Chapter 90.
"Let's try Joichiro-senpai's dishes first."
Shijun offered generously.
Joichiro frowned, feeling the young man was being a bit too modest.
"Are you sure? Your miso soup finished several minutes before mine. Aren't you worried it will go completely cold?"
"Don't misunderstand." Shijun laughed, leaning against the counter. He had never been the type to offer false humility to an opponent. "It's just the nature of my miso soup. It actually tastes significantly better if you let it sit and rest for a while."
"Interesting. Well then, everyone, let's start with my cooking!"
Joichiro laughed heartily, pleased as long as Shijun wasn't looking down on him.
"Time to dig in!"
The audience eagerly grabbed their chopsticks. The sumptuous spread on the table had been torturing their senses for far too long.
Shijun also picked up a bowl and began sampling Joichiro's side dishes. Japanese-style chilled tofu, intensely spiced fried onions, and a fiery minced chicken in sauce. Setting aside the vegetable miso soup for a moment, Joichiro's other dishes were absolute masterclasses in flavor.
By unspoken agreement, everyone allowed the freshly boiled miso soups to cool slightly, diving into the heavier dishes first.
Shijun took a bite of the spicy minced chicken.
Instantly, a profound, fiery heat detonated across his palate.
Spicy. Truly, unapologetically spicy.
But it was an exhilarating heat. After the initial shock stimulated the tongue, it didn't leave a lingering, uncomfortable burn; instead, it violently kicked the appetite into overdrive.
Shijun wasn't surprised in the slightest. If Joichiro—a man standing at the very threshold of becoming a culinary grandmaster—couldn't expertly manipulate spices to control a diner's appetite, it would be a joke.
As Erina ate, a soft, nostalgic smile graced her lips, as if the flavors were unlocking cherished childhood memories.
"As expected of Joichiro-senpai. Even a casually prepared meal is a top-tier delicacy."
Satoshi Isshiki praised repeatedly, realizing the man hadn't even shown a fraction of his true skills when cooking casually at the Polar Star Dormitory.
"Is this really just a casual meal? It's unbelievably delicious!"
Megumi Tadokoro gasped, her curiosity about Joichiro's meticulously prepared miso soup reaching a fever pitch.
But someone else beat her to the punch.
Unable to restrain herself any longer, the impulsive Yuki Yoshino grabbed a small bowl and a spoon, diving straight into Joichiro's soup.
Seeing her enthusiasm, the others laughed and followed suit.
Joichiro's vegetable miso soup was a visual delight; the various vegetables remained distinct and perfectly cooked. Shijun scooped a little bit of everything into his bowl and took a delicate sip.
Instantly, he felt the extraordinary depth of the broth.
The crisp freshness of the cabbage, the gentle sweetness of the cauliflower, the earthy bite of the carrots. And anchoring it all was a deep, resonant umami—the rustic, wild flavor of the mushrooms.
The individual profiles blended seamlessly, complementing rather than overpowering one another.
For a fleeting moment, Shijun felt as though he were standing in the middle of a lush, sun-drenched field. The broth was incredibly restorative, washing away the lingering heat of the spicy chicken in a single, soothing wave.
As expected of the man once hailed as the strongest chef in Totsuki history. This seemingly simple vegetable miso soup laid his terrifying foundation bare.
Miso soup is deceptively simple; even a novice can make a passable bowl if they measure the paste correctly. But the simpler the dish, the exponentially harder it is to achieve true "perfection."
"This is phenomenal—my mouth is overflowing with absolute freshness."
Satoshi Isshiki sighed, his cheeks flushed.
"I feel as though I've been stripped bare in the middle of a vast meadow, enjoying the natural evening breeze completely, stark naked..."
No one even needed to look; only Isshiki could produce such a bizarrely specific, exhibitionist reaction.
"Joichiro-senpai's soup perfectly harmonizes the vegetables to create this incredible, rustic warmth. I feel like I've been transported back to my hometown in Tohoku... the mountains, the water... it's so incredibly nostalgic."
