The different blades in Daiki's hands moved like a choreographed dance—fluid, precise, and dazzling to behold. Even to a layperson, the scene was mesmerizing. But to those who understood the craft, it was nothing short of awe-inspiring.
As the saying goes: Laymen watch the spectacle; experts see the technique.
Everyone present was a seasoned chef—or at least on their way to becoming one. And so, they could fully appreciate just how masterful Daiki's knife control was.
"His movements are flawless," Nakiri Sōe murmured, eyes narrowing as he watched the blade work. "No hesitation, no wasted motion. To wield such a diverse set of knives with that level of finesse… that's more than skill. That's artistry."
Alice Nakiri found herself biting her lip as she watched, inwardly placing herself in Daiki's position. She could picture the scenario, but no matter how she imagined it, she couldn't replicate the result.
"There's no comparison," she admitted reluctantly. "It's impossible. Just watching, you know it can't be done... at least, not by me."
Her father, Nakiri Munee, placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "Don't compare yourself to him, Alice. His talent lies in his 'touch'—it's every bit as extraordinary as Erina's 'God Tongue'. The blessing of touch allows him to feel the exact cutting point, and his control over force is absolute."
He shook his head with a sigh, the admiration in his voice tinged with the caution of a realist. "Challenging someone like that is like trying to out-taste Erina. It's just asking for heartbreak."
"Relax, Dad," Alice said with a dry laugh. "I'm not planning on challenging him. I know my limits. It was just a reflex, you know? Putting myself in his shoes. But I'm not foolish enough to believe I could keep up."
Amid the low hum of awe from the onlookers, Daiki finished the slicing with swift finality, then began preparing his marinade with side ingredients and spices.
If only the system had awakened a little earlier… he thought with a twinge of regret. I could've developed a better flavor base for this dish.
Despite his disappointment, Daiki worked with focus and precision. He knew the sauce wasn't quite perfect—it lacked the depth to fully elevate the dish—but there was little he could do. The system had only awakened a few days ago, and with his training ongoing at Tōtsuki's training resort, he didn't have time to dive into ingredient research.
Still, the true highlight was yet to come.
Though the marinade had limitations, the next phase was Daiki's specialty: fire.
Instead of using high-pressure steam like before, Daiki turned on the stove. This time, he wasn't going to rely on steam at all. This was going to be open flame.
Back in the world of Little Chef Boy, lighting a fire had been more complicated. Yakan had to explode a water kettle to generate high-temperature steam that would ignite a flame. But Daiki didn't need theatrics.
With a single twist of the knob and a flick of his hand, a controlled blaze came to life.
His dish was deceptively simple: roasted chicken. He had no specialty cookware. But what he did have was mastery of flame.
With his heightened sense of touch and unparalleled control over heat, Daiki could manipulate the fire itself, wrapping it around the chicken like a second skin—uniform and precise.He could mold the flame to his will.
Daiki's approach was restrained, minimalistic. But in terms of efficiency and precision, it was far superior.
As the stove ignited fully, Daiki channeled the fire into a perfect sphere of heat. The flames enclosed the roasting chicken, creating a blazing orb on the grill.
To the average person, the sheer heat would have been unbearable—skin-searing, blistering. But Daiki didn't even flinch. The temperature didn't bother him. He wasn't touching the chicken directly, but through the metal of the grill, he could feel every shift in texture, every pocket of rendered fat, every layer of doneness.
He made constant micro-adjustments, tweaking the flame's intensity, repositioning the grill. The fire flickered and shifted in response to his commands, its surface a fluid dance of gold and crimson.
To the spectators, it was as if the fire itself obeyed him.
The flaming sphere shimmered, locking in every bit of aroma. None of it escaped.
"This ability…" Daiki murmured to himself as he worked, "it's perfect for grilling. No need to flip the meat. The fire does all the work—so long as I guide it."
Seeing Daiki standing motionless before the roaring fire, those who understood the nature of his Explosive Flame ability didn't assume he was zoning out. On the contrary—they knew this stillness was part of his precision.
And still, they couldn't help but marvel.
For chefs, an ability like this was beyond tempting. The control it offered, the efficiency, the artistry—it was a dream. But alas, it wasn't something one could learn. It wasn't a technique. It was talent. A gift. Something they could only admire from a distance.
Suddenly, the fireball encasing the roasted chicken exploded in a brilliant flash.
Flames scattered like molten sparks from a forge, momentarily lighting up the kitchen like fireworks before vanishing just as quickly. It was like watching iron flowers bloom in midair—dazzling and ephemeral.
And then the fragrance hit them.
The scent burst forth as if released from a sealed chamber—rich, layered, almost tangible. The fire had locked in every ounce of flavor, and now, with the cage gone, it rushed out like an aromatic wave.
"A flavor bomb…" someone whispered.
"The delayed release makes the aroma hit you all at once. It creates a dramatic impact. This alone elevates the dish beyond the ordinary."
It was, by all appearances, just a roast chicken. No flashy presentation. No elaborate garnish. But the moment it was revealed, no one doubted its pedigree. With Daiki behind the grill, even simplicity became sublime.
Eyes widened. Stomachs growled. The tension in the room coiled like a spring.
Daiki didn't say a word.
Instead, he unsheathed the Seven-Star Knife, its blade catching the kitchen lights as he moved. In a single breath, he slashed across the roast chicken with fluid speed.
The motion was so fast, most only saw the glint of steel, like lightning flashing in a summer storm.
He stepped back, the knife returning to his side. A moment of silence passed.
Then—crack.
Hairline fissures began to appear on the chicken's surface, barely visible but spreading like silk threads. With a delicate shiver, the roasted chicken collapsed into perfectly portioned, bite-sized pieces.
"It's done," Daiki said calmly. "Please, enjoy."
Chopsticks moved in unison. The moment they touched the meat, the roast chicken yielded effortlessly, falling apart like it had been slow-cooked for hours.
"The skin—golden, crisp, and thin like parchment," Nakiri Munee said between bites, eyes lighting up. "But inside... the meat is tender, juicy... astonishingly so. There's none of that dryness you usually get with roasted poultry. The heat control was perfect."
He paused for a moment, then added, "The sauce and sides, if I'm being nitpicky, are a little underdeveloped. But when the main dish is this good, everything else fades into the background."
"I agree," another voice chimed in—Dōjima Gin, arms crossed, wearing an impressed smile. "I've eaten my fair share of roast chicken, but this... this surpasses anything I've tasted."
"It's true," Munee added. "If we're being precise, the balance of the entire plate could still be improved. But based purely on flavor, this chicken alone is enough to carry the dish. It's easily third-class restaurant level."
He turned to Daiki, voice low but full of weight.
"You've already reached the level of a senior chef in core technique. And that's not something we say lightly at Tōtsuki."
Even among culinary elites, Daiki had made his mark. And for those watching, one thing became crystal clear:
This wasn't just talent.
It was evolution in action.
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