The Tōtsuki Resort's autumn air was brisk, carrying the scents of sea salt and pine, but inside the kitchen, the heat of competition raged stronger than any chill. Riku Kaizen rolled up his sleeves, the glint in his eyes as sharp as the blade in his hand. The Second Selection had begun, and only those with the tenacity to rise above the elite would remain.
Unlike the controlled chaos of the first exams, the Second Selection was a crucible of pressure, held within the grand resort kitchens under the sharp scrutiny of Central's handpicked judges. Students were being whittled down mercilessly, their dreams diced and discarded like vegetable scraps. Riku stood at his workstation, flanked by other hopefuls, each desperate to prove themselves in the most elite culinary battleground in Japan.
As he began his mise en place, slicing shiitake mushrooms and preparing a duck breast for searing, his thoughts flickered to Erina. She was stationed in another kitchen across the compound, likely dazzling her judges with the divine finesse only the God Tongue could wield. Despite the miles of steel, heat, and competition between them, he felt tethered to her by an invisible thread.
The theme of the selection was deceptively simple: "Create a dish that redefines a classic." Most students leapt toward French or Italian staples, choosing to twist them with exotic spices or unconventional plating. But Riku's mind churned deeper. He wasn't here to play it safe or flashy. He was here to leave an impression so vivid that even Central's cold scrutiny would be forced to acknowledge it.
He reached for the daikon radish and began to carve.
Riku's chosen dish: a reinterpretation of kamo nanban soba—duck soba. A soul-warming dish he'd had during one bleak winter with his mother. Back then, it was humble—just broth, noodles, and the rich tenderness of duck meat. But to Riku, it was more than food. It was memory. Emotion. Purpose.
Around him, knives clanged and pots boiled, but he was calm. His fingers moved with practiced grace, drawing out the hidden flavors of his ingredients with deliberate precision. The soba noodles were hand-cut and kneaded with care, their springiness the result of years of learning and failure. The duck breast was seared until the skin crisped, the fat rendering into liquid gold to enrich the broth.
He used yuzu zest in his tare base, giving it a citrus punch that brightened the deep umami of the dashi. Instead of traditional green onions, he created a leek confit, slow-cooked in duck fat, which would both echo and elevate the flavors of the classic.
As his broth simmered, Riku took a moment to glance at his competition. Many looked confident, perhaps even smug, while others were already faltering under the scrutiny of the judges walking among the stations like wolves. One judge, a tall woman in an austere black blazer, paused behind Riku's station. Her eyes scanned his progress with the clinical detachment of a surgeon.
"You chose duck soba?" she asked, her voice laced with skepticism.
Riku didn't look up "No. I'm choosing memory. The dish is just the vessel."
A flicker of interest danced in her eyes, but she said nothing more and walked on.
As the final seconds counted down, Riku plated his dish: the soba coiled into a neat nest, duck slices fanned with glistening skin, and broth poured tableside into the bowl, steaming and fragrant. He added a garnish of pickled radish threads, tinted pink with plum vinegar, a nod to the fleeting nature of flavor—and memory.
When the judges tasted it, the room grew quiet.
The stern woman from earlier set her spoon down last "You've taken a dish of comfort and made it a dish of contemplation. This… is a rare clarity of vision."
Another judge added, "A soba that doesn't aim to impress with extravagance, but overwhelms with precision. You've passed."
Riku let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Later that night, the candidates who passed were gathered in the main hall. Names were called, faces lit up or fell in despair. And then came hers.
"Nakiri Erina."
She stepped forward, regal and calm, but Riku caught the slight lift at the corners of her mouth when she saw him in the crowd. When he was called next, their eyes met briefly—a shared understanding, a wordless celebration.
After the announcements, the resort allowed the successful candidates a rare reprieve: one night of rest before the next phase. Riku walked along the edge of the resort gardens, the moonlight bouncing off the tiled path. He didn't expect her to be waiting under the large maple tree, her arms crossed, her face unreadable.
"You didn't burn the place down. I'm surprised," Erina said, her tone neutral, but her eyes twinkling.
Riku smirked "Thought about it. Decided to cook instead."
They fell into step beside each other, walking quietly beneath the rustling leaves. For a moment, there were no judges, no rivalries, no expectations—just two chefs walking under the stars.
"Your dish today," she finally said, breaking the silence "I heard the judges talking. They said it reminded them of something… lost. Like a memory."
"It was meant to," Riku said, his voice lower "There are flavors tied to people. Moments. I think the strongest food doesn't just taste good—it remembers."
Erina looked at him, something softening in her expression "You're strange."
"I get that a lot."
"But… you're also brave. Most would try to shock or dazzle. You went quiet. And it worked."
He turned to face her "And you? What did you make?"
"Ris de veau with truffle espuma," she replied casually "But I added a hint of sakura vinegar to cut the richness. It was… elegant."
"Of course it was. It's you."
Erina tilted her head "And what exactly does that mean?"
"That you can't help being exceptional," he said without hesitation.
The compliment lingered between them, more intimate than either anticipated. Erina flushed lightly, turning her gaze toward the night sky.
"I… I should go rest. Big day tomorrow," she said abruptly.
"Right. Wouldn't want the Queen of Tōtsuki losing her crown," Riku teased gently.
She looked back at him, and to his surprise, smiled—genuinely "Goodnight, Riku."
"Goodnight, Erina."
As she walked away, the cold breeze returned, but Riku didn't feel it. Her presence had left a warmth in his chest that refused to fade. The competition was far from over, but in that fleeting moment, he had won something far more personal.
Something worth cooking for.