The sky above Tōtsuki was overcast, casting muted shadows across the campus grounds as a light drizzle painted the stone walkways in subtle shimmer. Despite the damp, the school remained abuzz with the aftermath of the Promotion Exams. Some students celebrated victories with relieved laughter and impromptu meals. Others sat in silence, their dreams stalled or shattered.
Riku Kaizen stood beneath the eaves of the dormitory roof, arms folded, the scent of wet earth mixing with the faint trace of spices lingering on his jacket. He'd already washed up from the exam, but some part of it—the energy, the emotion—still clung to him like the lingering warmth of a flame.
He'd passed.
Barely.
But passing under Tsukasa Eishi's scrutiny wasn't a small feat. The First Seat had praised his restraint, his intentionality. That alone had sent waves through the halls. Whispers circulated through the dorms and cafeterias: "That new guy matched Tsukasa's level?"
Riku didn't care about the whispers.
He cared about the promise he'd made.
To himself.
To Erina.
"Riku," came a voice behind him.
He turned, already recognizing her steps before she came into view. Erina Nakiri stood with a closed umbrella and a folder pressed to her chest. Her gaze was unreadable, though a faint blush painted her cheeks, likely from the cold air—or perhaps something else.
"I thought I'd find you here," she said, stepping closer, letting the eaves shield her from the drizzle.
He offered a smirk "I'm always around when the rain shows up."
Her lips curved slightly "I wanted to thank you. For… that dish."
Riku shrugged, but not dismissively "I told you before, Erina. I listen. You mentioned it once, and it stuck with me."
She looked down for a moment, brushing damp strands from her face "My mother used to make that bream dish on days like this. Rainy, quiet ones. It made the world feel warmer."
He remained silent, letting her speak.
"That memory meant a lot to me. You recreated it in a way I didn't expect. Not just the flavors—but the feeling behind it." Her voice softened "It's hard to explain."
"You don't need to," Riku replied gently "I didn't make it for anyone else to understand."
For a moment, they stood in silence again, watching the light drizzle dance against the courtyard tiles. Then, Erina inhaled deeply and held out the folder she had brought.
"What's this?" Riku asked, taking it.
"A challenge," she said "Something I think you're ready for."
Opening the folder, he found a formal notice inside: an invitation to a private cooking exhibition to be held in front of three current Elite Ten members. It wasn't part of the exam schedule. This was separate—an opportunity. And a test.
"They're scouting new blood," she explained "Unofficially. But the students chosen to appear there are ones with… potential. Ones who've drawn the attention of the Central administration."
Riku frowned "So this is Central's way of seeing who to pull in?"
Erina's face hardened "More like a way to see who won't fall in line."
He looked up from the paper "And what do you think I should do?"
She didn't answer immediately. But then, meeting his gaze, she said, "I think you should show them who you are—on your terms."
That was all he needed to hear.
The next two days passed in a flurry of mental planning and sleepless nights. Riku buried himself in flavor journals, experimented with ingredients that whispered of contrast and balance, and chased a concept that danced just beyond the edge of articulation. He wasn't simply trying to impress anymore. He was trying to define something—something uniquely his.
He stood in the Polaris dorm kitchen late at night, surrounded by half-finished components and seasoning bowls. Dried mushrooms rehydrated in a dark miso broth on one side, while fresh scallops rested on ice nearby. A bottle of black garlic reduction sat open, casting its sharp aroma into the air. Every idea he followed split into five more, each more complex than the last.
And then it came to him—not a recipe, but a question.
What am I cooking for?
Not prestige.
Not rank.
He was cooking to cut through noise. To say something no one else was saying.
And maybe, for someone who always seemed to carry the weight of legacy on her shoulders.
He looked at the scallops again and started moving.
The day of the exhibition arrived with clearer skies. Riku dressed in a clean, tailored uniform provided for the event, the Tōtsuki crest stitched across the sleeve in gold. The arena wasn't the sprawling stadium used for public Shokugeki battles—it was smaller, more intimate, designed for closer observation and scrutiny.
Three judges waited at the upper platform.
Isshiki Satoshi.
Kuga Terunori.
And surprisingly—Eishi Tsukasa again.
"Not intimidating at all," Riku muttered to himself as he approached his station.
Megumi and Takumi were present too, along with a few other hand-picked students. But none of them held his focus. His attention, like a sharpened blade, was fixed on his station and the clock counting down from 90 minutes.
He had one shot.
No flash.
No gimmicks.
Just flavor.
As the timer started, Riku moved with practiced fluidity. He began by marinating his scallops in a yuzu kosho oil, gently torching the surface to bring out their natural sweetness. He set up a reduced duck bone broth with black garlic and aged soy, letting it simmer into a dark, velvety essence. Alongside, he crafted a purée of roasted eggplant and tahini with a hint of lemongrass—a nod to both East and West.
But the centerpiece would be the plating.
He didn't want to present something merely attractive. He wanted to tell a story.
He took a sleek matte-black plate and used the eggplant purée to paint a streak like a brushstroke of ink. The scallops were placed like stepping stones, their seared tops glistening under the kitchen lights. A drizzle of duck broth, then sprigs of smoked daikon threads—garnishing the dish like falling ash.
As he placed the final element—a single violet flower petal, centered atop the middle scallop—he stepped back.
He didn't smile.
He didn't flinch.
This was him on a plate.
The judges took their time, moving from student to student, tasting and murmuring, whispering thoughts behind raised hands. When they reached Riku's station, all three paused.
Isshiki leaned over first, inhaling the scent, then taking a single bite of scallop and broth together. His eyes narrowed—focused, thoughtful.
Kuga grinned "Bold. You're playing with fermented miso notes and delicate seafood—dangerous if you mess up the balance."
"But he didn't," Isshiki replied "It's clean. Elegant."
Tsukasa, as always, was the last to speak. He stared at the dish as if reading into it before taking a bite. Silence stretched uncomfortably long before he finally placed his utensils down.
"I've had better," he said coldly "But not from someone at your level."
And with that, he turned and walked to the next station.
Riku didn't smile, but something inside him settled. That wasn't praise.
That was acknowledgment.
Later that evening, Riku returned to his dorm room, his coat slung over his shoulder. He was tired, but something deeper within felt lighter.
As he opened the door to his room, he found a note on his desk, written in elegant, precise handwriting.
"That wasn't just food. That was a declaration. – Erina."
He let the paper rest against the light breeze coming through his window.
And he smiled.
He wasn't just here to survive.
He was here to change the game.