Chapter 252: The Competition Begins

Emily’s eyes remained fixed on a station tucked near the far outer edge of the arena. April followed her sister’s line of sight, her gaze landing on a solitary young man hurriedly organizing a humble set of knives on a plain counter.

Behind them, Samuel adjusted his glasses, his dark eyes instantly zeroing in on the same figure. "Isn’t that the man who just bumped into you, Miss Emily?"

"That’s him?" April asked, her brows furrowing into a faint, protective scowl.

"He did apologize, so it’s fine," Emily murmured quickly, a soft, hopeful smile touching her lips as she watched the young man frantically tie his apron while neighboring chefs cast condescending glances at him. "He seems... kind."

April furrowed her brows even further, turning her head to stare directly at Emily in complete disbelief. "What do you mean, kind? You don’t even know him."

"I just mean he was genuinely worried when he bumped into me," Emily stammered, a slight flush rising on her cheeks as she quickly looked back down at her shoes. "And... he doesn’t have an assistant or a big fancy academy crest like everyone else. He’s doing everything on his own."

"That doesn’t make him kind, Emily," April said dryly, though the edge in her voice softened as she looked back down at the arena floor. "It just means he’s an underdog in an arena full of arrogant names."

Samuel stepped up, placing a fresh pot of steaming tea on the side table and pouring two cups with practiced, fluid precision. "The main competition will commence in two minutes, Miss April. The service lift interface is fully active and synchronized with your counter."

"Good," April said, turning away from the glass toward the plush velvet sofa. "Come, Emily. Let’s settle in."

​Emily took one last look through the one-way mirror before turning to sit down, smoothing her skirt as she joined her sister.

​Down on the arena floor, a loud, reverberating tone sounded through the speakers, signaling the official start of the championship. Instantly, the massive hall erupted into a flurry of motion. Gas lines hissed, heavy woks flared with brilliant flame, and timers began ticking down across every station.

​"Remember," April instructed, tapping her tablet to open the official judging portal. "The scoring system is out of ten. Once we input our consensus score on this console, the digits will instantly project on the master LED board over the arena floor. Ten is perfection. Anything below a seven is eliminated."

​Before long, the automated service lift beneath their prep counter gave a quiet, melodic chime. A stainless steel tray rose smoothly through the hatch, bearing the very first competition entry beneath a gleaming silver cloche.

​"Station eight," Samuel announced, stepping forward to gracefully lift the lid, revealing a beautifully glazed, slow-roasted rack of lamb garnished with rare herbs.

​April and Emily stepped up to the counter, picking up clean silver forks to take a single, delicate taste.

​"Rich and remarkably tender," Emily praised softly.

​"Technically precise," April evaluated, her voice calm and absolute, though she could not entirely hide the faint glint of excitement in her eyes. She could never remain completely indifferent in front of truly exceptional food.

​April tapped the interface, locking in their combined evaluation. "An eight-point-seven."

​Down on the main arena floor, a loud chime echoed, and the massive central scoreboard flashed: STATION 08: 8.7. A roar of approval erupted from the audience as the chef let out a visible breath of relief.

​With a silent, subtle thought, April activated her spatial dimension. The remaining untouched portion of the masterwork dish vanished into thin air, instantly stored away in timeless stasis, creating a brand-new slot in her inventory.

​"Next," April murmured.

​One after another, the service lift hummed to life, delivering plate after plate of culinary excellence. Station twelve brought up a complex seafood bisque that earned an 8.9, while station three presented a spicy braised beef brisket that secured an 8.4. Every single dish was sampled, scored on the live board, and immediately harvested into her spatial dimension—completely unbeknownst to the thousands of spectators cheering below.

​The dishes all tasted so wonderfully that April found herself genuinely impressed by the caliber of the contestants.

Since this preliminary round allowed them to showcase their absolute masterworks, every chef was presenting the dish they were most confident in. That peak confidence—and how well it survived under intense pressure—would decide who advanced.

​As the hours passed in a smooth, satisfying rhythm, the lift chimed once more, elevating a dish originating from station twenty-four.

​Emily glanced down through the one-way mirror, watching the freckled, disheveled chef wipe sweat from his brow with his sleeve as his plate ascended.

​When Samuel lifted the dome, a rich, deeply comforting aroma burst into the suite—filling the air with a spicy, mouth-watering fragrance that instantly rivaled every Michelin-grade meal that had come before it.

​April’s eyes glinted with subtle surprise as she inhaled the complex, layered scent. She looked over at her sister, a faint, amused curve touching her lips.

​"Well then," April said, picking up her fork. "Let’s see what score this ’kind’ chef earns."

The dish was a piping-hot, aromatic bowl of spicy pork knuckle stew. The rich, ruby-red broth shimmered beneath a delicate dusting of crushed Sichuan peppercorns, rendering the deep, savory fragrance utterly irresistible.

​April picked up a fork, taking a tender piece of meat along with a spoonful of the glistening soup. The instant the flavors hit her palate, her eyes widened. It was an explosive balance of heat, umami, and melt-in-your-mouth richness.

​Instead of setting her fork down after a single bite, April found herself reaching back into the bowl for a second portion. Beside her, Emily was already happily devouring a third bite, her eyes sparkling with pure bliss.

​"Well," April murmured, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing, "he will be cooking again in the next round, so taking a bit extra isn’t a waste."

​She turned her head slightly, glancing at her head assistant who stood nearby in stoic silence. "Samuel, would you like a taste?"

​Samuel blinked, momentarily surprised by the offer, but he didn’t refuse. "If you insist, Miss April."

​He picked up a clean spoon, taking a small taste of the rich broth. A faint, subtle flicker of genuine approval crossed his usually emotionless features as he swallowed.

​"Mmm," Samuel noted, adjusting his glasses. "The man may be unrefined in his conduct, but he possesses remarkable skill. Will you give him a ten, Miss April?"

​"I could," April replied, tapping her chin as she looked down at the remaining stew, "but I won’t."

​"Why?" Emily asked, looking up with a spoon still hovering near her mouth.

​"Because a ten means absolute perfection," April explained smoothly. "And while this dish is exceedingly close to perfection, it is missing something subtle... something I can’t quite put my finger on."