Zhang Ailing once said:
"Delicious food is a fundamental form of living art."
If that's true, then European desserts are nothing less than masterpieces—artworks so delicate and intricate that tasting them feels like admiring the Sistine Chapel with your tongue.
Among them, the mille-feuille is a true classic.
Takumi's version stood on the presentation table like a work of divine craftsmanship. Three layers of golden, flaky puff pastry gleamed under the spotlights, almost too beautiful to eat. The outer edges curled ever so slightly, mimicking the delicate contours of a scallop shell washed ashore. Between each layer, rich vanilla pastry cream and silky custard were generously piped, stacked like waves about to crash on a sugar-dusted beach.
A slight nudge with a fork caused the entire structure to flake apart like autumn leaves in the wind.
The taste?
Buttery. Crisp. Creamy. A ballet of textures that melted in your mouth and shattered on your tongue simultaneously, like edible glass filled with velvet.
Every bite sent crumbs tumbling down like snowflakes, and each layer crackled like thin ice beneath a dancer's step.
"The secret," Takumi explained, standing proudly beside his dish, "lies in the lamination—the dough wrapped in butter, folded again and again, until it forms hundreds of delicate strata. It's about discipline, timing, and touch."
Leonora Nakiri, usually reserved when tasting sweets, took a single bite—and her expression lit up.
"The outer shell has that perfect crisp… paper-thin but structured. Each crunch is followed by the softest custard, and the subtle saltiness of the butter rounds out the sweetness. This is a textbook mille-feuille."
Another judge chimed in. "Don't forget the almond slices. Roasted just right—they add that nutty depth. They melt on the tongue and keep you coming back for more."
Takumi bowed humbly, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Praise from judges of this caliber wasn't easy to earn.
Naturally, this kind of dessert, when paired with a hot cup of freshly brewed coffee, made you forget all about calories or caution. In that moment, the only thought anyone had was—
"Just one!"
"Yes, just one…"
…before the inevitable second bite.
The judges hadn't even fully recovered from the mille-feuille when a bold, spicy scent cut through the sugary air. Cinnamon, rich and earthy, laced with hints of bitterness and fruit.
A new dish arrived, thickly coated in molten chocolate.
Ryo Kurokiba had arrived—with a vengeance.
"Hawthorn Black Chocolate Cinnamon Roll!" he declared.
The name alone turned heads, but the aroma was the true herald of its arrival.
Director Osaji leaned forward, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "Is that a cinnamon roll? It smells… deeper, darker."
The cinnamon roll was enormous, looking like a miniature mountain glazed in glossy, jet-black chocolate. Beneath the shell, rivers of molten chocolate rippled and pooled, creating a terrain so luscious it practically oozed indulgence.
Traditionally, cinnamon rolls were dense, sugar-laden carb bombs.
But Ryo—known not just for his aggression but his culinary precision—had modified the recipe.
He had used cinnamon from the tropical forests of Indonesia, a variety prized for its intense flavor and nuanced warmth. The chocolate? Bittersweet with a depth hinting at single-origin cacao. He'd tempered the sweetness with the unexpected tartness of hawthorn—a Chinese fruit known for its medicinal properties and zingy aftertaste.
"Sweet, bitter, spicy, tart—every note layered intentionally," whispered Leonora.
A single bite began with the satisfying snap of the chocolate shell, immediately followed by a wash of sweetness. Then came the cinnamon, warm and fiery, hugging the tongue like a winter blanket. Finally, the hawthorn kicked in—sharp, fruity, and refreshing, wiping the palate clean before the cycle started again.
Each layer of the roll introduced a new phase of flavor—like stepping through doorways into different worlds.
The judges' eyes widened in unison. This wasn't just a dessert—it was an experience.
Takumi's mille-feuille had finesse and technique, no doubt. But Ryo's cinnamon roll… it had impact. And so, after careful deliberation, the results were announced:
Round 4: Ryo Kurokiba vs. Takumi Aldini
Score: 3–0
Winner: Ryo Kurokiba!
"His puff pastry soup in the preliminaries was already unforgettable," Osaji admitted, shaking his head in awe. "But I never imagined he'd go even further with this dessert."
