The host raised his hand again. "Chefs, thank you. Please proceed to the green room while the judges deliberate."
The three chefs left the stage, Liona's elegance dimmed by quiet nerves, Marco still brimming with fire, Vincent calm but unreadable.
Behind them, the judges leaned close, their voices hushed but heated.
Meanwhile, outside the arena, the world had erupted. Phones buzzed and screens lit up as social media buckled under the weight of Vincent's dish.
On feeds everywhere, people were losing their minds:
"Fried rice will never be the same again. #TempestOnAPlate #FriedRiceRebellion"
"He didn't cook food, he cooked memories. My Gosh."
"Bro made the judges forget reality. Did you SEE their faces?"
"National treasure in the making. King Vincent of Fried Rice! #VincentTheChaosKing"
Instagram was no calmer. Posts flooded in with trembling captions:
"I swear I cried just watching the judges eat.
"Eating fried rice from a plate is now considered rebellion. I love it."
"The NAME. The NAME. Tempest on a Plate: Fried Rice Rebellion — that's an instant classic."
"Chef Vincent turned chaos into poetry. That presentation was so deserving of its name."
Hashtags began climbing like rockets: #VincentTheChaosKing, #FriedRiceLegend, #FoodThatHeals.
Clips of the judges staring blankly in bliss replayed endlessly, stitched into TikToks with captions like
"When fried rice takes you to Nirvana "
"This isn't cooking. This is sorcery."
Even the more formal corners of the internet weren't spared. One post read, "Our kids will ask us one day: where were you when Vincent cooked the Fried Rice Rebellion?"
Another declared simply, "That was history. A simple dish, elevated to immortality."
The internet was ablaze, timelines drowning in fire emojis, crying emojis, crowns, rice bowls. And at the center of it all, a single phrase looped again and again:
Tempest on a Plate: Fried Rice Rebellion.
Back in the arena, the judges had withdrawn to a private room, the roar of the crowd muffled by thick walls. For a moment, silence pressed down as they gathered their thoughts, tasting memories still lingering on their tongues.
Henry was the first to speak. "Well… this is a tough one. Each contestant brought something remarkable tonight.." He leaned back, exhaling slowly. "We can't deny the level of skill and risk they brought."
Emilia nodded, her notebook open but blank. "Marco's pasta—now that was bold. The fettuccine had a beautiful bite, and the sauce carried that fiery note without being unbearable. It was daring."
Lionel tapped his pen against the table. "Yes, though I wonder if it leaned too much on spectacle. He wanted drama, and he got it—but a touch more subtlety would've helped. Some bites felt like fire first, flavor second."
Henry chuckled. "I also thought the pasta, while silky, might have been cut just a hair too thick. Not a flaw for most, but at this level, every detail matters."
Marissa tilted her head thoughtfully. "But you can't deny it captured his personality—big, bold, passionate. The dish shouted Marco from start to finish. I respect that."
"I agree." Lionel nodded. "Now, Liona's roulade—clever, refined, balanced. That rosemary jus elevated it beautifully."
Emilia's eyes lit with admiration. "Her roulade was elegant. The garden vegetables were wrapped tightly, beautifully executed. The rosemary jus gave it sophistication. I was impressed by her restraint. Every element was carefully considered. She has precision most chefs her age only dream of." She paused, frowning slightly. "Though… I did feel the jus overpowered the subtler greens. A touch heavy in places."
Henry nodded. "Exactly. Her concept of elegance shone through, but perhaps in chasing perfection she muted some of the vibrancy she wanted to showcase. Still, a refined dish."
Marissa smiled faintly. "And her plating was pristine. She has grace on the plate. But… I agree, a little restraint with the jus would've let the roulade breathe."
There was a pause, the air shifting as their thoughts circled the final dish.
Henry's voice dropped, reverent. "And then there was Vincent."
The room stilled.
Emilia pressed her pen to her lips. "What do we even say? It wasn't just flavor. It was… an experience. A storm on the plate, yet every bite in perfect harmony."
Lionel's tone was unusually soft. "Chaos refined into art. I felt transported, as though the food rewrote the air around me. That's never happened before."
Marissa clasped her hands together, still smiling faintly. "It's the kind of dish people will talk about for years. He didn't just cook fried rice. He turned it into memory, into poetry. And for me, that is beyond critique."
For a long moment, the four of them sat in silence. The conclusion hung in the air between them, unspoken yet clear. Their eyes met one another's, small nods exchanged, the weight of agreement settling quietly across the table.
Henry exhaled, closing his notebook with a soft snap. "Well," he said at last, "I think we all know where we stand."
