The term "Live Preparation" referred to a bold and time-sensitive culinary technique — preparing a live fish, slicing it with utmost speed and precision, and serving it while the flesh was still responding to subtle stimuli. It was said that from death to plate, no more than ten minutes should pass. But Zane had shattered that standard.
Using the legendary "Arhat Crystal Slash," he had achieved the impossible — reducing the time to less than one minute.
The sea bream, freshly killed, still retained adenosine triphosphate (ATP) in its muscle tissues. Though its central nervous system was gone, its reflexive muscle fibers remained responsive. As Zane's knife danced across the fish's body with stunning speed, even the tiniest slices twitched with residual energy. It wasn't just fresh — it was alive in flavor.
Mana lifted a slice with her chopsticks, observing how the translucent flesh shimmered atop the miniature ice mountain it rested on. The cold mist that rose from beneath only added to the illusion of the sea's breath clinging to the fish.
And then she took a bite.
"Huh…? It… moved in my mouth?" she murmured, eyes wide.
She had eaten countless dishes — brilliant, exotic, revolutionary — but none had shocked her at such a visceral level. Her lips quivered. Her teeth instinctively bit down.
Burst.
The fish juices exploded, swirling with her saliva, coating her tongue with waves of natural sweetness, oceanic freshness, and that elusive, mellow umami — all brought to life by the knife's mastery.
It was unlike any sashimi she had ever eaten.
Most sashimi highlighted a clean, minimal flavor profile, leaning on simplicity to evoke purity. But Zane's Fiery Ice Sea Bream Mountain was different — a paradox of fire and ice, motion and stillness, softness and chill. Every slice was a contradiction, and somehow, a harmony.
"This flavor… it's changing as I chew…" Mana whispered.
With each bite, she felt like she was traveling — down bustling seafood streets, through coastal winds, into nostalgic childhood seaside memories. The taste shifted gently, like the tide — never repetitive, always new. Her God Tongue, infamous for adapting too quickly and rendering even masterpieces boring in mere seconds, failed to dull this experience.
She continued to chew in stunned silence. Every bite was a celebration of contrast:
The crisp cold of the ice.
The silken softness of the flesh.
The lingering warmth left by Zane's blade.
And the faint kiss of fish oil that coated her palate.
It was elegance on a plate. But more than that, it was life.
"The knife work…" she muttered. "It's beyond art. It's reverence."
"Each slice," she continued breathlessly, "was as thin as paper, yet stronger than steel in its impact on the tongue. Cold. Sweet. Buttery smooth. Tender. Alive."
The dish had transcended flavor — it had reached spirituality.
And then… she gave in.
Hunger, instinct, joy — she grabbed the rest of the slices, devouring them without pretense. Each piece sent a shockwave through her senses, making her toes curl and her shoulders tremble. She lost herself, not as a gourmet, not as the bearer of the God Tongue, but as a woman who had just found a piece of paradise.
No longer a judge. No longer a legend.
Just Mana. Hungry. Grateful. Devoted.
When the final slice disappeared into her mouth, she leaned back in her seat, eyes closed, heart fluttering like a girl who'd just experienced her first love.
And then—
Squeak… squeak…
The ice plate began to tremble.
At first, it was subtle — a gentle quake, like a leaf brushing the surface of still water.
Then came the shaking.
Cups clinked against plates. Chopsticks rattled in their holders. The soft candlelight wobbled as if caught in a breeze — but there was no wind.
Then came the roar.
Tables began to shake violently. Plates jumped. Chairs dragged themselves an inch across the wooden floor.
"Earthquake?!" someone shouted.
Zane's eyes narrowed. "No… not an earthquake."
Mana's table shuddered. Then the table next to hers. And the next. The entire tavern groaned as if it were about to collapse under a supernatural force.
Anne, who had been watching from the side, gasped, "The Transmission Pulse?!"
But that couldn't be. Transmission Pulse, even when triggered at its strongest, only caused a light wind. A gentle reaction to flavor waves — not… this.
The walls trembled. The windows beat against their frames. Paintings fell from the walls. Dishes shattered.
The entire tavern felt like it had been swept up by a storm.
And then…
Boom!
A powerful pulse erupted from Mana's body — visible, tangible. A rippling force extended outward, rattling everything within a hundred-meter radius. The food street outside shook. Lamp posts rattled. Signs twisted. Pedestrians stumbled.
People screamed, stumbled out of shops, and stared at the tavern in terror.
And yet — no one was hurt.
The quake was not physical destruction. It was spiritual resonance. A wave of flavor turned to energy, erupting outward.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun… it ended.
Stillness returned.
Silence.
Mana opened her eyes.
She blinked slowly. Then exhaled.
Her body felt light, like she was floating. Her limbs buzzed with newfound energy. And then she realized —
"My Transmission Pulse… evolved?"
Everyone stared.
Anne stammered, "No… way. That was… a skill upgrade?"
Mana turned to Zane, awe shimmering in her gaze. "You… you made a dish so perfect it evolved a God Tongue ability…"
She wasn't just looking at a chef now. She was looking at a miracle worker.
"Zane… you're scary," she laughed breathlessly. "In a good way."
Zane gave a sheepish grin. "Honestly, I just didn't expect it to be that good."
"If the shake lasted ten more seconds, I'd need a new tavern," he joked.
Everyone laughed — a bit nervously.
Anne shook her head. "We need a new name for that skill. How about… Transmission Pulse: Super Earthquake Wave?"
Mana deadpanned. "No. Absolutely not."
"How about just… Strongest Transmission?"
She gave a proud little nod.
Anne muttered, "That's gonna age badly…"
Mana leaned forward.
"One more plate, please."
Zane shook his head. "Only one sea bream that fresh."
"Oh…" she pouted.
"But I've got another dish for you."
"What is it?"
"Cloud Dragon Fried Shrimp. Completely different ingredients and flavor — but it'll still make your God Tongue sing."
Her eyes sparkled.
"Then what are you waiting for?"
Zane returned to the kitchen.
First step: separate egg yolk from white. Slowly drizzle in lemon juice and sugar, mixing vigorously, adding corn oil ten times to stabilize the emulsion. Once it thickened, he added milk to thin the mixture.
Then came the centerpiece — a massive Australian lobster.
Using the back of a knife, Zane struck the lobster's head, rendering it brain-dead but not dead, preserving the tenderness.
He twisted the tail free, snipped the sides, pried open the shell. Like peeling back armor to reveal a sacred core, he freed the meat, then gently boiled it to enhance the elasticity.
"Takumi," he called, "Crush those walnuts and pine nuts into a fine powder."
"Got it!" Takumi replied, already pounding with determination.
Back at the station, Zane began assembly.
He laid out tofu skin — patted dry, thin and supple. Spread the yellow sauce over it. Placed the lobster meat gently on top. Brushed more sauce like a mask of love, then wrapped it carefully. Inserted toothpicks to hold it together, then rolled it in flour, yolk, and nut powder.
He preheated oil to 170°C — not too hot.
"Double fry," he whispered.
First, slow fry to cook it through. Then, after resting, he heated the oil to 200°C and re-fried it to lock in the crispy golden shell.
The result? A glistening, golden crust — delicate but explosive.
Mana inhaled deeply. "Oh my god… that smell…"
The next round of culinary wonder was about to begin.