The arena held its breath. Every eye glued to the stage. Every camera focused on the host, who held the folded note in his hand, a sly smile tugging at his lips.
"Chefs," he began, voice booming over the hushed crowd, "the moment you've all been waiting for… the results of this year's National Culinary Masters—Culinary Ascension Challenge!"
Vincent, Marco, and Liona stood side by side, the weight of anticipation pressing on their shoulders. Even Vincent, usually unshakable, felt a flicker of nerves.
The host held the note higher, pausing just long enough to make the arena squirm with tension. "Who will be crowned this year's National Culinary Master?"
A drumroll echoed through the arena. Fans leaned forward, some on their feet, some clutching cameras. Social media buzzed in real time — hashtags flashing across screens, clips looping of the final moments, commentators gasping at Vincent's audacious plating.
The host tore the envelope open. "Third place goes to… Chef Liona!"
Gasps erupted. Whistles, cries, a stunned silence falling for a heartbeat. Liona's brow lifted, her posture perfectly composed, but the smallest flicker of disappointment crossed her eyes. The crowd had expected her in second place — maybe even first — but third? That twist left them reeling.
She stepped forward, accepting a sleek, deep-black wooden plaque engraved with her name, the competition's insignia, and her achievement. A cheque for the prize money was handed alongside it. She gave a gracious nod to the audience, her lips tight but her eyes sharp, acknowledging the unexpected turn without a word of complaint.
The host raised the envelope again. "Second place… Chef Marco!"
The arena erupted anew — cheers, applause, and shouts of "Marco!" rang out like cannon fire. Marco's jaw dropped slightly, disbelief mingling with joy. He hadn't expected to surpass Liona in the final round, yet here he was, holding a glossy, polished wooden plaque with his name and achievement, alongside his prize cheque. He waved to the cheering fans, pride blazing in his eyes.
Finally, the host's voice rose over the roar. "And now… the National Culinary Master for this year…" He paused, letting the tension stretch just a fraction longer.
The head of the National Culinary Guild approached, a figure of quiet gravitas. "Chef Vincent Locke," he announced, voice firm yet warm, "by the authority of the National Culinary Guild, we present to you this certificate of mastery, and this plaque to stand as proof of your triumph. You are now the National Culinary Master of the Year!"
The crowd erupted. Screams, chants, applause so loud it seemed to shake the walls of the arena. Phones waved in the air, flashing cameras capturing the moment. Banners and cardboard signs bobbed above the heads of fans, all proclaiming Vincent's name.
Vincent stepped forward, taking the certificate in one hand, the plaque in the other. Both felt weighty—not heavy, but heavy with meaning. The plaque gleamed under the arena lights, a masterpiece unto itself. It wasn't merely wood or metal; it was a deep, obsidian-black panel framed in burnished gold, engraved with his name in flowing script, the Guild's insignia embossed in gold at the top. Etched beneath, the words glimmered: "National Culinary Master of the Year — Awarded 2025."
He raised both the certificate and the plaque slightly, allowing the audience to see. The roar of approval washed over him like a tidal wave — a chaotic symphony of cheers, gasps, and shouts. The culmination of daring flavor experiments and chaos refined into perfection.
At that moment, two assistants stepped forward carrying a ceremonial cheque—fifty thousand dollars printed in bold, golden font, the Guild seal stamped in wax at the corner. Vincent nodded at it, acknowledging the prize with a grin, but kept his arms lifted with the plaque and certificate for the cameras. The crowd roared even louder.
Confetti cannons fired, silver and gold raining down as the host's voice boomed once more. "A round of applause for your National Culinary Master of the Year, Chef Vincent Locke!"
The cameras zoomed in on the plaque, the certificate, the giant cheque. Social media had already begun exploding, fans live-streaming, tagging, sharing every glorious moment. Vincent's victory was no longer just a title—it was a declaration.
