The flames had long settled, yet the lingering heat of the fire dumplings seemed to pulse through Leonora and Alice's veins. Even after eating and drinking their fill, the mother-daughter duo found themselves restless, as if something more had awakened in them.
Perhaps it was the speed with which they devoured the dumplings—or maybe it was the intense heat of the dish, born from Zane's open-flame cooking method—that left them flushed and glowing. Beads of sweat formed like tiny rivulets down Leonora's elegant face, her refined composure giving way to something raw and vital, as though the fire dumplings had lit a spark within her.
"Here," Zane said softly, offering her a fresh handkerchief.
Leonora blinked in surprise, the corners of her lips curving into a smile as she accepted the cloth. "Thank you."
She dabbed away the sweat delicately, her golden hair sticking to her forehead. Once composed again, she handed it back with a gentle nod. "Zane, those fire dumplings were magnificent—crispy on the outside, soft on the inside. Alice and I absolutely loved them."
"I'm glad you enjoyed them," Zane said, accepting the handkerchief with his usual calm demeanor, a slight smile playing on his lips.
Alice, meanwhile, was deep in thought, still reliving every bite of the dish. Her mother turned to her, her eyes now serious and contemplative.
"Alice… did you understand something from those fire dumplings?" Leonora asked gently.
Alice's brows furrowed slightly. "They were… delicious."
Leonora nodded. "Yes, but more than that—any dish has two essential pillars: taste and texture. People often obsess over taste, but texture is just as important."
She paused to let her words sink in.
"Think about it—fried chicken with soggy skin, shredded pork that's like sawdust, or ribs that fight back with every chew. Even the most delicious flavors fall short when the texture isn't right."
Alice slowly nodded, her gaze drifting toward Zane, who was still cleaning up at the bar.
"If you pay attention," Leonora continued, "you'll see that Zane's cooking techniques aren't just diverse—they're refined. He elevates even the simplest ingredients with surprising methods. His dishes don't just balance taste and texture—they unify them. There's a lot to learn from him."
There was a strange sincerity in Leonora's tone, one Alice wasn't used to hearing. For years, Alice had stood atop her culinary pedestal, the darling of molecular gastronomy in Northern Europe. Her confidence was absolute. Her pride, unshakable.
But since arriving at Totsuki, things had begun to shift.
Alice had lost. To Soma. To the Elite Ten. To the very traditions she once dismissed.
And each time, the dishes that defeated her weren't complex or high-tech—they were authentic.
Alice bit her lip, unsure how to process the thought.
Could it be that traditional cooking—not modern science—held the key to unlocking her true potential?
She looked at Zane again, this time with different eyes. His every move seemed purposeful, every gesture infused with quiet brilliance.
Even the fire dumplings—something she'd assumed was a simple street snack—had been transformed under his hand. She now realized that his final touch, a blast of culinary flame that vaporized excess moisture, had given the dumpling skin a crispness she'd never achieved with her molecular tools.
Unbelievable…
This is cooking that even surpasses molecular gastronomy…
She felt a pang of envy, not just toward his skill, but toward Erina—who worked beside him every night, learning, watching, growing.
The thought stirred something deeper in her: a strange mix of longing and frustration.
Trapped by Genius
Zane, quietly observing Alice, reflected on the similarities between her and Erina.
They were both victims of early brilliance.
Erina had been imprisoned by her own pedigree, her "God Tongue" turned into a weapon by Mana's warped beliefs. She was raised to worship noble cuisine and scorn anything else, her culinary view narrowed into rigid hierarchies.
Alice, on the other hand, was lost in the marvels of science. She trusted technology more than taste, precision more than passion. Yet now, with each loss, she was being forced to reconsider.
Both girls were talented—prodigies, really—but their growth had stalled, stunted by pride, pressure, and premature success.
But pride is like a dull knife, Zane thought. It doesn't cut, but it leaves lasting scars.
Midnight Flames and New Discoveries
By midnight, the tavern took on a different face.
