"Paper pot?"
Erina narrowed her eyes, arms crossed, gazing intently at the peculiar setup in front of her. "Is it meant to filter out residual impurities from the ingredients?" she muttered to herself.
She pondered a moment longer before frowning deeply. "Wouldn't a modern glazed clay pot be more effective? A clay pot, especially the traditional glazed ones, is crafted from sand and clay. Its coarse texture and dense pores naturally allow water and ingredients to interact more intimately."
Her fingers gently tapped her arm as she continued thinking aloud. "When heated, clay pots retain heat well, creating an internal circulation that draws out impurities while locking in flavor. And the glazed layer—yes, it acts as a barrier, enhancing both preservation and flavor concentration."
Her voice grew slightly agitated. "In theory, all of this makes sense. So why would Zane go through the trouble of using paper of all things?"
She clenched her fists, glaring at the paper pot. "I don't get it… I really don't get Zane's idea!"
"Zane, can I examine the paper you used?" Mana's voice cut in, analytical curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
Zane didn't say a word. Calmly, he reached into his side pouch and produced a meticulously pre-folded paper pot. With the same silence, he placed it gently into her hands.
Mana took the pot and delicately ran her fingers over its surface. The paper was smooth, pliable, yet subtly fibrous beneath her touch. Then her eyes widened.
"This texture… this isn't napkin, notebook paper, or even thick craft paper."
Her brows rose as the realization struck her like lightning. "I've never seen anything like this! This must be… Xuan paper."
"Correct," Zane said simply. "Specifically processed Xuan paper."
Mana's mouth twitched. "That's a traditional Chinese paper, right? The kind used for calligraphy and painting?"
"Exactly," Zane confirmed. "Xuan paper is known for its exceptional water absorption and permeability—qualities that make it uniquely suitable for a paper pot. But its use isn't straightforward."
He glanced at the pot in her hand and explained, "You can't use glue, can't fold it too thick, and you must fold it just right. Too much water absorption, and the pot leaks before it even heats. Not enough, and it scorches. The trick is to let the broth fully saturate the fibers, stabilizing the temperature at 100°C so it won't burn."
Zane looked up, eyes calm and steady. "In short, using a paper pot isn't just about the material. It's about precision. Mastery. A chef without total micro-control shouldn't even attempt it."
Mana let out a breath, suddenly overwhelmed. Everything he said was true—but the margin of error was razor-thin. "Still," she murmured, "with all these risks… is it even worth it?"
"If you're trying to extract impurities, wouldn't something like a fine cheesecloth or using chicken breast as a filter work better?"
Zane smiled faintly. "Why don't you taste it first?"
His tone was light, almost teasing. "Some things can't be explained with logic. They have to be tasted."
Mana picked up her spoon.
Steam curled into the air like mist over a sacred spring, and the broth shimmered in the dim tavern light. She squinted. Not a single trace of sediment. Not even a hint of cloudy residue.
She raised an eyebrow. "Even with the strongest filters, total clarity is impossible. You can't remove everything—not with vegetables, mushrooms, and seafood all mixed together."
Still, she took the spoon to her lips.
And sipped.
In that moment, Mana froze.
The broth was light yet unfathomably rich. A clear stream of pure umami surged across her tongue, hitting every taste receptor like a tsunami of flavor. Sweetness from carrots and corn. The deep forest notes of shiitake, bamboo fungus, and porcini. The delicate chew of lobster flesh adding a trace of the sea.
Every sip was a perfectly choreographed dance of flavors.
It felt like a golden dragon was lifting her from reality and soaring through a shimmering galaxy of taste. Each breath of steam blurred her vision as though she were ascending into a dream.
Even a single drop of this broth felt divine—concentrated, sacred, the distilled essence of the Earth's bounty.
Her entire body loosened. Warmth filled her limbs, her fingers tingled, and her eyes fluttered half-shut.
This… this was ecstasy.
Vegetables aren't just fillers—they are the hidden kings of hot pot. Bamboo fungus added elegance, king oyster mushrooms offered meaty chew, and soybean sprouts cut through the richness with light crunch. Each one played its role, and the Xuan paper pot preserved their purity.
The sensation was transformative.
The broth didn't just soothe—it healed. Every spoonful took her deeper, until in her mind's eye, Mana stood at the edge of a crystal-clear hot spring. She slid off her kimono and sank into the warm waters, surrounded by birdsong and soft mist.
"This is absurd," she whispered, flushed. "Why does it feel so… so good?"
Back in reality, Mana groaned and collapsed onto the table. Her eyes rolled back. She licked her lips, cheeks flushed crimson, her breath ragged.
She'd lost herself.
Completely.
One sip had broken her defenses. And without realizing it, she devoured everything—every shrimp ball, every mushroom, every last drop of broth.
She licked the bowl clean.
"Huh?"
Erina's mouth fell open in disbelief.
She stared at her mother—the Mana Nakiri—licking the last traces from her spoon.
This was unprecedented.
Even when she'd eaten the legendary Shumai, she had never reacted like this.
As Mana finally came to and calmly wiped her mouth, Erina blinked.
Her mother—The God Tongue herself—had been conquered.
Zane leaned in, clearing the table with practiced ease. "So, how was it?" he asked with a knowing smile. "Not bad, right?"
Mana, red-faced and breathless, didn't meet his eyes at first. But after a moment, she glanced up and replied softly, "It was… perfect."
She added, "Paper pots filter out the greasiness. The ingredients taste cleaner. The air feels cleaner. This… this is the pinnacle of hot pot."
Erina was speechless.
She mumbled, "Only Zane's cooking… can make you feel this way, huh?"
Mana nodded slowly. "Without him, I might still be relying on nutrient solutions to survive."
Then, she whispered something that made Erina freeze.
"I like Zane the most in this life."
Erina's mind reeled. "Like?"
Mana turned to her, serious now. "Erina, your God Tongue hasn't reached the point of rejecting all food yet. You haven't known the loneliness. The fear. For ten years, I battled near-starvation."
She placed a hand over her heart. "So when someone like Zane comes along and creates food that your tongue not only accepts—but craves—you can't help it. You start to… depend on him."
Erina lowered her head.
Zane's food didn't just satisfy.
It brought her comfort.
Could it be… that even her heart was being conquered?
Was this fate?
Meanwhile, far away in the romantic heart of France, the scene shifted.
Inside the luxurious SHINO'S restaurant in Paris, candles flickered and fresh flowers bloomed on every table. The décor was elegant, precise—just like the chef's culinary style.
Kojiro Shinomiya, the perfectionist behind SHINO'S, was mid-rage.
"I've told you a hundred times! The halibut candy appetizer must be perfect. The sticky rice wrapper must be thin but tender. The vegetables must enhance the umami—not overpower it!"
"Y-yes, Chef!" the sous chefs trembled.
Kojiro scowled, adjusting his glasses. "One more slip-up, and you're all fired."
But he wasn't the same cold-hearted tyrant from before. Since his encounter with Zane and Megumi at Tōtsuki, something in him had changed.
Now, he visited the dining floor, smiled at guests, and even asked about their preferences.
When asked why he opened a SHINO'S branch in Japan, he replied, "Everyone needs a little poetry in life. I want to infuse my cuisine with emotion."
And he had succeeded.
But today, something—or someone—approached.
Outside, a shadowy figure stood before the grand doors of SHINO'S.
A masked man, holding a challenge letter for a Shokugeki.