All things can be made into curry.
And in the hands of a true culinary god, even a humble curry chicken cutlet could transcend into a spiritual experience.
When the nearly 15-inch plate was brought out, the chicken cutlet nearly overflowed its edges. It was golden, almost glowing under the light, with a faint wisp of steam curling upward like a sacred offering. Alongside it was a heaping mound of perfectly formed rice and a vibrant salad that radiated freshness.
For Monk Alba, the portion alone was enough to render him speechless—both from awe and the weight in his stomach. He hadn't felt this full in years, and certainly not from food that carried such soul.
It was deceptively simple: curry chicken cutlet rice.
But each component was executed to perfection by none other than Senzaemon Nakiri, the "Demon of Totsuki."
The chicken cutlet had been handled with the reverence of a swordsmith crafting a katana. It was freshly cut, thick, and coated with fine, almost delicate breadcrumbs that responded to the oil like dancers to music. The frying oil was at the exact temperature needed for a perfect Maillard reaction—yielding a shell so crisp it sang with every bite.
Crunch.
Alba's teeth sank into the outer layer, and immediately after came a wave of hot, juicy tenderness from the meat inside. The contrast between the textures, the burst of umami, the slight spice from the seasoning—it was enough to make his hands tremble with every bite.
And then there was the rice.
No one ever praises rice, yet here Alba found himself muttering quiet words of reverence.
It was short-grained sushi rice, fat and round, steamed to precise clarity and tenderness. Every grain had absorbed just enough moisture to puff up and glisten, but remained independent of its neighbor. Chewy, elastic, slightly sweet with a lingering natural aroma—it was rice that sang its own song.
But the true magic came when the curry touched it.
The curry was home-style Japanese, rich in depth yet remarkably clean on the palate. There was a hint of fruitiness—apple, perhaps—underneath its warmth. Not oily, not overpowering, it clung gently to the cutlet and rice, tinting them with a golden hue that was almost regal.
Even the salad was a testament to culinary purity. Fresh iceberg lettuce, finely shredded purple cabbage, and a drizzle of homemade mayonnaise—balanced in texture and flavor. The mayo had just the right acidity and was mixed so delicately that the greens retained their snap until the last bite.
It was more than just a meal. It was a moment of spiritual awakening.
Alba stared at his empty plate, eyes glistening. "This… this is cooking that gives people hope. Senzaemon, you've not lost your edge at all."
Senzaemon gave a small nod and a gentle smile. "I'm honored. Are you satisfied, Master?"
"Satisfied? I'm overwhelmed!" Alba leaned back and chuckled. "To eat your food again in this life… I never imagined it possible."
Memories stirred. Alba turned to the silent man beside Senzaemon. "Joichiro… where have you been all these years?"
The younger man rubbed the back of his head, offering a wry smile. "Back in Japan. Running a diner with my son."
Senzaemon blinked, mildly amused. "You have a son?"
"I'm almost forty. My son's already sixteen," Joichiro replied, as if realizing the passage of time all at once.
"Time… flies like a flash of lightning," Alba murmured.
CLANG!
The atmosphere shattered.
The heavy oak door creaked open slowly, almost ominously, like the gates of fate itself.
A figure stepped inside—a young man in a baseball cap, face partly obscured by a black cloth. His eyes burned like twin blades. His presence was suffocating, carrying the sharp pressure of confrontation. The air around him grew heavier, denser, until even the waitstaff felt their knees weaken.
"This establishment operates by reservation only," one of the servers nervously said, trying to maintain composure. "If you haven't—"
"Shut up."
The man didn't shout. He didn't have to. His voice was like thunder behind silk.
He took a single step forward, and with it came a surge of pressure that silenced the room.
"I am the leader of the Midnight Chefs," he said, voice cold. "And I'm here for Joichiro Saiba."
The name froze the air itself.
Whispers erupted from the guests.
"Midnight Chefs? Here?!"
"Isn't their leader supposed to be some teenager?"
"He's wearing a cloak… a mask… just like the rumors."
"They've been attacking restaurants across Europe. Didn't Shinomiya's place—"
"SHINO'S was shut down. And Shinomiya vanished without a trace…"
"The same Shinomiya who won the Pluspol Medal?"
"If they could take down Shinomiya, then…"
Joichiro stepped forward calmly. "So. You've come for me."
The man didn't blink. He reached into his jacket and tossed a folded paper across the table.
"A food war contract. Sign it, or surrender."
Alba stood and tried reasoning with him. "Child, you have talent. But talent should be used for kindness, not destruction."
"Old man," the masked chef growled, "step aside. I'm not here for sermons."
Alba's face tightened. Joichiro stepped forward, shielding him. "Master, leave this to me. It's my responsibility."
Alba hesitated, then gave a slow, solemn nod. "Then go. Show him the meaning of true cooking."
In the kitchen, the knives were unsheathed—one by light, one by shadow.
Joichiro drew a blade forged from years of battle, the steel gleaming with quiet pride.
The masked man unsheathed his weapon: a slightly worn knife. One Joichiro had not seen in years.
His eyes widened. "That knife…"
"Five years ago," the youth said, "you gave it to me."
"And now, I'll defeat you with the very blade you once trusted me with."
Joichiro's mind flashed back.
That youth… could it be…?
"Asahi… Saiba?"
The boy removed his mask. His eyes, once warm, now cold.
"I took your surname to honor you. But now, I claim it for myself."
Meanwhile… back in Japan…
Erina Nakiri lay sprawled on Zane's bed, her legs kicking lazily in the air, manga spread open in front of her.
She was reading Slave of the Magic Capital's Elite Troops.
"Hmph… using a slave requires what kind of price?!"
Her face turned redder with each page.
"The way they draw those kissing scenes… are all manga this intense?"
She flipped faster, eyes wide, heart pounding.
"They better not end this on a cliffhanger."
They did.
"Noooo! It ends here?! How could they?! Hisako would've already gotten me Volume 2!"
She rolled over, cheeks flushed.
Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling. "…What would it be like… to kiss someone?"
A certain face floated in her mind.
Zane.
His calm eyes. That slight smirk. Those lips.
Her cheeks flared.
"Ugh! What is wrong with me?!"
She buried her head under a pillow and muttered softly, "Am I really that curious…?"
Three hours later.
The air inside the mountain resort's kitchen was thick with tension.
The judges stared at the plates. They had tasted both dishes. Deliberated in silence.
And now—the result.
"5–0… for the masked chef."
Gasps.
Joichiro had lost.
The Demon King of Totsuki. The man once hailed as unbeatable. Defeated in his own kitchen.
He sat quietly, drenched in sweat, staring at his empty hands.
Alba rushed over. "Joichiro! Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he said softly. "Just tired. It's been years since I pushed myself that far."
He looked up at the victor. "You've grown strong, Asahi."
The young man stepped forward, no longer hiding his face.
"Asahi Saiba," he declared. "Leader of the Midnight Chefs."
And in that moment, the world tilted.
The name Saiba had returned.
But now… as a challenger to the crown.