The cut surface revealed a tender truth.
"Perfectly pink in the center… that's medium-rare," Alice murmured as she studied the steak. "And the tenderness extending through 40% of the meat? It must've been cooked sous-vide—definitely below 60°C."
She nodded inwardly, watching the juices glisten under the dim lights.
"A final sear with a blowtorch… classic Maillard reaction," she mused, slicing through the steak. "The outside gets a caramelized crust, while the inside stays juicy. Locking in moisture and aroma like this… it's the hallmark of a top-tier chef."
Her palate confirmed it: a mouthful of sublime tenderness, the steak nearly melting on her tongue.
Every food had an optimal temperature. Too low, and it risked bacterial contamination; too high, and vital nutrients were destroyed.
Water-soluble proteins could coagulate into rubbery lumps. Fats, if overcooked, oxidized and lost essential vitamins like A and D. But this? This sous-vide filet mignon had lost only 5–8% of its moisture.
"Impossible," she whispered. "This level of control… is this what Totsuki alumni are truly capable of?"
She stabbed another slice with her fork, frustration brimming beneath her awe. It was good—too good. A steak like this, so precise, so masterful—it was the kind of dish that shattered egos.
She scanned the crowd. "Where is Erina?"
"Don't bother looking," Kurokiba said with a half-yawn, chewing through an entire bright-red lobster claw. "She left already. Hisako dragged a suitcase behind her. Probably headed home."
"She left… just like that?" Alice muttered, lips twitching into a pout. "Still such a loner. That hasn't changed."
She sighed and turned her focus back to the steak.
Outside, in the cool night air of the vast resort plaza, a black luxury sedan purred softly.
"Lady Erina, wait—why are we leaving so early?" Hisako asked, struggling with a heavy suitcase as she jogged after Erina.
Erina didn't slow down. "If we leave now, we'll reach the tavern before it closes at midnight."
Hisako blinked. "The tavern…? You don't mean—"
"We're not going back to Totsuki yet," Erina confirmed.
Her words were calm, but her heart was racing. She didn't want to admit it, not even to herself, but there was someone she needed to see. Someone whose cooking had shaken her heart far more than she dared to admit.
At the tavern, the kitchen was alive with motion and steam.
Zane dusted his workbench with flour, his hands deftly folding medium-gluten dough he had kneaded earlier. After letting it cool under a damp cloth, he rolled it into strips, cut it into small segments, and pressed each into delicate discs.
With precision, he thinned the edges into a near-translucent film—each shumai wrapper as light as a lotus petal.
For filling, he chose four humble ingredients: pork, shrimp, egg, and bok choy.
He minced them, seasoned the pork with cooking wine, soy sauce, chopped scallions, ginger, and a hint of salt. Then, like a potter shaping clay, he mixed it in one direction until the filling held together with a smooth sheen.
Using his left hand to cup the wrapper and his right to form the pouch, Zane stuffed each with the golden ratio: 8:5:5:5—pork as the centerpiece, shrimp for bounce, bok choy for freshness, and egg for creaminess.
Into the steamer they went.
Ten minutes later—
Boom!
Steam exploded outward the moment he lifted the lid. A burst of golden light shot skyward from the bamboo steamer, illuminating the tavern like a fireworks show.
Mana stood in awe, eyes wide. "You always… use such simple ingredients to create something this magical."
Zane smiled modestly. "Sometimes, the simplest things hold the most charm."
She glanced around. "Strange… I thought Annie would be with you tonight."
"She's resting. But you, you look better than ever," he said. "Is your health improving?"
Mana nodded. "I've overcome my anorexia."
Her voice trembled—not with weakness, but with gratitude.
"I still can't eat most dishes due to the God's Tongue," she admitted. "But yours… your cooking lets me live again."
For so long, she had relied on nutritional injections just to survive. But now, she was healing, regaining strength. The miracle wasn't science—it was flavor.
Zane placed the steaming shumai in front of her. Each was a jewel in a lotus shell—translucent skin, vibrant filling visible beneath the folds.
Mana studied them, puzzled. "They're divided… four different pouches? Not evenly mixed?"
Zane answered thoughtfully. "Taste isn't just about balance. It's about intention."
"Humans have over 10,000 taste buds. Just one gram of vinegar contains more acetic acid molecules than all the taste buds in the world."
"Your tongue doesn't need uniformity. It wants discovery."
Mana was silent.
"This shumai," he continued, "is inspired by the Four Happiness Shumai from the old Tian Dynasty. But instead of symbolism alone, I crafted it with the golden ratio—for flavor, texture, and emotional impact."
Moved by his words, Mana picked one up with her chopsticks and took a careful bite.
At once, warm broth gushed into her mouth. The pork was juicy and sweet, the bok choy bright and clean, the egg silky, and the shrimp gave a playful bounce.
"This…" she whispered. "This is beyond anything I've ever tasted."
Each ingredient danced with the others, not competing but completing one another. The flavors shimmered on her tongue—distinct, yet harmonious.
She trembled slightly, eyes glazing over in bliss. "I need more."
She reached for another shumai, this time popping it whole into her mouth. Her cheeks puffed adorably, the noblewoman lost in indulgence.
"You used pork as the base, but balanced it so the other ingredients lifted it rather than dulled it," she said. "So this is the golden ratio…!"
"It's… perfect."
Just then, the tavern door creaked open.
A cold breeze swept in.
And a figure stood in the doorway—frozen, trembling, with fists clenched tight.
"…Mom?"
Mana turned toward the voice—and her heart dropped.
"Erina…"
Time stopped.
Erina's face contorted, torn between fury, grief, and disbelief. Her voice cracked, her usual icy poise gone. "It's really you…"
The reunion hit like a thunderclap. Mana stood, lips parted in shock, her legs almost giving way.
"I didn't think… you'd be here so soon," she whispered.
Her daughter had grown. Taller. Stronger. More confident. But her eyes—those violet eyes—still burned with the same pain Mana once saw in the mirror.
And in that moment, everything came flooding back.
The God's Tongue—a so-called gift that had ruined their lives.
It was the reason Mana abandoned her home. The reason Azami had been expelled. The reason Totsuki changed.
Chefs everywhere revered the God's Tongue.
But for the mother and daughter born with it, it brought only suffering. Only silence. Only misunderstandings.
And yet, as they stood in the same room for the first time in years…
They both knew:
No amount of distance could hide the bond that still lingered—aching, fragile, and desperately waiting to be mended.