HFfC: CH 8: Master Chef Rank

The first to emerge from the backstage rooms was Countess Genevieve. She wore a simple but elegant replacement gown, and a faint, uncharacteristic blush colored her high cheekbones. She walked stiffly toward Soma's station, her eyes, which had previously held only sneering disgust, now carried a complex mixture of hesitation, bewilderment, and a deep, unnerving curiosity.

The male MC, desperate to move on from the frankly scandalous noises the judges had made, seized the opportunity. "And the Countess returns! So, Countess, tell us, how was... Soma's cooking."

"We will wait for the other judges before delivering our verdict for Chef Soma," she cut him off, her voice sharp. The pointed use of his title was a shocking concession, and it silenced the MC instantly.

One by one, the other judges emerged, each looking similarly dazed and wearing fresh clothes. Baron Kael came out with a wide, ear-to-ear grin, looking happier than he probably had in years. Master Chef Borin, the dwarf, looked utterly baffled, his judgmental eyes still fixed on Soma, but now they were filled with confusion rather than scorn.

"Hah! That's what I'm talking about!" 'Big' Sal bellowed as he approached, clapping his hands together. "That dish could go toe-to-toe with my signature five-meat chili! And my chili makes a grown man weep!"

"Sal, hush," Countess Genevieve ordered, though her rebuke lacked its usual venom. "We are waiting for Magister Elara."

As if he understood something she didn't, Sal just laughed cheerfully and gave Soma a huge thumbs-up.

This wasn't the reaction Soma had expected. The protocol had been broken. Before, the judges gave their comments individually as they moved down the line. Now, they stood together as a silent, waiting group. It seemed Magister Elara's opinion was needed to contextualize what they had all just experienced.

Finally, Elara herself emerged from her room. But unlike the others, she hadn't changed. She still wore the same elegant scholar's robes, looking completely composed.

The Countess nodded slightly. "It seems my guess was correct," she murmured, before speaking up. "So, what do you think of Chef Soma's dish, Magister?"

Elara didn't answer her. She stepped forward until she was directly in front of Soma's station, and her piercing eyes seemed to look straight through him. "What is your dominant hand, chef?" she asked, her voice calm and analytical.

The question was so out of left field that Soma was momentarily perplexed. "Uh... my right hand," he answered.

"Give it to me," Elara commanded. "I need to check something."

The tension in the plaza became thick enough to taste. The other contestants stared, mouths agape. What was happening? Soma, trusting his instincts, slowly raised his right hand and extended it over the counter.

Elara placed two slender fingers on the veins of his wrist. A cool, probing surge of mana crept from her fingertips into Soma's arm. He felt it scan him, a strange, tingling sensation that cataloged him in a way he couldn't comprehend. Her eyes widened fractionally.

"Impossible," she muttered, so quietly it was almost lost in the silence.

"What is it?" Soma asked, a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach.

Magister Elara ignored him completely. She pulled her hand back and turned, gesturing for the other judges to convene with her in a tight, serious huddle.

The MCs, seeing their event spiraling into bizarre confusion, scrambled to regain control. "Well, folks," the male MC said with a forced, tinny laugh, "while our judges... deliberate... this fascinating dish, let's go to the crowd for some interviews!"

While the judges huddled in a tight, serious circle, the MCs scrambled to fill the dead air. The male MC, Ken, jogged down the stage steps with a magically amplified microphone.

"What a turn of events, folks!" he said with forced enthusiasm. "Let's see what the fine people of Evercrest think!" He shoved the microphone in front of a burly human man. "Sir, what's your take on this so-called 'lone chef'?"

"I think he's a cheat!" the man declared. "Used some kinda magic trick to fool the judges! There's no way food can do... that!"

Ken quickly moved on, finding a young elven woman. "And you, miss?"

"I think it's romantic!" she gushed. "A mysterious, handsome young chef with a secret technique! I hope he wins!"

Meanwhile, the female MC, Lyra, scanned the crowd, her eyes looking for a more interesting subject. They landed on a tall, strangely elegant figure standing near the edge of the crowd, away from the main throng. He was dressed in flowing purple robes and wore a wide-brimmed hat with a veil that completely obscured his face. He was an island of calm mystery in a sea of noisy excitement. Intrigued, she made her way toward him.

"And you, sir," she said, her voice smooth as she held her own crystal microphone out. "You've been watching very intently. What are your thoughts on this... unconventional competition so far?"

