A piece of clothing, at its core, exists to cover the body and keep it warm.
Yet over time, people learned to weave beauty into function.
Through careful tailoring, delicate embroidery, and countless generations of evolving taste, even the most basic garment could become an expression of self, a symbol of culture, a masterpiece of design.
Likewise, dough—mere flour and water, mixed together by humble hands—could become something far more than a simple means of staving off hunger.
Knead it patiently, rest it with care, and shape it with skill.
Steam it into smooth, plump buns, and it awakens the senses.
Suddenly, that lump of dough stirs emotion, invites joy, and reminds you of home.
And then there's fish paste.
Boiled as-is, it's coarse and pale, lacking form or invitation.
But with creativity, that same paste can be shaped into brilliant koi, their tails curled like dancing ribbons, or into translucent spheres that glisten in golden broth. Suddenly, the unremarkable becomes delightful.
This is the power of transformation.
In short—human civilization demands beauty.
Even in the primal act of survival—eating—beauty elevates necessity to art.
And in the world of culinary expression, nothing embodies that beauty more than the recipes created by chefs.
A thoughtfully designed dish can turn heads.
A well-structured menu can shift appetites, guide choices, and even elevate mood.
It can prevent overreliance on fast food, encourage healthier eating habits, and subtly nudge diners toward more adventurous or high-end options.
From the perspective of a restaurant, a menu isn't just a list of items.
It's a language.
A strategy.
An invitation.
But of course—recipes alone are not enough.
Anyone can follow a recipe.
Yet the world still needs chefs.
Why?
Because cooking is never just about instructions.
It's about instinct.
It's about understanding seasoning ratios without measurement.
It's about knowing when the oil is "just right" by the smell, not the thermometer.
It's about selecting the right tool—the clay pot over stainless steel, the carbon steel wok over Teflon.
It's about knowing when to stir, when to let it rest, and when to trust your gut over your guide.
Cooking, at its heart, is intuition married to experience.
No two chefs will ever make the same dish the same way.
Each dish is an imprint of the person who created it.
And yet—
Mana's dream stood in sharp contrast to that philosophy.
It wasn't just a dream anymore.
It was a blueprint.
A quiet revolution already underway.
He stood in his grand kitchen, still exhausted from countless hours of recipe testing, poised to once again create his signature three-shrimp noodles.
"Through my recipes, I'll redefine what fine cuisine means."
Yes.
Mana's ambition was simple to state but terrifying in scope.
A culinary empire.
One where any cook, no matter their level, could follow his perfected recipes and produce the finest dishes known to man.
Where ordinary cooking would be rendered obsolete—forgotten relics of a less refined age.
As he reached for his chef's knife to begin prepping—
"President, something terrible has happened!"
A woman burst into the kitchen, breathless and pale.
Mana's eyes narrowed immediately.
His voice was cold.
"I've said this before—never interrupt me while I'm cooking."
But the woman, clearly his secretary, pressed on.
"This is bigger than anything else. We just got a report from the Japan branch."
"Chef Broson's restaurant was attacked… by the Midnight Chefs."
Mana froze.
"Midnight Chefs?"
"Yes. One of them used a chainsaw as a cooking tool. They defeated Broson using just a fish cake focaccia!"
For a moment, the kitchen fell deathly quiet.
Mana's expression darkened.
He didn't need time to connect the dots.
This wasn't random.
He had no desire to clash with the WGO—not yet. His current objectives were focused on Totsuki Academy, and more importantly, the Nakiri family.
But someone was maneuvering against him.
A puppeteer pulling strings from behind the scenes.
The involvement of the Midnight Chefs was too targeted to be coincidence.
"So… WGO is making its move," Mana muttered. "Or someone hiding behind WGO."
The secretary nodded nervously.
She detailed how the Midnight Chefs had taken the rules of Shokugeki—originally used by Totsuki students for friendly culinary battles—and twisted them into a ruthless weapon, forcing chefs into battles where losing meant total closure.
"A weaponized Shokugeki… interesting," Mana thought.
"Is the WGO's leader tied to Totsuki? Or is someone using their name?"
Regardless, one truth was clear:
This was war.
"I'm going to Japan," Mana said suddenly.
"Book two tickets. We leave in two days."
"Understood!"
The secretary bowed deeply.
Mana wiped his hands, then glanced at the bowl of freshly prepared three-shrimp noodles.
"What about this, sir?"
"Throw it away."
The woman hesitated.
"But President… you spent over seven hours on that bowl. It looks perfect—"
"It's not perfect."
His voice cut like a blade.
"My dictionary doesn't have the word pity. Only perfect."
"If a dish has even a single flaw—no matter the effort—it is nothing more than garbage."
With that, Mana turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing ominously through the marble halls.
Meanwhile, in the peaceful tavern—
Chatter filled the cozy space.
Some customers sat in pairs, others alone, nursing drinks or nibbling snacks. Warm music played from a hidden speaker, its melody wrapping the air like a soft blanket.
Here, time slowed.
Troubles faded.
Laughter blossomed.
Miyoko was mid-bite into a sizzling plate of twice-cooked pork when the door opened.
In walked Yuuki, beaming as always, two live chickens in her arms.
"Evening, Zane!"
Behind her was Megumi, holding a small pastry box.
"I made these… for you."
Zane blinked, surprised at Megumi's boldness—but he smiled and took the box with both hands.
"Thank you. I'll treasure it."
At the same moment, Ryoko entered, eyes scanning the room before settling into her usual seat.
Yuuki practically bounced toward the bar, setting the chickens down with pride.
"Zane! Let's do something amazing with these!"
"You got it," he said, already moving.
In the kitchen—
Zane selected one of the chickens, tied its wings to prevent struggling, then moved with surgical precision.
A clean slit to the neck.
Quick bleeding.
Minimal suffering.
Even Yuuki, skilled as she was with wild game, felt her breath catch at how natural and calm he looked during the entire slaughter.
The prep began.
He peeled and chopped: onions, scallions, garlic, and ginger.
A mountain of dried red chilies, Sichuan peppercorns, a bit of sugar, soy sauce—
All arranged like a painter laying out colors.
He marinated the chicken, then flash-fried it until crispy.
He stir-fried the aromatics until the kitchen filled with an irresistible fragrance.
Finally, the chicken re-entered the pan, coated in spice, kissed with sesame seeds.
At the bar—
Yuuki's eyes widened the moment the dish landed in front of her.
"This… is spicy chicken?!"
Steam rose from the plate, the smell nearly intoxicating.
The first bite hit like a firecracker.
The numbness of the peppercorns.
The heat of the chilies.
The sweet, crisp skin of the chicken.
And beneath it all—tender, flavorful meat that melted on the tongue.
Yuuki closed her eyes and smiled.
"It's hot… but not overwhelming. And the flavor… it lingers."
Each chew released more juice, more umami, more excitement.
It was the kind of dish that left your lips tingling, your cheeks flushed, and your heart warm.
She savored it slowly.
"Red but not too spicy. Spicy but not harsh. Fragrant and bold."
Every bite felt like fireworks.
Every chew a memory.
This is the power of Chinese cuisine. It seduces. It conquers. And it stays with you long after the meal is done.m