Shun stepped in from the other tunnel, entering the shokugeki arena at an unhurried pace.
A tidal roar filled the venue—yet none of it cheered for him. His expression didn't budge.
No nerves, no forced composure. Only a preternatural serenity.
He walked steadily to his station, letting his gaze sweep once over the layered, packed stands—taking in every curious, mocking, or worried face.
At the corner of his lips, something like a ghost of a smile flickered. His mouth moved with a breath-quiet murmur: "Quite the crowd…"
His tone was flat, as if the matter had nothing to do with him.
No joy. No pressure to be felt.
That excessive calm actually hushed a slice of the noisy audience; puzzlement rose with it.
Is this transfer student truly confident—or does he have no idea what he's up against?
"That's the transfer kid, Shun?"
"Doesn't look special…"
"Dressed that plain? He's already losing on aura."
"He really came… Brave, I guess. Only brave."
"Hey! Transfer kid! You can still forfeit!" A few jeers and boos spattered out.
Shun ignored it all without lifting his head.
In Polar Star's block, nerves eased—oddly—at the sight of him.
"I… kinda feel like Shun-kun isn't nervous at all," Megumi whispered.
"Ugh, that guy—same old cool act," Yuuki griped, though there was a spark of respect in her eyes.
Sōma grinned wider, excitement flaring. "Knew it! Only a stage like this suits Shun! I really rate his skills. Wonder what he'll make this time."
"Speaking of… did any of you see him test-cooking this week?" Daigo asked, puzzled.
Test runs were golden law at Tōtsuki—especially before a big shokugeki.
Knowing the theme ahead of time meant hours of trial, tweak, refine—until perfection. It was what everyone did.
Shōji rubbed his chin. "Now that you mention it… I don't remember catching even a whiff of mapo in the kitchen."
Yuuki blinked. "Right! No telltale numbing-spice smell at all! Don't tell me…"
A realization darted through the Polar Star row.
Megumi tensed up again. "D-Don't tell me Shun-kun didn't prepare?"
Zenji pushed up his glasses; the lenses flashed. "Impossible. Up against an Elite Ten, any rational chef prepares to the hilt. Unless…"
"Unless he's confident he doesn't need to practice," Satoshi said, having drifted over at some point, wearing that meaningful smile. "His prep isn't what we imagine."
Eyes returned to that tranquil figure on the floor. Doubts deepened.
Miyoko sat beside the Polar Star group, silent—but her clenched fists betrayed her. Worry wrote itself across her face.
She and Shun were childhood friends, growing up side by side.
Maybe that's why—more than the others—she could clearly sense it:
Shun had changed.
It wasn't just a meteoric leap in cooking—that could be chalked up to "talent blooming" or "a breakthrough."
This was deeper. A near rebirth.
When had it begun?
Probably those two weeks before the transfer-student exam—when he disappeared.
She'd felt it the moment he returned.
At first she thought it was her imagination, but by now she was certain: the change was unbelievable—frankly, a little frightening.
His eyes, deeper.
His air, steadier.
And sometimes… a glint of something she couldn't read at all.
Shoku-gi—the ethos of cuisine—had wrought many of these changes in him.
But Shun was still Shun. It was his cooking that had transformed most, while the crush of recent Tōtsuki business simply made him seem like someone else.
What… did he go through? Miyoko's heart tangled with confusion—and a thread of panic.
The unfamiliar strength amazed her, but it also unsettled, even scared her a little.
She wanted the truth—wanted to re-understand the childhood friend who'd suddenly felt so far away.
For now, all she could do was swallow the unease, fix her eyes on that familiar yet unfamiliar silhouette, and pray.
Shun, you have to win.
On the floor, Shun neither knew Miyoko's thoughts nor cared about the crowd's chatter.
But the Polar Star kids had guessed one thing right:
This entire week, Shun hadn't done a single traditional "test run."
Why?
The reason was simple.
[Golden Tofu] came from the System Shop. Pricey (30 points), a rare Toriko-world ingredient.
Using it for test runs would be needless waste.
He trusted the System's description—and his own instinct for ingredients.
There was another reason, just as key:
The core recipe for his mapo tofu wasn't something he'd just cobbled together.
It was one of his signature dishes—hammered to perfection through thousands of iterations in his family restaurant's kitchen, etched into his bones.
Heat, seasoning, steps—every detail lived in his muscle memory. No more test runs needed.
All he had to do was swap out regular tofu for the miraculous Golden Tofu, then slightly adjust timing and heat to match the upgraded ingredient.
Those micro-adjustments slotted neatly into place in the instant he held the Golden Tofu—his shoku-gi acuity doing the math without effort.
So this week, he'd mostly simulated the cook in his head and kept his hands limber—rather than pounding out batches.
If the other students heard that, jaws would hit the floor. They'd call him arrogant.
But this was Shun's confidence—grounded in his understanding of himself.
Now, standing under the dome of the Moon Banquet Hall (Tsukigetsu-no-Ma), Shun heard Rie call the start. He drew a steady breath; his eyes sharpened to a razor point.
He slid into the true state of shoku-gi.
(End of Chapter)
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