"Ten minutes remaining!" The host declared. The reminder seemed to tighten the air itself, every sound in the kitchen amplified.
But Vincent wasn't close to finished. The dish was nowhere near done.
He plated nothing, paused for nothing. Instead, he began layering. He pulled shrimp from their pan, brushing them with smoky glaze before setting them aside. He sliced sausage thin, fanning them out to rest. The beef he cut against the grain, juices steaming in the arena lights.
Then he cracked eggs directly into a chilled bowl, letting yolks and whites mingle like molten gold and silver. With a flick of his wrist, he whisked furiously, the mixture catching air and light with every swirl. He poured it into a blazing hot pan, the sizzle erupting instantly, steam curling like smoke from a forge. The edges bubbled, lifting and folding over themselves, golden layers forming in wild, uneven waves.
He tilted the pan sharply, letting the liquid rush to the center, folding and pressing in rhythm with the spatula, a chaotic dance of speed and precision. Garlic powder and white pepper dusted over the top, spicing the omelette in bursts, before he slid it onto a cutting board, ready to be torn and scattered across the fried rice like shards of sunlit gold.
Each element stood ready, but not combined. Not yet.
The arena smelled like a battlefield of flavors—smoke, sear, butter, char.
Vincent's station looked like beautiful wreckage. Bowls of prepped proteins and vegetables glistened under the lights, sauces simmered in chaotic harmony—soy thickened with oyster sauce, vinegar cut sharp through the air, gochujang bubbled in a red glaze like molten lava. Yet the rice still sat untouched in its final bowl, waiting, waiting.
The host leaned over the railing, voice crackling through the mic."The dish is nowhere close to plated—Vincent Locke's holding us all hostage with suspense!"
The audience roared in laughter and applause, swept up in the tension.
Across the arena, Marco struck. He yanked a pan from the fire, oil flaring in a blaze so hot the front row shielded their faces. He threw in fresh basil and garlic, the leaves blackening, crackling. Then he added his pasta—hand-rolled, golden strands of dough—and bathed them in a brandy cream sauce that caught fire with a theatrical whoosh. Flames kissed the air, painting his face in orange light.
The crowd erupted. "Marco! Marco!"
Judge Marissa leaned foward. "Theatrical… bold… but can he balance fire with finesse?"
Meanwhile, Liona's station was a portrait of discipline. Her roulade—stuffed with herbs, spinach, and tender fish—was tied with twine, searing gently in butter until its skin glowed gold. She basted with patience, spoon after spoon, each drip glistening like sunlight on marble. Steam rose soft and fragrant, unlike Marco's wildfire chaos or Vincent's storm brewing in silence.
She doesn't waste motion," Judge Lionel said, shaking his head in admiration. "Every flick of her wrist adds grace to the dish."
Back to Vincent.
He exhaled sharply and slammed the wok back on the burner. Rice poured in—sizzling as if protesting the heat. He threw in the vegetable base, then he threw in most of the beef chunks into the wok layering flavors in reckless waves. But he deliberately held back a few perfectly seared beef slices for plating.
Soy sauce and oyster sauce hit the wok—sshhhhh—the sound a furious symphony. Rice vinegar followed, lifting flavor into the smoke. Then gochujang, brown sugar, and smoked paprika, balancing the spice with sweetness. The air shifted—sweet, fiery, tangy, chaotic.
Judge Emilia actually coughed into her sleeve, laughing as she did. "It smells like war—and I want to eat it!"
The host leaned closer to the camera, whispering dramatically."He's cooking fried rice like it's a revolution."
Timer: 5 minutes remaining.
Marco was already plating. His pasta gleamed in a swirl, lobster claws perched like a crown. He drizzled sauce with a flourish, the plate a canvas of red and cream. The crowd oohed, cameras flashed.
Liona, calm as moonlight, lifted her roulade onto a board, slicing it into perfect spirals—green, gold, white—every cross-section immaculate. She plated them on a porcelain dish, draping a delicate saffron sauce around the roulade like silk. The arena gasped at her precision.
And Vincent—Vincent was still cooking.
His wok screamed under the heat. Last came the chunks of chicken livers. He tossed them through the glaze, quick and rough, before hurling them into the rice. Every ingredient collided, yet none lost its voice. It wasn't harmony—it was chaos perfectly tuned.
Lionel leaned so far forward his glasses nearly fell off."He's not plating yet. He's waiting. But why?"
Timer: 3 minutes remaining.
Sweat streaked Vincent's brow. His wok flew, rice raining down and catching the arena lights like sparks. Then—finally—he reached for plates.
The crowd was on its feet.
Marco was done, standing tall by his pasta masterpiece, arms crossed like a king awaiting his crown.Liona was serene, her roulade glowing under the spotlights, elegance personified.
Vincent reached under his counter—not for sleek porcelain, not for polished silver. He pulled out not one, but four long, slate-gray rectangular boards—the kind you'd expect for charcuterie, not fried rice—stacking them on the counter like weapons. The judges frowned—fried rice on a flat board? What madness was this?
He spread the fried rice not in a mound, but in a diagonal streak, like a comet tearing across the surface. Each streak wasn't neat—messy edges, irregular width, but dazzling with golden grains, charred flecks, jewel-bright vegetables—it looked wild, uncontrolled.
Then he layered chaos over chaos.
Timer: 02:31.
Next, the shrimp. He planted three upright shrimp at one end of the streak on each board, tails flaring outward like fiery banners. The glaze caught the arena lights, a molten shine that made the crowd gasp.
Judge Emilia whispered, "That's… beautiful. It shouldn't be, but it is."
The beef followed. Vincent fanned the slices across the middle of each streak, jagged and dripping with juice, deliberately letting the liquid bleed into the rice. Instead of hiding the mess, he highlighted it—turning the stain into part of the art.
Timer: 01:42.
The sausages came next. He scattered them almost violently, in a rhythm only he understood, like coins clattering onto each board, some sinking into rice, others balancing on top. It looked reckless, yet when the camera zoomed in, the coins formed an uneven rhythm, like notes in chaotic jazz.
The host nearly shouted, "This isn't plating—this is… performance."
Corn, peas, scallions—he tossed them by hand. A rain of colors, messy, uncontrolled, yet they fell into place as if the board had been waiting for them.
Timer: 00:48.
Finally—the egg omelet. Vincent held up a thin golden sheet, flexed it once, then shattered it with his hands. Shards rained down like broken glass across each board, catching the light in jagged brilliance. The crowd roared, phones flashing as if they'd just witnessed fireworks.
The judges sat stunned.
"What… what is this?" Judge Marissa whispered.
Judge Lionel tapped his pen furiously. "It's madness. Do you see it? He's making four identical storms."
And indeed—each board looked different at first glance, as if Vincent had lost control. But lined up side by side, the streaks ran at the exact same diagonal, the shrimp stood like sentinels in perfect formation, the beef bled at the same angle, the shards fell across the same space.
It wasn't random. It was precision disguised as madness.
Timer: 00:08.
Vincent placed the final shard, stepped back, and exhaled. His crooked grin flickered."All yours."
The host raised his mic, voice breaking. "Time!" He yelled just as the timer hit zero.
The crowd erupted, a roar of applause and cheers crashing like a wave against the stage. Gasps, whistles, and shouts tangled together as the audience leapt to their feet.
"Chef Vincent!" "Unbelievable!" voices thundered, the hall vibrating with noise.