The city buzzed louder than ever. Neon billboards flickered in chaotic rhythm, the tiny screens of corner cafés blaring live updates. Everywhere, the words "National Culinary Masters — Culinary Ascension Round One" flashed in bold letters, demanding attention. Crowds gathered in open plazas where giant holographic projections streamed the competition in real time. Hashtags scrolled endlessly across digital walls, live comments racing past like water over rocks, voices merging into one massive chant. The city wasn't just watching—it was living the event.
"Vincent Locke!" someone shouted from the street corner, a group of friends echoing the call.
"He's the dark horse!" another countered, hoisting a poster of their favorite rival.
"No way—Chef Krauss is a machine in the kitchen."
"Forget them! Liona's plating is legendary. She's unbeatable."
Debates raged through cafés, streets, and social media feeds. Betting shops overflowed, restaurants paused service to catch live streams. Everyone had a favorite, everyone had an opinion, and everyone had a stake in the unfolding drama.
Inside the grand culinary arena, the atmosphere was almost unbearable in its intensity. Spotlights danced across the roaring audience packed into stadium-style seating, each cheer a tidal wave of energy. Fans waved glow-boards with chef names, some entire rows exploding into coordinated chants. Massive cameras swung overhead, capturing the smallest flickers of expression.
Four judges sat at their panel, expressions sharp, backs straight. Each one was an icon in the culinary world, framed by their own dramatic lighting, projecting authority with the subtle ease of decades of experience.
Ten contestants stood under the blinding lights, uniforms crisp and stiff. Each carried a reputation. Most had spent years dominating fine-dining kitchens, while a few—like Vincent—came from unconventional backgrounds. Yet here, on this stage, only skill would matter. Only results.
The host stepped forward, a booming presence that swallowed the air. Microphone in hand, he raised his other arm as if calling a storm to order.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first round of Culinary Ascension!" His voice ricocheted across the arena, leaving no ear untouched. "Tonight, ten of the city's most celebrated chefs will put their skills to the ultimate test! This challenge will demand creativity, precision, and speed under pressure!"
The audience erupted In response, a chaotic chorus of cheers, whistles, and applause.
"Tonight's round is titled—" The host paused, letting the tension build, the lights dimming and pulsing like a heartbeat, "—Precision Under Pressure!"
Gasps collided with cheers, tension rippling through the contestants. Some smirked with confidence, others shifted nervously on their toes. Vincent, however, remained perfectly still, arms relaxed at his sides, gaze unwavering.
The host's voice boomed again, sweeping over the room. "This is where speed separates the dreamers from the professionals! Every chop, every stir, every second counts! A single slip will cost you—not just your dish, but your place in the competition!"
The camera panned across the ten contestants.
Vincent flexed his fingers lightly, recalling the syrenthroot leaves tucked safely in his inventory. Subtle, rare, almost impossible to anticipate—a single ingredient that could transform a dish from good to legendary. The thought made his heart beat just a little faster.
They've got fame. Skill. Reputation. I've got something they can't measure.
The host swept his gaze across the contestants again, raising his arm for attention. "Chefs, are you ready?"
"Yes!" voices rang in unison, bouncing off the walls like percussion.
The audience leaned forward in collective anticipation. The host lowered his tone, building every second of suspense. Lights swirled around the stage, a symphony of color and shadow.
"Your theme for this speed trial—" The giant screen flickered to life, letters forming slowly as if measured by some unseen hand. The arena collectively held its breath.
"Street Food Royale!"
The words flared across the screen in brilliant gold. Gasps collided with roars, applause mixing with whistles. Even the judges nodded in satisfaction; this theme would demand more than technique—it would demand ingenuity under pressure.
"Chefs, your challenge is this," the host continued, voice dropping into a dramatic hush. "Take the humble, everyday foods of the streets…and elevate them into dishes worthy of royalty!"
A murmur of excitement, awe, and fear swept through the contestants. They shifted, knives and hands adjusting, mental gears already grinding.
"You will be judged on flavor, presentation, texture, and creativity," the host continued, striding across the stage. "Every bite must capture the soul of street food—refined, polished, and worthy of the finest table in the land."
Vincent's eyes glinted. Street food, elevated for royalty? Perfect. His truffle burger had just found it's stage.
From the opposite end of the line, a rival watched him—Krauss, the self-assured celebrity chef already known in fine-dining circles. His lip curled. He crossed his arms, a gleam In his eye. Street food? Perfect. He could whip up a flawless fine-dining twist in half the time it would take an amateur like Vincent to even prep his ingredients.
Krauss' mind ticked with confidence. He'd spent years perfecting timing and efficiency in Michelin-star kitchens. Street food or not, he believed there was no way Vincent—a so-called food truck amateur—could keep pace.
Still, something about Vincent's calm unsettled him. The man looked too composed, like a soldier standing at ease before battle. He didn't fidget. He didn't sweat. He just stood there, calm as stone.
Vincent exhaled slowly, centering himself. Every distraction, every expectation—gone. It was just him, his ingredients, and the challenge.
He smiled faintly to himself. Calm wasn't an act. It was a strategy. Focus under pressure. Let them underestimate me. They'll eat their words soon enough.
'And to really prove myself, I won't rely on the syrenthroot leaves for this round. I'll win this challenge with nothing but the skills, techniques, and the flawless recipes the system has given me,' he thought, eyes narrowing with quiet determination.
The host's gaze swept over each contestant, voice carrying over the thunder of the crowd. "Chefs, remember—this is not a marathon. You have only thirty minutes to transform your vision into reality. At the end of this round, only five of you will advance to the next stage of the competition."
The screen blazed the countdown.
He raised his arm high, drawing every eye. "Now—" his voice boomed like a war drum,
"let the battle begin!"