The city outside had shed its formal skin. Businessmen loosened their ties, couples lingered under streetlamps, and office workers, finally free of the day's stress, drifted into the soft glow of nightlife.
And the tavern—newly renovated and now open until 2 a.m.—welcomed them like a warm hearth.
As familiar faces filtered out—Annie, Momo, Leonora, Alice—the lights dimmed, the energy calmed, and the final bell rang.
Ding!
Host, you have successfully checked in.
Ding!
Congratulations! You have obtained special recipes: Silkie Chicken Wrapped Rice and Shadow Beef. Ingredients acquired: 10 Silkie Chickens.
Zane's eyes lit up as he read the system notification.
Shadow Beef—a delicacy of Sichuan, China, known for beef so thin it was translucent, like the puppets of shadow theater. Originally devised during the Ming Dynasty by playwright Jia Zhongming, it required expert knife work, precise marinating, and heat control.
The process: slice beef shank thin as paper → dry → roast → steam → fry → stir-fry.
The result: spicy, chewy beef with deep crimson color and a smoky fragrance.
Then there was Silkie Chicken Wrapped Rice, a dish steeped in mystique. Silkie chickens—known for their eerie black skin, bones, and organs—were considered unlucky in folklore but revered in cuisine for their tenderness and nutrients.
"A solemn and magnificent sweetness, like a surging wave, vibrant and colorful, as if you can hear the blood rushing through your veins."
That was how the ancient texts described it.
The rice, stuffed inside the chicken and cooked with a medley of herbs and spices, absorbed all the flavor and moisture, becoming rich, fragrant, and unforgettable.
Zane chuckled. "Silkie chickens, huh? In the original story, weren't they considered bad luck?"
500 Strong
Sonoka was crunching numbers at the bar, her eyes wide.
"Five hundred customers in one night… after extending hours just two more hours! That's insane!"
Her voice carried a mix of disbelief and pride.
For a high-end hotel, five hundred guests might be average. But for a small tavern—only open a few months and lacking any formal WGO star rating—it was extraordinary.
Still, Sonoka knew the truth: Zane's tavern didn't need fame to draw crowds.
His food spoke louder than any ranking.
She looked at him as he cleaned the counter and thought, If he ever decides to enter the hotel world or chase a star rating… the culinary world will never be the same.
Late-Night Gratitude
With everyone gone, Zane glanced at Erina and Sonoka, both clearly exhausted yet still seated.
He smiled.
"You two deserve a reward for sticking it out till 2 a.m."
He turned back to the kitchen and began preparing something light—but full of care.
Cauliflower Fried Rice.
No rice, just finely chopped cauliflower, carrots, mushrooms, coconut oil, and eggs.
Clack! Clack! Clack!
His blade danced on the cutting board, turning florets into rice-sized grains with precision and grace.
Sonoka, watching from a distance, couldn't look away. His movements—fluid, confident, musical—captivated her.
Zane wasn't just skilled. He was unpredictable. And that made him extraordinary.
The final dish came together quickly: stir-fried with mushrooms, seasoned with mushroom broth, and laced with coconut aroma. Golden, fragrant, and healthy.
Food for the Soul
"Erina, Sonoka," he called out. "Come eat. My final dish of the night."
Three steaming bowls were laid on the counter.
Erina looked surprised. "Cauliflower… instead of rice?"
She took a spoonful, observing the texture, color, and aroma.
The cauliflower grains mimicked rice so well it was uncanny—and the flavor was astonishing. Light yet savory. Earthy, yet clean.
The vibrant colors from carrots and greens added to the appeal. And most important of all—the taste was gentle.
It didn't assault her "God Tongue" with intensity or arrogance. Instead, it soothed.
"Mm…"
She closed her eyes.
"This flavor… clears the mind."
Even my God Tongue feels at peace.
A faint smile curved her lips.
"No overwhelming creativity here… but maybe that's the point."
"At 2 a.m., this is perfect."