Paris.
The city of lights. The city of lovers.
A sparkling gem resting in the crown of northern France.
Cobblestone streets whispered stories of centuries past. Towering cathedrals, gilded bridges, and wrought-iron balconies lined the winding alleys like ornaments in a living museum.
By the Seine, the Notre-Dame Cathedral stood tall and proud, its Gothic spires stabbing the sky. The sunlight glinted off its intricate buttresses, as though it were trying to illuminate the legends etched into every stone.
Further west, the Eiffel Tower rose from the earth like a miracle of steel. As night fell, its lights lit up in succession—glimmering gold against the navy sky, a lighthouse in the heart of the city.
From Montmartre Hill, the entire city stretched outward like a canvas—romantic, timeless, breathtaking.
In a quiet three-star restaurant tucked into a side street of Rue de Grenelle, a warm glow reflected off crystal glasses. Red wine swirled lazily in long-stemmed goblets, casting translucent shadows across pristine linen.
At a secluded corner table, Gin Dojima held his glass to the light, observing the liquid shimmer like garnet before setting it down with a soft clink.
Across from him sat Joichiro Yukihira—once known to the world as Joichiro Saiba.
"Life is truly unpredictable," Dojima said with a nostalgic smile. "To think the two of us would cross paths in Paris, of all places."
"Fate has a strange sense of humor," Joichiro replied, voice low, his eyes carrying the weight of years spent chasing fleeting passions.
Since parting from his son Soma at the Polar Star Dormitory, Joichiro had continued drifting—seeking something undefined.
But after a recent loss to Asahi Saiba, he had been pulled into a reluctant role as head chef of this three-star establishment—shackled by obligation, not ambition.
Dojima, meanwhile, was in Paris for business negotiations, and the unexpected reunion felt like a flicker of their youth, resurrected in red wine and candlelight.
"Soma… he's your son, isn't he?" Dojima asked suddenly.
"Yes," Joichiro said, exhaling slowly. "He carries the Yukihira name now. I left the Saiba name behind long ago."
Dojima nodded quietly, recalling the fiery spirit in Soma's eyes—the same spark Joichiro once had.
"I assume… you've been through quite a bit since dropping out of Totsuki."
Joichiro gave a hollow chuckle, eyes dimming.
"Those years were… a memory I'd rather not revisit."
He took a sip of wine, letting the complex flavors wash over him.
It was deep, layered—ripe berries with a whisper of oak. The tannins danced with silky finesse, leaving a subtle warmth as it slid down his throat.
As the taste lingered, his mind drifted—to Soma, to the choices made and paths abandoned.
"How is he?" Joichiro finally asked.
"After you left…" Dojima hesitated. "He also dropped out."
The silence that followed was sharp. Not heavy—just raw. The kind of quiet that only old friends could share without breaking.
Tick… tick… tick…
Only the soft rhythm of the antique wall clock kept time, as they both reached for their glasses in unison, the weight of unsaid things settling between them.
Meanwhile, across the ocean in America…
In a high-end private kitchen hidden away from public view, Mana sat slumped over a porcelain bowl of three-shrimp noodles.
The aroma was rich—but his face was blank.
He had spent seven hours preparing the dish, meticulously extracting the shrimp roe, shrimp brains, and shrimp meat—the "three shrimps" revered in Jiangnan cuisine.
His method was pure insanity by most standards:
Drying the roe in a sieve to eliminate impurities.
Slowly roasting it over low heat with wine, sugar, and soy sauce—forty-five excruciating minutes of patience until the roe transformed into a soft, sandy umami bomb.
Mixing in precise proportions of broth and soy sauce to unify the flavors.
A dish so refined it once graced royal banquets in old Shanghai.
He took a single bite—
And immediately spat it out.
"No… No! It's not even close!" he growled. "Saiba-senpai… even now, I'm not at your level!"
Mana's hands trembled as he pushed the bowl away.
Perfection still eluded him.
Nightfall. Back at the tavern in Japan.
The scent of spice, fat, and fire curled into the air like a lover's whisper.
Zane stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, preparing the night's specialty: twice-cooked pork.
At a nearby table, Miyoko Hojo sat observing quietly.
She had entered with high expectations—and mild skepticism. The ingredients looked ordinary enough: black pork belly, doubanjiang, fermented black beans, garlic shoots, white sugar, ginger, scallions…
"Is that it?" she thought. "This seems too… standard."
But she knew better. In Chinese cuisine, brilliance wasn't always in ingredients.
It was in the blade. In the fire. In the rhythm of the wok.
Zane began.
First, he seared the whole slab of pork belly, skin-side down. The pan sizzled violently.
Szzzzzt—!
Wisps of blue smoke danced upward. The skin blistered and browned. Zane flipped it with a practiced motion, then scraped the charred bits off with a razor-sharp knife and cleansed the pork.
Into the pot went yellow wine, ginger slices, scallions, and Sichuan peppercorns—the pork submerged for blanching.
Miyoko leaned in, captivated.
He wasn't just cooking—he was orchestrating.
When the pork cooled, he sliced it into perfect 3mm strips—not a millimeter more or less.
Into the wok it went.
Zane worked at blistering heat. The pork began to curl, its edges crisping into a golden hue.
The high-temperature stir-frying forced out excess oil—the signature "lantern curl" technique.
"This… This is it," Miyoko murmured.
He tossed in doubanjiang, fermented black beans, sugar, garlic shoots, and finally, sliced ginger and scallions.
The wok hissed. Smoke turned white—a cloud of pure fragrance.
"Wok essence…" Miyoko whispered. "So this is real wok essence!"
Finally, Zane plated the dish.
The pork gleamed under the light—lacquered in rich, amber sauce.
Bright green garlic shoots peeked between ribbons of meat, and the occasional fermented black bean added contrast.
"Gulp." Miyoko had to swallow.
The aroma alone made her knees weak.
She took a bite.
Time stopped.
The pork—fat and lean in perfect harmony—melted on her tongue. The outside was crisp, the inside soft. The doubanjiang brought deep umami and gentle heat. The black beans added mystery. The garlic shoots were crisp, lifting the dish with a refreshing bite.
It was balanced chaos—sweet, savory, spicy, fatty, and fresh.
She tried to analyze it—but her body had already moved on.
Bite after bite, her pace quickened.
Dignity forgotten.
Finally, her plate was empty. She sat back, dazed, eyes shimmering.
"Zane…" she whispered, near tears. "Your food… it moves me."
She placed a hand on her belly, smiling.
"This isn't just better than Kuga's cooking—it's warmer. It makes me feel something."
Her voice trembled with awe:
"The sauce is rich and fragrant with a spark of spice that wakes the senses. The fat melts, the lean meat resists just enough, the textures dance on the tongue…"
"And that steel wok—non-stick, heat-retaining… It's like the final piece of the puzzle."
Zane said nothing—he only smiled.
In every corner of the world—Paris, America, Japan—chefs stood at the edge of memory, tradition, and innovation.
Each chasing perfection.
Each trying to recreate that one perfect bite.
And each remembering…
The one who came before.