The next dish to grace the competition table was Subaru Mimasaka's eel bento—housed in a luxurious, crimson-lacquered lunchbox, radiating a dignified ceremonial aura.
As the lid was gently lifted, a wave of sweet, oily, caramelized aroma instantly spilled into the air.
Thick eel fillets—glossy with a lacquer of sweet soy glaze—rested upon plump, glistening grains of rice. Steam coiled upward, carrying with it a nostalgic fragrance that made even the stoic judges lean in with sudden appetite.
"This scent…"
"It's like soy sauce pork rice from childhood."
"The kind that simmers for hours in a neighborhood diner."
Director Osaji, Leonora Nakiri, and Judge Shinichiro all inhaled deeply, their senses instantly awakened.
Every detail—presentation, cut size, the glistening sauce-to-rice ratio—was near-identical to a dish already judged just moments earlier.
Whispers surged through the audience.
"Isn't this… Yukihira's bento?"
"It's exactly the same!"
"No… wait. There are subtle differences…"
From the choice of lacquerware to the delicate brush strokes of sauce, even the eel's knife cuts mirrored Soma Yukihira's version down to the millimeter.
The crowd stared in astonishment.
"Mimasaka Subaru truly lives up to his reputation as Totsuki's ultimate imitator."
At the judges' table, Senzaemon Nakiri retrieved Subaru's academic file with calm interest—but what he saw caused even his battle-hardened brows to raise.
"Ninety-nine…?"
"He's already fought and won ninety-nine matches?" the Director muttered, stunned.
There it was in black ink: his flawless record. Not a single defeat. But what stood out even more was the absence of a signature dish or culinary style. Subaru never carved his own path.
Instead, he forged victories by walking precisely in the footsteps of his opponents—before overtaking them.
"Imitation… elevated into strategy," Shinichiro murmured.
"It's effective, but is it admirable?"
Leonora Nakiri narrowed her eyes.
"To be frank," she said, "I detest this approach. A chef without creativity is no chef at all. To constantly borrow without building something of your own—it's not art. It's mimicry. And it's hollow."
But cooking, like all art, begins with imitation.
A child first learns by copying their parents. A student starts by following recipes before attempting improvisation. Copying, in its purest form, is the beginning of knowledge.
However—at Totsuki Academy, the world's top culinary school—copying without evolution was unacceptable.
To be a chef here was to be a creator, a risk-taker, a soul-bearer. To serve someone else's dish with your hands? That was sacrilege.
And yet, Subaru Mimasaka stood proud.
"Haha! That's right," he admitted with an odd smirk, "I imitated Yukihira's bento."
The crowd gasped.
"But that doesn't mean I didn't change it."
"Try it for yourselves."
Leonora's interest returned.
She lowered her gaze to the bento before her, lips pursed. Steam still curled upward. Her chopsticks hovered briefly—and then descended with quiet determination.
The eel—glazed, golden-edged, slightly charred—broke apart easily.
Her eyes lit up the moment it touched her tongue.
The texture was exquisite: the skin, crisp and caramelized; the meat beneath, soft and fatty, melting into the sauce like a whisper. It was bold. Intense. Flavorful.
Compared to Soma's version, Subaru's eel had more punch—it lingered on the palate like a fiery echo. The soy-based glaze had been cooked longer, developing complexity. The eel had been flipped more times over the fire, coaxing out deeper caramelization.
But something was… missing.
The rice.
It was there, perfectly cooked and seasoned. But it felt overshadowed. Forgotten. Drowned beneath the assertiveness of the eel.
To the untrained eye, eel bento may seem simple—just fish on rice. But in Japan, such dishes are backed by centuries of craftsmanship.
"Filleting eels takes three years," Osaji once said.
"Skewering them, another eight. And grilling? That's a lifelong pursuit."
It takes a special knife just to prepare them. The cuts must be precise, or the eel will twist and tear. The skewers must be driven in just right, or the fillet may collapse into the coals. And the grilling—the flipping, the watching, the brush strokes of sauce—it is a meditative practice born of tradition and instinct.