Emilia gave the faintest smile. "Yes. The choice is clear."
Lionel leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Then it's settled."
Marissa straightened, brushing invisible creases from her sleeve. "Good. Now… let's call them back in."
- - -
Just as Vincent stepped into the green room, the familiar soft glow of the blue screen materialized before him.
————————————
Congratulations, Host. You have successfully leveled up your Fried Rice recipe from Low Tier to Mid Tier.
+15 points awarded for recipe level up.
————————————
Vincent raised an eyebrow, tilting his head. "...Recipe level up? What does that even mean?"
The system's voice chimed calmly, precise as ever.
[Recipes are graded based on their level of perfection and effect. For example, your Fried Rice recipe was a Low Tier recipe. When eaten, it simply tastes good, and customers only gain the effect of enjoying the food. After being advanced to a Mid Tier recipe, the flavors are more refined, achieving a higher level of perfection. Its effect is amplified happiness. If a sad customer eats your Fried Rice, the sadness is submerged, replaced by the joy embedded in the dish. This explains why the judges were stunned and instantly reminded of their happiest memories after tasting your creation.]
Vincent smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. "So… what you're saying is the higher the recipe level, the higher its flavor intensity and perfection, and the stronger its effects?"
[Correct, Host.]
A quiet pause followed as Vincent considered it. Then a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face as he made his way to his seat. "Well… that explains a lot."
Meanwhile, the air was thick with silence, the kind that pressed against the walls and made every second drag longer than it should. None of the three chefs sat comfortably.
Liona clasped her hands in her lap, staring down at her knees. She exhaled softly, almost a laugh. "That was… harder than I thought." Her voice cracked, betraying nerves she tried to hide.
Marco leaned back, his arms crossed, but his restless foot tapped against the floor, betraying his calm façade. "Harder? Maybe. But you did well. That roulade looked flawless."
Liona looked up and smiled faintly. "Thank you. But…" she hesitated, "…the judges found faults. And they were right. The sauce could've been reduced more. It wasn't perfect."
Vincent, sitting a little apart from them, rested his elbows on his knees. He didn't look at either of them at first. His breathing was steady, too steady, as if he were forcing control over a storm inside.
Marco turned toward him. "You know they're all saying it, right? Out there? The crowd? They're chanting your name." His tone wasn't bitter, but heavy, edged with something unspoken.
Vincent finally glanced up. His expression was calm, but his eyes carried the same weight Marco's voice did. "Crowds don't decide who wins. The judges do."
"And the judges were… silent when they ate yours," Liona murmured, half in awe, half in resignation. She shook her head slowly. "That has to mean something. They didn't even review until the plates were empty."
Marco gave a sharp laugh, though it didn't reach his eyes. "So what? Maybe they hated it so much they didn't know what to say."
Vincent raised a brow. "You don't believe that."
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Liona rubbed her arms as though warding off a chill. "Honestly, I thought I had a chance. I wanted… I wanted to show elegance, something refined. But standing next to both of you, it feels like I brought a garden flower to a storm."
Marco's jaw tightened. "Don't say that. Your dish was good. Better than good." He glanced away, adding more quietly, "Better than mine, maybe."
Liona blinked at him. "Marco—"
He cut her off with a shrug. "I leaned too much on spectacle. I know it. Fire and flash only go so far. Maybe I impressed the crowd, but…" He shook his head. "I saw the way Judge Henry frowned. I know when I've overplayed a hand."
The three sat in silence again, the hum of the arena faint beyond the walls.
Finally, Vincent broke it. His voice was low, almost reluctant. "No matter what happens, you both know this doesn't end here. Win or lose, people saw us. They won't forget."
Liona smiled faintly, though her eyes glistened. "You're right. But still… I want that title."
Marco gave a short nod. "We all do."
The door handle clicked just then, and all three heads turned sharply. A staff member poked their head in. "Chefs… the judges are ready for you."
The tension in the room spiked instantly. They rose to their feet in silence, every step heavier than the last as they prepared to walk back into the storm.
When they finally returned to the arena, the audience was restless, chanting, shouting, hungry for the results. The host stood center stage, a folded note trembling slightly in his hand.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice booming through the hall, "tonight, we have witnessed something extraordinary. Three chefs. Three battles fought on fire and steel. Each plate a testament to passion, discipline, and courage."
The crowd erupted again, but he lifted a hand, smiling tightly.
"And now," his voice dropped into a near-whisper, heavy with suspense, "the question we have all been waiting for—who will be crowned…" He paused, letting the silence stretch until it was unbearable.
"…the National Culinary Master?"