The host guided him to a podium, where Vincent could address the audience one final time. His voice carried across the arena, calm yet resonant. "Thank you, judges, competitors, and every fan who believed in me. Tonight isn't just my victory. It's a celebration of cooking as art, as rebellion, as chaos refined. I hope every plate you eat in the future carries a spark of this… tempest."
Applause thundered, nearly drowning out the host's own voice. "And with that, the National Culinary Guild officially recognizes Chef Vincent Locke as the Culinary Master of the Year! Photos, interviews, and celebrations will follow. Please, everyone, enjoy the moment with our champion!"
Behind the scenes, his system chimed softly and the familiar screen hovered in front of him.
————————————
[Public Support: +70]
[Credibility Bonus: +30]
[System reward points: +5 (for passing +50 points accumulation threshold in public support stat)]
Total stats:
[Public Support: 82]
[Credibility Bonus: 40]
[SEU Balance: 5]
————————————
Vincent smirked at the stat increase. "Well, this is nice."
The host leaned forward, voice booming, "Chefs, please, join me at the front for a photo with the judges!"
Vincent moved to line up beside Marco and Liona. Liona's eyes met his briefly — a glimmer of respect and quiet acknowledgment of his triumph. Marco looked at him with a mixture of envy and admiration, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
The judges approached, offering warm smiles and handshakes. Each one took a moment with Vincent — Marissa clasping his hand firmly, Lionel giving a respectful nod, Henry raising his eyebrows in an impressed, silent salute, Emilia whispering, "You earned every bit of this."
Vincent bowed slightly, acknowledging both the judges and the audience.
The three chefs posed for official photographs — plaque and certificate held high, cameras snapping in rapid succession.
The photograph session had barely ended before cameras swiveled toward Vincent, flashes erupting like lightning around him. Microphones thrust forward from every direction, each journalist vying to catch a word from the new National Culinary Master.
"Chef Vincent! How did you come up with Tempest on a Plate: Fried Rice Rebellion?" a reporter shouted, excitement lacing her voice.
Vincent's grin was slow, deliberate. "I wanted something that looks simple… but has its own life. Each ingredient needed to speak, to rebel in its own way, without drowning another out. Chaos, refined."
Another reporter leaned in, incredulous. "The judges said they felt transported, like reliving their happiest memories. Was that your goal?"
He tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. "The goal was to cook honestly. If it takes someone back to a memory, that's… a bonus." His voice was calm, almost mischievous.
Outside the arena, social media continued to explode. Fans crowded around TVs in streets, restaurants, supermarkets—anywhere they could catch the broadcast. Comments, clips, and reactions poured in like a storm:
"I can't even… Vincent just turned fried rice into an emotion.""Tempest on a Plate: Fried Rice Rebellion — the culinary equivalent of a mic drop."
"He's definitely deserving of the National Culinary Master title." #TeamVincent
Meanwhile, inside the arena, Vincent navigated a sea of congratulatory hands. VIPs, sponsors, past champions, even culinary critics pushed forward to shake his hand. Each handshake was firm, each nod a silent acknowledgment of his brilliance.
"Chef Locke," a former National Culinary Master said, clasping both of Vincent's shoulders, "you've set the bar impossibly high. That dish… it's going to be studied for years."
Vincent only smiled, pride shining in his eyes.
Streamers fluttered down, and giant screens replayed the dramatic plating, the streaks of golden fried rice, the upright shrimp, the scattered sausages, the shattered omelet shards — a visual symphony of chaos made perfect.
Meanwhile, Marco and Liona were backstage, each surrounded by smaller but still fervent groups of fans. Marco muttered under his breath, shaking his head with a half-smile, "I knew it was going to be tight… but wow."
Liona's composure remained intact, though her eyes flicked toward Vincent's ceremony. "He deserved it," she admitted softly to a nearby journalist, voice quiet but steady. "And yet… I can't help but wonder how close I came."
Slowly, the crowd began to disperse, the ripples of this night stretching far beyond the arena. Across social media, clips were shared millions of times, hashtags trending globally. Fried rice, once humble and familiar, now carried a new identity — one of rebellion, precision, and absolute mastery.