The system had finally acknowledged it—Daiki was now officially a senior chef.
Unlike the outside world, where chef rankings were subject to human evaluation and, inevitably, human bias, the system's standards were absolute. Ruthlessly precise. For the system to bestow the title of senior chef meant only one thing: Daiki had reached a level of technical perfection with virtually no weaknesses.
But outside that system? Things were more complicated.
Chef rankings at Tōtsuki were still decided by people—people who, no matter how fair-minded, carried preferences, prejudices, and politics. The judges had rated Daiki's roast chicken as "third-class," primarily due to underdeveloped side elements. Yet everyone present knew: if judged solely on cooking technique and execution, Daiki's dish would have ranked far higher—perhaps even first.
Still, Daiki didn't feel slighted.
On the contrary, he was deeply satisfied.
After all, cooking a dish that surpasses your certified level was nearly unheard of in the culinary world.
In Food Wars!, most chefs had a signature dish—something they practiced to the point of perfection. It was their ace, their anchor. Even seasoned chefs could stumble when stepping out of their comfort zone. A third-rate chef might occasionally hit superior quality, and even elite chefs could underperform.
But Daiki?
His entire cooking style was terrifyingly consistent—his "ordinary" dishes outclassed the signature creations of others.
Thanks to his supernatural Sense of Touch, Daiki's hands became instruments of impossible precision. Every slice, every fold, every pinch of seasoning was rendered with total control. Mistakes? Practically nonexistent.
Even Nakiri Erina, blessed with the God Tongue, had occasional off days. The tongue could sense flaws, yes, but execution still required human hands—and humans faltered. But Daiki's tactile intuition ensured a seamless bridge between conception and creation. His movements weren't guided by thought—they were guided by instinct, refined and sharpened to inhuman levels.
And then there was Shi Yi—the supernatural blessing that empowered his explosive fire. Together, his abilities formed an unshakable foundation.
"Yeah," Daiki said with a nod, arms folded as he stood beside the grill. "Thanks to the powers I've awakened, my core techniques have improved rapidly. I still can't compare with fireworks-level showmanship, but my fundamentals are well beyond superior now."
The system's recognition as a senior chef confirmed it: Daiki wasn't just qualified—he was textbook perfection.
Dōjima Gin looked at him with a mix of awe and contemplation. "I thought I was prepared for how far you'd come... but I wasn't expecting this. The rate at which your supernatural abilities have elevated your cooking—honestly, it's terrifying."
He let out a low laugh, one that betrayed just how impressed he truly was.
"Among senior chefs, you're not just holding your own," Dōjima added. "You're already ahead. Especially in pyrotechnic cooking. Even some third-rate chefs would get wiped out if they had to go head-to-head with you in a fire-based challenge."
Alice Nakiri, still stunned by the earlier dish, finally spoke. "Wait, wait—doesn't that mean Daiki could already qualify for the Top Ten at Tōtsuki?"
Her words hung in the air like a spark.
She'd never studied at Tōtsuki, having grown up under the Nakiri International umbrella, but she knew the reputation of the Elite Ten. If Daiki was truly a senior chef already—if his fire techniques outclassed even mid-level professionals—then wasn't he already stronger than some members of the current Elite Ten?
"Technically, yes," Munee Nakiri answered, nodding thoughtfully. "The Top Ten are mostly senior chefs. Of course, there are exceptions—during Tōtsuki's Golden Age, many were already at third-class level before graduation."
"But those were the outliers," Dōjima Gin added. "Don't mistake the current Ten for the ones from our time. Back then, we fought for our titles. We welcomed challenges. The Elite Ten seats were constantly in motion."
He looked away, eyes narrowing slightly.
"But now... things are different. The Ten Elite positions have become entrenched, political. The students holding those seats guard them closely—not just for prestige, but for the power and privileges they come with. That kind of authority isn't just useful inside the school—it opens doors to the world."
Alice nodded.
"Her rapid growth was no accident. She used the Ten's authority to travel internationally and absorb global techniques. That kind of experience—exposure to cuisines from every corner of the planet—is priceless."
Dōjima looked back at Daiki, a slow grin forming on his lips.
"In a fair match? There's no doubt—Daiki would sweep at least half the current Elite Ten. But taking those seats by force? That's a different game now."
The room fell silent for a moment.
Everyone understood: Daiki wasn't just another prodigy. He was a storm on the horizon. A chef whose skills—backed by supernatural force and methodical refinement—had already surpassed the boundaries set by his peers.
He wasn't climbing the mountain.
He was reshaping it.
The Elite Ten wield immense power within Tōtsuki, but ascending to one of those coveted seats was far from simple.
In most cases, students had to wait until the third-year elites graduated before a vacancy even appeared. The rules might allow for challenges, but the reality was harsh—if the current seat-holder refused to accept a match, there was no way in.
Cooking skill alone wasn't enough. Without opportunity, even the sharpest blade couldn't cut through the institutional wall.
Daiki knew this well. His culinary ability had already surpassed every current member of the Elite Ten. Yet he understood that this wasn't a battlefield where strength naturally dictated rank. Unless someone voluntarily stepped down—or acted recklessly enough to lose their seat—there was simply no place for him.
He didn't mind.
"Forget the Elite Ten," Daiki said with a shake of his head, his voice steady but uninterested. "They've got their privileges, sure—but they come with way too much baggage. I've got better things to focus on than playing school politics."
Truthfully, the only part of the Elite Ten position that Daiki ever found remotely tempting was the ability to skip classes. Everything else—committee meetings, event obligations, school representation—was meaningless to him.
He didn't want power.
He wanted growth.
With his system now fully awakened, Daiki's only goal was to climb the summit of the culinary world, step by step, dish by dish. He wasn't here to manage others—he was here to master himself.
"You remind me of an old friend," Dōjima Gin said with a nostalgic smile. "He was the same way—didn't care about power, didn't care about rank. Just cooked, and kept moving forward."
Daiki immediately knew who Dōjima meant.
Yukihira Jōichirō.
The legendary "wandering chef." A man who cast off fame and prestige to chase deeper truths in cooking, traveling the world in pursuit of knowledge most chefs wouldn't even know to look for.
Jōichirō had never chased influence—but he'd still become one of the most respected chefs on the planet.
And Dōjima? While he was no slouch himself, the gap between them had grown.
In their student days, Dōjima had even beaten Jōichirō a few times in head-to-head matches—fair and square. Jōichirō hadn't held back, and Dōjima had known the taste of victory. But now? That past seemed like a distant echo.
Jōichirō had evolved. Transcended. His relentless pursuit of growth—free from politics, free from structure—had taken him to a level few dared imagine.
Daiki respected that path.
He didn't need the Ten. He didn't need validation from anyone.
He only needed the next challenge.
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