The mysterious man turned his head slightly. "It has been most illuminating," he replied, his voice calm and measured, muffled slightly by the veil. He clearly had no intention of showing his face.

"A man of few words!" Lyra said with a professional smile. "Given the surprising developments, who are you betting on to win today?"

"Chef Soma, of course," the man answered without a shred of hesitation.

Lyra was caught completely off guard. "Chef Soma?" she repeated, surprised. "But... the judges haven't even given their verdict on his first dish. Most people would bet on a proven name like Jacquard."

A soft chuckle came from behind the veil. "Perhaps," the man said. "But as his boss, I can't very well bet on anyone other than my own chef, can I?"

The revelation rippled through the people standing nearby who had been listening in. His boss? This mysterious, theatrical figure was the owner of the unknown Café LeBlanc?

"You're the owner?" Lyra asked, her journalistic instincts flaring. This was a story. "Tell me, what kind of establishment—"

Before she could ask another question, a loud chime echoed from the main stage, signaling that the judges had finished their deliberation and were returning to their seats. Lyra gave the mysterious man a final, curious look before rushing back to the stage, the story left tantalizingly unfinished.

The judges broke from their huddle, their expressions a mixture of grave seriousness and profound awe. The plaza was dead silent. Countess Genevieve stepped forward, her voice ringing out with cold, aristocratic clarity.

"From this moment forward," she announced, "Chef Sōma Yukihira will not be participating in the Grey Tide Cooking Festival."

The announcement landed like a thunderclap. A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Soma stared, his mind going completely blank with shock. Beside him, Gaylord Jacquard's face split into a triumphant, sneering grin. "I told you," he muttered to his trembling assistant, "that country bumpkin was up to no good. Finally, some decorum."

Soma's mouth opened, a protest forming on his lips, but the Countess held up a single, imperious hand, silencing him before he could speak.

"He will not be participating," she continued, her voice resonating with unshakeable authority, "because his skill has far surpassed the qualifications of this competition. We have unanimously concluded that to allow him to continue would be fundamentally unfair to every other participant here."

If the first announcement was a thunderclap, the second was an earthquake. The silence of the crowd shattered into a roar of disbelief. The MCs, mouths agape, could only stare. The other contestants looked as if they'd been struck by lightning.

Then, Master Chef Borin, the dwarven traditionalist who had looked at Soma with such scorn, took a step forward. He faced Soma and gave a short, stiff bow from the waist—a gesture of immense respect from a master of his craft.

"It is an honor," the dwarf rumbled, his voice filled with a new, grudging reverence, "to meet a young Master Chef such as yourself."

The revelation blew the minds of everyone listening. Master Chef? That title was reserved for the giants of the culinary world. The male MC finally found his voice, a cheer breaking through his professionalism. "A Master Chef! An unknown, young Master Chef has appeared at the Grey Tide Festival!"

Through it all, Soma remained genuinely, utterly confused. 'Big' Sal, seeing the look on Soma's face, let out a hearty laugh. "I see you seem to be the only one who doesn't get it, kid." He turned and flagged down a nearby event organizer. "Bring Master Chef Soma to my personal waiting room," he ordered. "We'll talk to him after the second round of the competition begins."

The other contestants stared, their faces a gallery of raw emotion: awe, disbelief, and in many cases, a bitter, seething envy. The latter was personified by Gaylord Jacquard, whose face was no longer smug, but twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He had been publicly humiliated, his family's name eclipsed by a no-name from a café, a boy who was now being escorted away not as a failure, but as a legend in the making.

Soma walked numbly into the waiting room, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The space was comfortable but felt like a cage. He could hear the muffled voice of the male MC announcing the winner of the first round, followed by the roar of the crowd. The second round was beginning, with Baron Kael revealing the next challenge ingredient, but none of it mattered to Soma anymore. He wasn't in the competition. He sank onto a plush sofa, a profound sense of failure washing over him. He was supposed to promote Café LeBlanc, to put them on the map. Instead, he hadn't even finished the first round before getting kicked out.

The door opened again, and the five judges filed in, their expressions now unreadable without the pressure of the crowd.

"What's going on?" Soma asked, his voice quiet. "Did I break a rule?"

'Big' Sal let out a booming laugh that seemed to shake the room. "Kid, you didn't break a rule, you broke the whole damn scale! It seems what Magister Elara suspected is right. You're an autodidact Master Chef!"