Leonora narrowed her eyes, still focused on the now-empty plate.
"With that level of depth and complexity, he may be Alice's most dangerous rival."
The third judge, older and more skeptical, gave a warning glance. "He's brilliant. But he's also intense. That kind of obsession—if left unchecked—could derail him entirely."
And with that, the quarterfinals came to a close. The stage had been set.
The Semifinalists:
Ryo Kurokiba
Alice Nakiri
Soma Yukihira
[REDACTED – suspense hint]
In one week, at the sacred culinary battleground of Tsuki no Ten, these four would face off—until only one remained.
That night, the moon gave way to a sleepy dawn.
Golden light filtered softly through the curtains, spilling across plush carpet and lazy limbs.
Hisako opened her eyes.
She looked peaceful, yet faint traces of exhaustion still clung to her lashes. The competition had taken its toll—physically, emotionally. And now, outside of Totsuki for the first time in ages, her mind struggled to settle.
She shifted beneath the covers before slipping out of bed, toes sinking into the soft carpet.
Outside her room, she spotted Zane emerging from the adjacent door.
They made eye contact. A short pause.
"Good morning," he said, rubbing his neck.
"Y-Yeah. Just woke up…" Her voice was husky with sleep.
Zane studied her. "Did you sleep alright?"
"Not really," she admitted, brushing her hair aside. "I guess I'm too used to Totsuki's dorms. This new place… it's weirdly quiet."
He smiled gently. "Well, how about this—go freshen up, I'll make breakfast, then we'll hit the shops. My treat."
She yawned, nodding. "Mm… sure…"
The city was alive.
Streets bustled with early morning energy—vendors setting up stalls, neon signs blinking awake, fashion boutiques rolling out racks of the latest arrivals.
Hisako followed Zane through the crowd. She tried to hide her blush as she caught him glancing back at her more than once.
Why does he keep looking at me like that? she wondered, cheeks warming.
Shopping was rare for her. For years, she'd dedicated herself entirely to Erina. And while she loved her role, it didn't leave much time for browsing cosmetics or updating her wardrobe.
Recently, though, Erina had developed a shojo manga addiction, dragging her secretary on occasional Akihabara runs. Hisako had discovered something unexpected—shopping was kind of fun.
Now, walking side by side with Zane through a sparkling commercial district, she felt… lighter.
Still, she hesitated with every storefront, window-shopping but never committing.
Zane eventually sighed. "Hey. What exactly are you looking for?"
"I just…" she trailed off, looking embarrassed. "I think people might assume we're a couple if we shop together like this."
Zane blinked. Then he laughed quietly. "So what if they do?"
Hisako looked away, pouting.
Girls were truly a mystery.
Then, as if struck by lightning, she grabbed his sleeve. "There!"
A sequined spaghetti-strap dress gleamed in the window—dark blue, like the night sky, studded with silver stars. It was elegant, celestial, and utterly breathtaking.
"Wow," she whispered. "It's gorgeous…"
"It really is," Zane agreed. "I think it'd look amazing on you."
Hisako bit her lip. "It's… a little much. I mean, I'm just helping out at your tavern. Where would I even wear it?"
Zane chuckled. "Hey, if you love it, that's reason enough. You don't need an excuse to feel good about yourself."
Encouraged, she asked the store clerk if she could try it on.
A few minutes later, the curtain rustled—and Hisako stepped out.
Zane's eyes widened.
Short purple hair framed her delicate features. The dress flowed down from her waist, catching the light like constellations. Her collarbone gleamed, and her skin practically glowed.
She looked ethereal.
"Un…believable," he breathed. "You look stunning."
Hisako's cheeks turned crimson. "Really?"
"…Well, maybe just a little."
They laughed together, and in that small moment, something softened between them.
Later, as they left the shop, the dress was tucked safely in a branded bag.
"You didn't need to change back," Zane teased.
"I'm not letting the whole city see me like that!" she huffed, puffing her cheeks.
He smiled fondly.
Girls. Beautiful, mysterious, unpredictable girls.
And he wouldn't have it any other way.