Night had already blanketed the Polar Star Dormitory in stillness.
But inside Room 303, one young chef was far from asleep.
"…Ninety points?"
"You barely scraped into the top eight?"
Joichiro's voice over the phone brimmed with disbelief. It was rare to hear that tone from him—a mix of surprise, and maybe, just maybe, a little amusement.
On the other end, Soma Yukihira lay on his futon, the phone resting against his ear, a sigh escaping his lips as he looked up at the ceiling.
"What could I do, Dad?" Soma muttered, one hand propped behind his head. "The top two… they're monsters. One of them can detect flavors from just a whiff, like some kind of culinary bloodhound. The other has this beastly, tunnel-visioned focus like he was born for the kitchen."
"I see…" Joichiro responded, the usual casualness in his voice tinged with quiet understanding. "Sounds like you ran into some serious competition."
"Ran into?" Soma raised an eyebrow, a little confused by the phrasing. "Wait—Dad, what was your score when you competed in the Autumn Elections?"
"Zero points."
The line went quiet for a second.
"…Eh?"
Soma sat up straight. "You—what?!"
Joichiro chuckled. "Yeah. I finished dead last."
Soma stared at the phone, eyes wide, brain trying to process that absurd answer. His father—Joichiro Saiba—the man whose cooking could make heads spin and grown adults weep tears of joy… scored zero?
"What the hell did you make!?"
"Rice balls," Joichiro replied with a laugh. "That year's theme was 'Onigiri.' I decided to go with a little 'creative twist'—squid ink, honey sauce, herring, pig liver, stinky tofu, and Houttuynia cordata."
"…You poisoned the judges."
"They vomited and had diarrhea for a day and a half. They still remember me."
For a long moment, Soma could only sit there in stunned silence before finally bursting out laughing.
"The hell, Dad! That's so you!"
"I know, right?" Joichiro chuckled. "Anyway. Congratulations on making the top eight, kid."
He paused briefly, then added in a more serious tone, "Soma, I'm proud of you. Finding strong opponents—that's not a setback. That's a gift. Chefs don't cook for themselves. Not really. Once you realize that… that's when the real growth begins."
And with that, the line disconnected.
Soma was left blinking at the phone, the cheerful ringtone replaced by a cold dial tone. He sighed.
Honestly, he had hoped for a longer chat. Maybe some guidance. Maybe a word of encouragement he didn't even know he needed. But… Joichiro had hung up just like that.
Still, those last words lingered in Soma's mind.
"Chefs don't cook for themselves."
Was that what he was missing?
He had beaten Ikumi Mito in the prelims and earned a spot in the top eight… but the gap between him and talents like Ryo and Akira felt insurmountable.
The fire inside him still burned.
But tonight… it flickered with self-doubt.
Far away, beneath a broad golden sun, the ancient stones of a European castle glowed warmly in the afternoon light.
In France, where time flowed eight hours ahead of Japan, Joichiro stood on a castle balcony. Snow-covered mountains loomed in the distance like silent sentinels. He gazed toward them in deep thought.
"…You still don't realize it, do you?" he murmured.
His thoughts drifted back to a simpler time—ten years ago, inside a small, steamy diner kitchen.
A six-year-old Soma stood on a stool, too small for the counter, yet wielding a butter knife with fierce determination. That day, he had smiled brightly and declared, "Dad, I'm gonna be a chef who beats you one day!"
Joichiro hadn't felt comforted then. He hadn't felt proud.
He had laughed.
Back then, he thought his son lacked the flair, the imagination—the talent needed to become a great chef. Maybe he'd grow up to be a lawyer. A doctor. A civil servant. Something safe, something ordinary.
But then… Joichiro had started challenging him in mock cooking battles, hoping Soma would give up after repeated losses.
And that's when he saw it.
Soma's real gift.
The ability to learn.
To absorb.
To fail without flinching.
He wasn't like other ordinary kids, who gave up after facing genius-level competition.
Ordinary people bottle up failure like hot water in a thermos—shut tight, never letting more experience pour in.
But Soma?
Soma had no lid.
He welcomed failure. Took it in. Boiled it down into motivation. Transformed it into improvement.
That was his terrifying, limitless potential.
In a sense, he was like a blade forged by the fires of every mistake.
"Even if you surpass me someday," Joichiro whispered, staring at his scarred, bandaged hands, "it won't matter."
"This world doesn't need chefs like me anymore. The real hope lies in young chefs with fire in their hearts… ones who still believe food can bring people joy."
At the same time, in the tavern's kitchen…
Zane steadied himself.
He gripped the hilt of his new knife—a piece from the Sparrow's Melody set. His fingers curled around the spine of the blade, his thumb balancing the pressure point just above the tang.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Steel whispered across fish flesh.
The red snapper, pristine and fresh, practically melted beneath his strokes. In no time, it was reduced to uniform sashimi slices—thin, translucent, elegant.
He exhaled.
"…Yeah."
"My Bull Dragon Slash and Luohan Crystal Slash are really starting to shine."
His knife skills—once painfully carved into him through years of solo training in hotel kitchens—had now reached a new peak, thanks to the system's help.
But Zane hadn't forgotten the past.
No teacher. No guide. Just long nights in empty kitchens, mimicking the techniques of others through memory alone. Five years of sacrifice. And now, at last…
He was cutting not just fish.
He was cutting through the limits of who he used to be.
"If this pace keeps up," he whispered, amused, "even I won't know what kind of monster I'm becoming."
"Zane!"
Two voices called out from the tavern's entrance.
He looked up.
There stood Sonoka and another girl—early arrivals, smiles bright against the soft morning light. It wasn't yet seven; the tavern hadn't opened.
"Sonoka?" Zane blinked. "Why are you here so early?"
"I made chocolates," she said shyly, holding out a beautifully wrapped box.
The box shimmered—a rich chocolate brown adorned with delicate gold accents. The scent of cocoa drifted through the air.
Inside?
Perfectly shaped heart-shaped chocolates, each glistening like tiny sculptures of affection.
"Wow." Zane smiled. "You really went all out."
He opened the lid and plucked one from the box, popping it into his mouth.
Sweet.
Smooth.
Complex.
The texture was like velvet sliding across his tongue. The bittersweet layers unfolded like a love letter made edible.
"…This is good," he admitted, eyes closed. "From the sweetness at the start to the faint bitterness near the end—great contrast."
Then, his analytical side kicked in.
"But the sugar ratio's a little off. The flavor peaks early but fades too quickly. It's missing that punch, that memorable finish."
Sonoka blinked, momentarily stunned—then chuckled, amused.
"Zane, you're so careful with your words even when critiquing. You're really considerate."
Embarrassed, Zane scratched his head.
Sonoka, however, wasn't offended.
She took one of her own chocolates and bit into it thoughtfully. The texture was a bit dry. The sweetness did fade too fast. And… it didn't taste as good as she thought.
Her cheeks puffed up. "Zane, I'm sorry…"
"I didn't think I messed up that badly!"