Soma stared at him blankly. "A what? Master Chef? Does that mean something important?"

The question was so genuine, so utterly without guile, that Baron Kael, 'Big' Sal, and Master Chef Borin all burst into hearty laughter. Even the Countess let out a small, dry chuckle, shaking her head in disbelief.

Magister Elara, however, simply smiled. "Well," she said, her calm voice cutting through the laughter, "that would be the downside of being self-taught. You have the knowledge without the context. Listen, Chef."

She began to explain, her voice clear and precise, like a professor giving a lecture. "In this realm, culinary skill is not just a trade; it is a recognized path of magical and spiritual development. We measure it in Ranks, or Realms of mastery. Most chefs spend their entire lives hoping to advance just one or two steps."

She held up a finger. "The first realm is Steward. This is where a practitioner awakens their senses and can perceive the natural magical essence in ingredients. They learn to preserve it."

She held up a second. "The second is Hearth Tender, where they learn to go beyond preservation and actively enhance that natural essence, making things taste more vibrant, more themselves."

Baron Kael chimed in, leaning forward eagerly. "Then you get to Artisan Chef, where you can start infusing your own energy to create tangible effects—a stew that warms you against the cold, a jerky that boosts your stamina. That's where most good restaurant chefs top out."

"Beyond that is the Sous-Chef of Harmony," Elara continued, "who can weave multiple effects together and even touch upon the diner's emotions, creating dishes that bring comfort or joy."

She paused, her gaze becoming incredibly intense. "But the fifth realm... the fifth realm is Master Chef. A Master Chef achieves a spiritual connection to the five fundamental flavors. They don't just enhance essence; they command it. They can cook abstract concepts into their food—loyalty, clarity, inspiration."

Soma's mind reeled as he tried to process the information. "So... what I did... that 'clothes magic' dish..."

"Yes," Elara confirmed, a slight blush touching her cheeks as she remembered the... effects. "But your mana control, your ability to manipulate the essence you perceive, is still only at the Steward level. Meanwhile, your knowledge of how to combine flavors and concepts is somehow at the Master Chef rank. This profound imbalance is the cause of..." she hesitated, "...the clothes-tearing debacle. The raw, conceptual power of the dish was too overwhelming and uncontrolled for a normal person's senses to handle."

Soma frowned, a new question forming. "But your clothes didn't tear."

Elara gave a small, knowing smile. "I am a mage myself, Chef," she said simply. "Any side effects from magical food can be contained and managed with my own mana. A regular person, however, cannot."

The weight of their explanation settled on Soma, but it was all still too abstract. He latched onto the one tangible thing he could grasp. "So," he asked, his voice barely a whisper, "am I... a Master Chef rank?"

Master Chef Borin, the dwarf who had looked at him with such disdain, took a half-step forward. His gruff expression was gone, replaced by a deep, profound respect. "Seeing the dish you made," he rumbled, his voice a low gravel, "and feeling its effect... it's clear that you are. Like myself." He gave a short, sharp nod, as if inducting Soma into the world's most exclusive and begrudging club.

'Big' Sal let out another booming laugh. "It seems the young chef still doesn't get it!" he exclaimed, turning to Soma with a grin that was both kind and pitying. "Kid, listen. In the whole, vast United Realm of Averidane, from the Sunstone Coast to the Granite Cape, there are only forty-nine living, recognized Master Chefs. Forty-nine! I'm one of the most famous cooks in this city, and I myself am only ranked as an Artisan Chef!"

Baron Kael clapped the big man on the shoulder. "You sell yourself short, Sal," he said with a rare smile. "Your tavern has been the number one 'must-visit' spot in the entire Evercrest Duchy for a decade. Any adventurer who doesn't stop there for a meal is a fool."

Magister Elara stepped forward, her calm presence centering the room. "In short, Chef Yukihira," she said, her voice clear and logical, "this is why we had to pull you from the competition. With your knowledge, you are qualified to be a judge here, not a contestant. It would be a fundamental insult to the spirit of the festival to have the other chefs compete against you. So, I hope you do not take our decision the wrong way."

With that, all five of them—the Countess, the Baron, the Guild Master, the Magister, and the Tavern King—gave Soma a slight, respectful bow. It was a gesture of deference to his rank, a silent apology, and an undeniable welcome. One by one, they filed out of the room to return to the ongoing festival.

