a glare that could cut steel. She stood with arms crossed, chin slightly tilted up like she'd just sniffed something mildly offensive. If Buhara was the hungry uncle at a family barbecue, Menchi was the Michelin-star chef who'd send back the meal you spent a week preparing because the parsley wasn't "emotionally balanced." She exuded confidence and refinement, and I instantly knew, this woman would be annoying to deal with.
The first challenge came from Buhara. He smiled widely and clapped his pudgy hands.
"Your task is simple! Go into the Forest Preserve, hunt a wild pig of any kind, and bring back a whole roast that's tasty enough to satisfy me!"
The announcement was met with muttering, confusion, and some excitement. But I already knew what this meant. I had seen the anime. I knew the only pigs in that forest were the Great Stamp Boars, monsters the size of vans, covered in fur and muscle, with jagged tusks and an infamous temper. But I also knew something else. A secret.
Their weak spot was the forehead.
Most people wouldn't know that. They'd try to stab them in the ribs or legs and just get thrown into a tree. But I wasn't taking chances. I didn't come this far to be bodied by bacon.
I was already moving when others were still talking. I ran straight into the Visca Forest, ducking under branches, weaving through vines. It didn't take long before I heard the rumbling. The Great Stamp wasn't stealthy. Trees trembled as it charged toward a group of examinees who screamed and scattered like marbles.
I positioned myself behind a thick tree and waited.
As it barreled past, I pulled out my taser gun, a solid model made to deliver a high enough voltage to stun a bear, and aimed it right at its forehead.
I fired.
The electrodes struck true, embedding just above the brow ridge, and the electric current coursed through the beast's skull, triggering spasms, then silence.
The boar collapsed like a mountain folding in on itself.
"Bullseye," I muttered.
I took out my field knife and went to work. Skinning, cutting, prepping. I'd worked on fishing boats and butchering stations for years. Meat didn't scare me. I carved the choice cuts, set a fire pit, and seasoned the boar with what I had on hand: dried herbs, a bit of salt from my rations, and a careful roasting technique that made sure it browned evenly without burning.
By the time I returned, the field was covered in smoke and noise. Dozens of applicants dragging pigs behind them, some cooked, some raw, some just barely recognizable as food.
Buhara clapped his hands together with the glee of a child in a candy store. He devoured everything. One guy brought a raw boar, and he just munched it like a turkey leg. Didn't even blink. Another had overcooked his, charred to black, and Buhara nodded enthusiastically while gnawing on it like it was gourmet.
When it was my turn, I presented my plate carefully. Perfectly roasted boar shoulder. A hint of herbal smoke. Crispy skin, juicy meat, even a garnish.
Buhara wept.
"Young man," he said between mouthfuls, "you're a blessing! If I die right now, bury me in this meat!"
So yeah. I passed. Easy.
But then it was Menchi's turn.
She stepped forward with the grace of a knife in motion. "Your second test," she said, "is to make me a commen dish from a small island country."
Silence.
"Sushi."
Murmurs erupted among the crowd. What the hell was sushi? No one knew, except for two.
Hanzo. The tall, confident ninja from Jappon. Sword on his back. Eyes full of certainty. He straightened up and puffed his chest.
"Sushi? That's easy. It's rice with raw fish. You just slap 'em together and boom, sushi!"
He was wrong.
But he didn't know that. He grabbed seaweed, rice, and slabs of fish and began assembling abominations. Other candidates, desperate for answers, followed his lead. Soon the entire area was filled with what looked like cold fish-topped rice bricks held together with hope.
Menchi took one bite form Hanzo's dish… and exploded.
"This is an insult to the entire culinary tradition of sushi!" she shouted. "You call this a dish? This is what you feed to stray cats on a budget!"
Chaos ensued. Some began yelling. Others dropped to their knees, begging for a second chance. Menchi was livid, ready to fail everyone right then and there.
And then I stepped forward.
"I can make sushi."
The noise died instantly.
Menchi narrowed her eyes. "Oh? Another fool following the ninja?"
"No," I said, calmly. "I actually know how to make sushi."
I stepped behind a preparation table, pulled a clean cloth over my hands, and began. Rice? I rinsed it properly, cooked it with the right water-to-rice ratio, and fanned it to perfection. Vinegar mix? Balanced, just the right acidity. Fish? I sliced it like it was silk, clean, precise, with respect to the grain.
I prepared nigiri, makizushi, and even a few rolls with fresh ingredients. I didn't go overboard, this was about tradition, not flair. I presented the plate without a word.
Menchi lifted a piece with chopsticks, observed the shape, the cut, the gloss of the rice.
Then she ate.
And closed her eyes.
For a moment, the whole field froze.
Then… a small smile appeared on her lips.
"You did it," she whispered. "This is real sushi."
Candidates rushed over, begging me to show them the method. I took a breath, then began explaining. The rice prep. The knife angle. The fish handling. It became an impromptu workshop, with dozens of examinees copying my movements, recreating proper sushi.
Menchi gave each plate a taste, and this time, she nodded. Again and again.
In the end, everyone passed, thanks to the example I set. And though Menchi still scowled at some of the more amateur attempts, the tension was gone. The test had become about learning, as Mench smiled to herself as she watched.
As the examinees gathered around me after the phase ended, clapping me on the back, offering thanks and compliments, and earning myself alot of goodwill.
The Second Phase was over.