The sun barely breached the morning mist when Riku Kaizen stepped into the training kitchen. The air smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and burnt sugar—remnants of late-night culinary experiments from students trying to claw their way up the academy's ladder. It was quiet, the kind of stillness that allowed him to hear the rhythm of his thoughts.
That morning silence had become a necessity for him. Before the noise of challenges, whispers, and glances filled the hallways, he needed a moment to center himself, to feel steel settle in his bones again.
The message he had received two nights ago—"Stay away from her"—had not returned. There was no follow-up, no threats, no confrontation. But the silence was louder than any threat could be. It carried weight. Intent. And Riku understood now what Erina had tried to warn him about.
There were forces at Totsuki that didn't operate under the spotlight of the Shokugeki arena or the academy's official channels. Some threads ran deeper—political, familial, even generational. And he had tugged on one of them simply by daring to matter to her.
But he hadn't backed down. He had promised he wouldn't.
As he set a small saucepan on the stove, his hands moved with practiced confidence. He added a thin layer of mirin and rice vinegar, letting the aroma gently steam upward before he whisked in soy and dashi, the foundation for his tare sauce.
Today wasn't about flair—it was about soul. He'd been experimenting with charred ginger lately, letting it infuse his broth with just enough bitterness to balance sweetness, adding complexity without compromising warmth. It was like walking a tightrope over fire, but if done right, it evoked nostalgia—the kind that clung to you long after the final bite.
He was halfway through slicing marinated chicken thighs when the kitchen door creaked open.
"Kaizen, You've been summoned."
It was Hisako. Her tone was even, but there was something clipped beneath it—tension, perhaps, or urgency barely restrained. She didn't move closer, standing framed in the doorway like a messenger from another world.
Riku wiped his hands, drying them on his apron before pulling it off "What is it this time?"
"A formal Shokugeki has been requested. By someone from the Central Research Division."
He raised an eyebrow "Central? That's rare. They don't usually bother with first-years."
"You've caught attention," Hisako replied "Too much, perhaps. The administration has approved the match."
"And the terms?"
Hisako hesitated "If you lose, you'll be expelled."
Riku felt the words settle in his chest like stones. Not just suspended. Expelled. Someone wanted him gone for good.
"And if I win?" he asked, his voice steady.
"You'll gain access to the Nakiri Elite Archive," she said "The private database of every major Nakiri culinary project since the academy's founding. Recipes, experiments, even sealed flavor profiles."
He let out a quiet breath. That wasn't just a prize—it was a privilege reserved for the inner circle. The kind of reward designed not to tempt someone like him, but to test their resolve. His opponent wanted to see if he'd back down before the fire even started.
"When?"
"Three days from now."
"Who's challenging me?"
Hisako met his gaze "Someone who won't go easy on you."
Later that day, Riku stood in the hallway outside the Grand Arena, watching a familiar face approach. Soma Yukihira, hands in his pockets, wore that casual smirk that often masked a sharp mind beneath it. He didn't say anything at first, just leaned beside Riku against the railing.
"So, They're coming after you now."
Riku shrugged "Seems that way."
Soma tilted his head "That means you're doing something right."
"Or something dangerous."
"Same thing, in this school."
Riku glanced sideways at him "You ever think it's not worth it? Fighting all the time, being watched, measured, pushed?"
Soma gave a low chuckle "Sometimes. But then I remember why I'm here. I'm not cooking to prove I belong—I cook because it's the only way I feel real."
Riku let those words settle for a moment. He understood now why so many people respected Soma. Not just because of his skill, but because he never let the weight of the Nakiri name or the academy's prestige dictate how he walked his path.
"I'm glad you're here," Riku said.
"Same."
The two stood there for a while, just students beneath the sky, competitors sharing a fleeting moment of peace before the knives were drawn again.
The day of the Shokugeki arrived faster than Riku expected. Word had spread quickly. The stands filled with students and faculty alike, all curious to see the transfer student who had dared to stand close to Erina Nakiri and now faced consequences for it. Whispers slithered through the crowd like wind through dry leaves.
Erina herself sat at the high viewing platform, flanked by Hisako and two members of the Elite Ten. Her face was unreadable, a perfect porcelain mask—but Riku saw it. The tension in her shoulders. The tightness at the corners of her eyes. She wasn't just watching this fight—she was caught in it, in ways no one else understood.
Across from him stood his opponent.
Rindo Kobayashi.
Riku's eyes narrowed slightly. He hadn't expected her. A member of the Elite Ten, known for her love of exotic and dangerous ingredients, her mischievous flair, and her unpredictable cooking style. This wasn't a fair fight. It wasn't meant to be. They'd sent one of the best to bury him under a smile.
Rindo offered a toothy grin "Sorry, Kaizen-kun. Nothing personal. But you're shaking the tree, and some of us like our branches still."
Riku bowed slightly "Then I guess I'll have to show you why I'm not so easy to shake off."
The match began.
He moved fast, not because of panic, but clarity. The dish he'd chosen wasn't elaborate, but it was intricate. Chicken tsukune with a triple reduction tare glaze, served with a soft-cooked onsen tamago over a grilled rice patty. On the side, a miso soup infused with charred leeks and a ginger-basil oil swirl.
He wasn't fighting her wildness with technique—he was answering her unpredictability with unwavering purpose.
Rindo, meanwhile, was already searing crocodile meat, dousing it in a mango-sake marinade while preparing a side of fermented chili paste she'd brewed herself. Her cooking was a spectacle, and the crowd loved it. Flames danced, colors exploded, and her hands moved with joyful chaos.
But Riku stayed focused. Each step of his process was deliberate, measured, like a melody played from memory.
When the final bell rang, both dishes were set before the judges.
Rindo presented first. Her dish was wild but refined, intense yet balanced. The judges praised the novelty and daring combinations.
Then it was Riku's turn.
Silence fell the moment the judges tasted his food.
The glaze had depth beyond sweetness, the yolk broke over the rice like gold sunlight. The tsukune melted on the tongue, spiced just enough to linger, never to burn. The soup warmed them from the inside out.
One of the judges leaned forward, almost whispering "This… feels like home."
Another added "It's as if he's asking us to remember who we are before we learned how to impress others."
Erina's eyes flickered, and for a second—just a second—she smiled.
The decision came moments later.
Victory: Riku Kaizen.
Rindo laughed, clapping her hands as she stepped over "Damn, kid, You've got guts. And heart."
He bowed "Thank you."
As the crowd erupted in cheers and gasps, Erina stood, her gaze fixed on him.
And this time, she didn't look away.