'Big' Sal was the last to leave. He paused at the door, turning back to Soma with a wide, genuine smile. "I'd love to come to your café," he said. "It's LeBlanc, right?"

Soma, finally finding his voice, managed a nod. "Yes. Café LeBlanc."

Sal laughed, a warm, encouraging sound. "It's rare to see a Master Chef who's also humble. You're going to go far, kid. I'll see you around." 

Just as 'Big' Sal was about to leave, a new thought sparked in Soma's mind, a flicker of ambition that refused to be satisfied.

"Wait," Soma called out, stopping the big man at the door. "Is Master Chef rank... the highest rank there is?"

'Big' Sal turned, a wide, booming laugh echoing in the small room. "Big ambition, are we? I like that!" He leaned against the doorframe, his expression turning more thoughtful. "Officially? In most of the United Realms, yes. It's the pinnacle. But..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "There are whispers. From what I know, the reclusive Argent Theocracy, to the north, is rumored to have chefs who have reached the sixth rank: 'Aroma Lord'."

Soma's eyes widened. "Aroma Lord?"

"Aye," Sal confirmed. "Chefs whose skill is so immense their Hearthfire can't be contained in the food alone. They say the very aroma of their cooking creates a magical field, blessing a dining hall with good fortune or inspiring an army with courage just by smelling the feast. But it's all just rumors. We never know for sure. Those people are so closed off, so secretive." He shrugged. "There are records of chefs passing the sixth rank, but almost all of them are from the Calamity Era, centuries ago."

Soma's mind was racing, trying to comprehend a level of cooking so powerful it could influence a battlefield. "Is there... a realm even beyond that?"

'Big' Sal's jovial expression softened into one of myth and legend. "Well," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "there is one more. The seventh realm. 'Gourmet Sovereign'. But that's just a tall tale, a story bored chefs tell each other, passed down from the Calamity Era. A chef whose cooking could alter fate itself, cure any illness permanently, even create legendary ingredients from mud and weeds." He shook his head, as if waking from a dream. "There's no known record of it actually existing. It's just a fairy tale."

He looked at Soma, his expression turning serious and kind again. "Be proud of yourself, kid. You're a Master Chef. In the real world, that's as high as the mountain goes." He gave Soma a final, encouraging nod. "Bye for now."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Soma alone with the dizzying knowledge that the peak he had just unknowingly reached might only be the base of an even more impossible mountain.

…

When Soma finally stepped out of the quiet waiting room, the chaotic noise of the festival rushed back in. Waiting for him by the door were the two committee organizers who had registered him—the harried-looking human man and a sharp-featured elven woman. The moment they saw him, they both bowed deeply from the waist, their expressions a mixture of terror and deep reverence.

"Master Chef, we are so terribly sorry!" the human man stammered, his eyes fixed on the floor. "We didn't know! We had no idea you were of Master Chef rank!"

'Does Master Chef rank really hold so much power that people bow down and beg for forgiveness like this?' Soma thought, completely baffled by the dramatic shift.

"It's alright," Soma said, trying to wave it off. Then, a bit of his usual sarcasm slipped through. "Hey, you guys gave me the last spot, though, right? So thanks for that."

His sarcastic tone went completely unnoticed, flying far over their panicked heads. The elven woman looked up, her face pale with genuine remorse. "We are truly sorry, Master Chef," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "It was wrong of us to bring you in with the intention of using you as a spectacle. We now realize that it was us who were blind, unable to recognize true mastery when it stood right before us."

Their earnest, self-flagellating apology for a joke he had already moved past made Soma feel incredibly awkward. "Hey, really, it's okay," he said, trying to placate them.

Just then, he spotted a familiar, welcome sight near the edge of the plaza. It was Zero, still in his ridiculous veiled hat, standing patiently with their wooden crates. The group of children who had helped them earlier were all gathered around him, looking expectantly in Soma's direction.

"I have something to attend to, if you don't mind," Soma said quickly, using them as a perfect excuse to escape.

"Of course, Master Chef! Please, don't let us keep you!" the organizers said in unison, bowing again as he hurried away.

Soma walked briskly toward Zero and the kids. As he approached, Zero clapped his hands together theatrically. "Uuuww, kids!" he announced to their small audience. "Look who it is! We've got ourselves a real Master Chef right here!"