Megumi murmured, tears of pure, moved joy pricking the corners of her eyes.
"Uncle Saiba has grown even more powerful." Erina thought, her expression turning pensive. "Is this feeling... the so-called 'Mood?"
The sensation was strikingly similar to what she experienced when tasting Shijun's cooking.
How agonizingly difficult is that intent to reach?
She wondered.
At best, my cooking can forcibly trigger a diner's memories. I can't organically evoke this kind of profound emotional landscape.
Joichiro himself looked slightly lost.
"What exactly is this artistic conception—this Mood?"
He had traveled the globe, cooking in kitchens across the world, but he had never encountered a true, transcendent culinary grandmaster. Naturally, he had never tasted cooking that fully occupied that space.
"I don't entirely understand it myself."
Joichiro admitted.
Shijun slowly opened his eyes, a knowing smile on his face.
"Joichiro-senpai, you can feel it in your heart, can't you? You've already touched the very threshold of that intent."
"Yes, it's a magnificent feeling. But it's like a phantom. I can't grasp it, let alone explain it."
Joichiro replied quietly.
"That's perfectly normal. This Intent isn't just a physical technique you can grind out; it's a state of being. It has less to do with your raw cooking level, and more to do with seamlessly integrating your own life philosophy and insights into your food."
Shijun explained softly.
"If you want to step fully into the intent of a true master, you have to stop trying to force your experiences onto the plate. It has to flow naturally. Right now, you're a little too anxious. You're forcing it."
Joichiro's breath hitched.
The words struck a deep, agonizing chord, pulling him back to the suffocating confusion he felt before dropping out of Totsuki.
Back then, during his second year of high school, the legendary 'Asura' had hit a devastating mental wall. No matter what he cooked, it never satisfied him, and he couldn't fathom a way to break through. That despair had driven him to abandon his schooling and wander the world in search of an answer.
But a decade ago, he had slammed into yet another bottleneck—a vast, desolate wilderness where he couldn't take a single step forward.
He had been trapped in this stasis for ten agonizing years. His culinary level hadn't advanced a single inch. He could sense the next path, he knew what it tasted like in his soul, but his hands couldn't produce it.
For a man who lived and breathed to pursue the absolute peak of the culinary arts, that plateau was pure, unadulterated torture. If Joichiro hadn't possessed a will of iron, the frustration would have driven him insane long ago.
That was why, upon learning that this sixteen-year-old boy had supposedly mastered the true 'Intent', he had practically thrown his pride away to ask for a match.
"I don't have to force it? I just have to let it flow naturally?"
Joichiro shook his head, a wry, bitter smile crossing his face.
If it were truly that simple, he wouldn't have suffered in the dark for a decade. But he also understood that this wasn't something Shijun could just hand him a manual for. It was something he had to taste, dissect, and comprehend for himself.
With that thought, Joichiro's intense gaze shifted to the bizarre bowl of miso soup resting on Shijun's side of the counter.
It looked like gray-white sludge.
But right now, in Joichiro's eyes, it was a holy grail. It was a panacea.
Because hidden within that unappetizing paste was the key that could shatter his ten-year curse.
The rest of the kitchen seemed to sense Joichiro's desperate, burning eagerness. No one reached for Shijun's soup, giving the older chef the floor.
Truthfully, the students were completely lost. They could understand the literal words passing between Shijun and Joichiro, but the actual meaning—integrating one's life philosophy into the cooking naturally—went completely over their heads.
It sounded like high-level metaphysics. There were no classes at Totsuki that taught culinary spiritualism. Megumi and the others felt as though they had accidentally stumbled into a monastery rather than a kitchen.
Joichiro paid absolutely no attention to the bewildered stares of the younger generation.
With trembling hands, he lifted the small bowl of gray sludge to his lips. Closing his eyes with profound hope, he took a gentle sip.
In that exact moment—
It was as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning of deliciousness.