Soma, having grown up in the fiery belly of Yukihira Diner, understood this dance. His bento respected the humble soul of the dish.
The skin on his eel had been lightly crisp, the meat tender but firm, with a sweet-salty sauce that lifted the rice rather than buried it. Seaweed added brine. Green onions, a fresh crunch. The rice remained present—chewy, fragrant, subtly seasoned.
Subaru's bento, while technically superior in eel handling, had thrown the dish off balance.
Food is not just a sum of flavors.
It's how those flavors interact, uplift, and complete one another.
The judges set down their chopsticks.
Tension thickened.
Then, Director Osaji stood and raised his hand.
"The winner… is Soma Yukihira!"
Cheers erupted from the arena.
On the opposite side, Subaru's eyes widened in disbelief.
His hands trembled. His expression twisted—equal parts fury and humiliation. He had done everything right. Every flip, every glaze, every cut. He should have won.
But Leonora explained it clearly.
"Your eel was grilled more precisely than Soma's."
"The surface crisp, the fat rendered, the meat tender. Your control of heat and timing was exceptional."
"However…" she said firmly, "the perfect bento isn't just about the eel. It's about the harmony between rice, sauce, and topping."
"The eel must elevate the rice—not overpower it. It must sing in harmony, not perform a solo."
Subaru's mouth opened—but no words came.
Mimasaka Subaru wasn't flashy. He lacked charisma, grace, or flair. But his skills—his capacity to replicate and refine—were unmatched.
With 99 wins behind him, and only now tasting defeat, he remained one of Totsuki's most dangerous chefs.
He wasn't just a copycat. He was a strategist. A predator. And now, with this loss, perhaps he would finally seek something more.
A style of his own.
As the round ended, preparations began for the fourth and final quarterfinal theme—Desserts.
"Knowledge is power," Leonora whispered.
"But dessert… dessert is magic."
The sweetness of a good dessert had the power to heal hearts, brighten moods, and awaken joy. Life without desserts would be dull, colorless. After burgers, ramen, and bentos, dessert was the natural crescendo.
On the theme board, the word shimmered like a golden invitation:
Dessert Round: Begin!
Backstage, Ryo Kurokiba moved with precision.
His dessert?
Hawthorn Black Chocolate Cinnamon Roll.
As the crowd stirred in curiosity, the cameras zoomed in on his station.
He began by melting dark chocolate and brown sugar in a saucepan, adding a generous spoon of Indonesian cinnamon—a spice with bold warmth and gentle sweetness. He added chopped walnuts, giving the mixture a layered crunch. Hawthorn puree added a tangy undertone.
Beside him, dough was kneading inside a bread machine, elastic and fragrant. After a short rest, he rolled it flat, spread the filling, and coiled it into a tight spiral. Each roll was sliced, proofed for nearly an hour, and baked until golden brown.
After baking, he dusted them with powdered sugar and nutmeg, whose peppery warmth intertwined with cinnamon, enhancing the scent into a memory.
Across the stage, Takumi Aldini was creating an iconic Italian pastry:
Sfogliatella.
Its name means "thin leaves," and it looked just like that—layered like a seashell, crisp and golden.
The dough was painstaking: mixed with honey and warm water, rested, brushed with melted lard, and folded over and over into a long scroll. After chilling, the scroll was sliced, pressed flat into thin discs, and filled with a velvety mixture of ricotta cheese, candied orange peel, cinnamon, and vanilla.
The result would be an explosion of crunch and cream—an ASMR experience wrapped in a shell of golden pastry.
A dessert born from an 18th-century monastery, perfected in Naples, and now reborn at Totsuki's sacred kitchen stadium.
"These two…" Director Osaji murmured, watching the ovens glow.
"They're going to take us on a journey."
Indeed, the final round was about to begin—not just of culinary prowess, but of philosophy. Technique versus soul. Spice versus structure. Fire versus finesse.
And when the ovens opened, the air would be thick with cinnamon, chocolate, ricotta, and destiny.