The kids immediately went rowdy. "Master Chiff!" one little boy shouted, mispronouncing the title.

"Cakes!" another one yelled, remembering the more important promise.

Soma couldn't help but laugh, the tension and confusion of the last hour finally melting away. He looked at the eager, upturned faces and felt a warmth spread through his chest. "Okay, okay," he said, ruffling the hair of the nearest child. "A promise is a promise. I'll make you all cakes."

A chorus of joyous cheers erupted from the children. And with that, their strange little procession—the newly crowned Master Chef, his mysterious veiled boss, and an entourage of chattering kids—turned their backs on the grand festival and began the long walk back to the quiet little alley that housed Café LeBlanc.

When they finally arrived back at the alleyway, the children, who had been chattering nonstop, fell silent. They stared at the unassuming, dark wooden storefront of Café LeBlanc, tucked between the old locksmith and the shuttered bookstore. It looked like a secret whispered into the city's grimy architecture.

"Woah," one of the little girls breathed, her eyes wide. "I never thought there was a place like this in this alley."

"Yeah," another boy added bluntly. "I thought it was just a bunch of old, rundown stores back here."

The comment, though innocent, struck Zero with theatrical force. He clutched his chest, a pained gasp escaping from behind his veil. "Ouch," he lamented, his voice full of mock hurt. "You guys are saying my beautiful café is rundown? I don't know, kids... I think my chef and I are too heartbroken to make any cakes now."

The boy who had made the comment looked horrified. "Hey! You promised!"

The other children immediately rounded on him, pushing him forward. "Apologize, Timmy! Apologize to the mysterious man!"

This display of playground justice made Soma burst out laughing. "Ehehehe! Alright, alrighty then," he said, clapping his hands together. "Apology accepted. Now sit your butts down and get ready to taste a Master Chef's cake!"

Zero unlocked the door and ushered the excited children inside. They scattered to the various tables, their eyes wide with wonder at the warm wood, the polished copper, and the strange painting of the woman in the red dress. True to his word, while Soma disappeared into the kitchen, Zero began preparing tall glasses of iced tea for their small guests. He was about to finally take off his veiled hat in the comfort of his own café but paused. He didn't know why, but some instinct told him to keep it on.

Just as he was setting the last glass down, the bell above the door chimed.

A human man, well-dressed and looking slightly out of place in the alley, stood at the threshold. "Excuse me," he said, "is this Café LeBlanc?"

Zero, still veiled, nodded from behind the counter. "Yes, it is."

"Is it open?" the man asked, gesturing to the sign that still read 'CLOSED'. "I saw the sign, but then I saw all these children at the tables..."

"Of course, we're open," Zero said smoothly, deciding on the spot. "The food is still being prepared, however."

The man's face lit up with relief as he stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room hopefully. "That's fine, I can wait," he said eagerly. "Tell me, do you have a menu... from the Master Chef?"

It started with one man, then another, then a small group. Word had spread from the festival plaza with the speed of a rumor in a royal court. The mysterious Master Chef from the unknown café was the talk of the town, and now, the town was coming to him. The bell above the door began to chime with a frantic, steady rhythm as more and more people found their way down the quiet alley.

The kids, thankfully, were more interested in their promised reward than the growing crowd. "Is it ready yet, Master Chiff?" one asked, tugging on Soma's apron.

"Almost!" Soma called back, a bead of sweat on his brow. He was a whirlwind of motion in the tiny kitchen, a maestro conducting a symphony of chaos. In one corner of the stove, a large pot of rich, dark Japanese curry bubbled away, its spicy, sweet aroma filling the air. On another burner, he expertly tossed a mountain of fried rice in a large wok, the grains dancing in the heat. Simultaneously, he was pulling a tray of perfectly golden, fluffy cupcakes from the small oven. Multitasking was second nature to him, and the pressure only made him sharper.

He quickly frosted the cupcakes and handed them out to the delighted children. As the café began to fill to bursting, with a line forming out the door, the kids, clutching their precious cakes, realized their quiet spot had become the city's newest sensation.

"Thanks for your help today," Zero said warmly as he ushered them out, making sure each one got their treat. "Come back soon."

With the children gone, the café's atmosphere shifted from playful chaos to a buzzing, electric anticipation. Every table and every barstool was now occupied. New arrivals had to wait, craning their necks to see the famous chef in action.

"Excuse me! A menu, please!" a wealthy-looking merchant called out impatiently to Zero.

Zero, who was calmly polishing a glass behind the bar, turned his veiled head toward the man. "We do things differently here at Café LeBlanc," he said, his voice smooth and enigmatic. "We don't have a fixed menu."

A murmur went through the crowd. "No menu?" someone whispered.

"We offer a single, perfect dish for each meal," Zero continued, his calm demeanor commanding the room. "The dish changes every day, depending on the time and the chef's inspiration. Today's lunch special is a Master's Curry with Golden Fried Rice."

The concept was so audacious, so confident, that it silenced any complaints. It wasn't a limitation; it was an exclusive, curated experience.

As Soma plated dish after dish of the fragrant curry and rice, Zero took charge of the drinks. His veiled hat, once a strange affectation, had become a powerful selling point. He was the mysterious proprietor, the silent partner to the fiery genius in the kitchen. Customers watched, fascinated, as his long, graceful fingers moved with precision, selecting herbs, grinding spices, and brewing teas with the focused intensity of an alchemist.

"And for you, madam?" he'd ask, his voice a low murmur. "Something to cut through the richness of the curry? Perhaps a chilled jasmine tea with a hint of citrus?"

For a gruff dwarf, he'd suggest, "A dark, roasted barley tea, I think. It has an earthy note that will complement the spices."

He never asked for their preferences directly, but seemed to intuit them, his creations always a perfect, surprising match for both the customer and the meal. The mysterious man in the veil wasn't just serving drinks; he was performing a quiet, elegant magic of his own, adding another layer of intrigue to the legend of Café LeBlanc.

The frantic energy of the day bled away with the setting sun. The last of the customers paid, offered their compliments to the mysterious veiled owner and the genius chef, and stepped out into the cool evening air. The flow of people, which had seemed endless just a few hours ago, finally stopped.

Zero and Soma, moving like automatons through the final cleanup, simultaneously leaned against the main counter, their shoulders slumping in perfect sync. A long, drawn-out sigh escaped both of them in unison.

"Haaahhhhhh."

"Holy shit," Soma breathed, wiping a sleeve across his forehead. "That was so much more tiring than I expected."

Zero finally reached up and untied the strings of his hat, pulling it off and setting it on the bar. He shook out his long black hair, his horns visible once more in the warm light of the café. "That was exhilarating, though," he admitted, a weary but satisfied smile on his face.

"Whatever it was, I need to eat," Soma declared, his stomach rumbling loudly in the sudden quiet. "We haven't eaten since breakfast, and it's already dark outside."

"Alright," Zero said, pushing himself off the counter. "I'll do the dishes from the rush. You do the cooking."

"Let's go," Soma said, a spark of energy returning at the prospect of food.

As Zero tackled the mountain of plates and glasses, Soma moved back into the kitchen. He kept it simple, using the leftover curry and rice. He breaded and fried several chicken cutlets until they were perfectly golden and crispy, the savory smell of the katsu filling the now-empty café with a comforting aroma.

Just as Soma was plating their dinner and Zero was wiping down the last of the counters, the bell above the door chimed one last time.

Ding.

Zero's reaction was frantic and instinctive. He lunged for the veiled hat on the bar table, scrambling to cover his horns as he called out an awkward, flustered, "Welcome!"

He looked up and saw the familiar, imposing figure of the white tiger beastman standing at the threshold. The Captain.

Zero's frantic energy immediately melted away into genuine warmth. He put the hat back down on the counter and smiled cheerfully. "Captain! You came back."

The beastman nodded, his golden eyes taking in the quiet, clean café. "I saw you had a lot of customers earlier," he rumbled, his voice as low and steady as ever. "So, I waited until it was dark."

Soma, carrying two plates of chicken katsu curry, emerged from the kitchen. Possessing Zero's memories from the previous day, he recognized their first true customer instantly. A wide, welcoming grin spread across his face. "Captain! The boss told me about you. Thank you for being our first customer yesterday."

The beastman's gaze shifted to Soma, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. "Ahh, and I heard the news from the festival. A Master Chef rank," he said, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "I knew it was no ordinary food you served me."

"Come," Soma said, gesturing with his head toward the clean plates he was holding. "I just made dinner for us."

The Captain hesitated. "Oh, I could come back tomorrow if you're closing up."

"Nonsense," Zero cut in, waving him toward a table. "We have more than enough. Come, eat with us."