[Broadcast Feed: The Flavor Network | Pluto-5 — Classified Zone: The Cold Wok]
The planet Pluto-5 wasn't on any map — mostly because every cartographer who visited froze before they could finish sketching.
The landscape shimmered in frost and faint soy sauce mist, an endless kitchen graveyard of abandoned cookware.
Arin Sol exhaled into his visor. "Cold, quiet, and depressing. It's like cooking inside a fridge with trauma."
Lira adjusted her scarf, her blaster steaming faintly. "Temperature's dropping by the second. Don't lick anything metal."
He stared at a wok frozen mid-sizzle, perfectly preserved.
"Who could just leave a wok behind?"
"The same type of chef who's smart enough to leave before dying," she muttered.
Arin grinned. "So… not me."
1 — THE LEGEND OF THE WOK
The announcer droid projected the mission brief across the frozen field:
ROUND EIGHT: The Forbidden Pancit of Pluto-5
Objective: Revive the Lost Flame — a legendary wok that once cooked noodles so good, it froze time.
Bonus points for plating before hypothermia.
Lira frowned. "Revive the flame? We're in a blizzard."
Arin cracked his knuckles. "Then we stir-fry the blizzard itself."
She groaned. "Every sentence you say sounds like a near-death wish."
"Yeah," he said proudly. "It's my brand."
2 — THE RIVALS ARRIVE
A sleek ship landed beside them — black steel, golden lettering: 'Maison du Steel Ramsay.'
Out stepped a tall, red-haired man wearing a chef's coat lined with fur. His name tag read Chef Gordon-9000, and his accent was 80% Scottish, 20% attitude.
"Well, if it isn't Team Earth's comedic relief," Gordon-9000 sneered. "Heard you turned a volcano into sisig. How adorable."
Arin squinted. "Wait—are you Gordon Ramsay's clone?"
"Clone?" The man scoffed. "I'm the franchise reboot. Built with his temper and twice the vocabulary of insults."
"Impressive," Arin said. "Bet you still cry cutting onions though."
Lira muttered, "Please stop picking fights with people who can flambé us."
Gordon-9000 cracked his knuckles. "Let's see how long your pancit lasts when faced with perfection."
3 — PREP TIME IN THE ICE
They entered an abandoned kitchen temple. Frozen utensils, frostbitten spices, and a single massive wok sat in the center, glowing faintly.
Arin brushed snow off its edge. "The Forbidden Wok…"
Lira scanned it. "Thermal core's dead. No fuel. It hasn't been used for centuries."
He placed his hand on it.
"Then it's time to make it hungry again."
He pulled out his Quantum Knife — it hummed with heat.
He stabbed it into the wok's center.
Instantly, the ground cracked. The wok roared to life, glowing blue like a miniature sun.
The announcer droid screamed:
"UNREGISTERED THERMAL ACTIVITY DETECTED! PLEASE DO NOT TURN PLANETS BACK ON WITHOUT PERMISSION!"
Lira backed up. "You just ignited Pluto!"
He shrugged. "Ano, ayos?"
"Arin, you're cooking a planet alive!"
"Adds warmth!"
4 — COOKING COMBAT
Gordon-9000 slammed down his ingredients — noodles glowing silver, broth infused with "Michelin-grade arrogance."
"Observe. Technique without chaos."
Arin smirked and dumped his bag of noodles — half frozen pancit canton, half alien root string.
"Observe. Chaos with technique."
Lira sighed. "This is how culinary wars start."
Gordon-9000 spun his knives like propellers, slicing the air. "This dish will scream refinement."
Arin spun his Quantum Knife. "Mine will scream 'Lomi sa Tag-ulan!'"
Flames burst across the wok. Snow evaporated instantly.
The two chefs moved in sync — slicing, tossing, seasoning — their movements painting the frozen temple in color.
Every clang of metal echoed like thunder.
Lira fired her Whisk Blaster into the air to stabilize the oxygen, shouting, "You're turning the kitchen into a star!"
"Good!" Arin yelled, hair smoking. "I like my cooking celestial!"
5 — THE FLAVOR COLLISION
As the two dishes neared completion, their aromas collided — Gordon's pristine perfection versus Arin's chaotic soul-food.
The storm around them twisted, drawn to the scent.
The sky cracked open, lightning tasting faintly of calamansi.
Lira yelled, "You're bending weather again!"
Gordon-9000 sneered. "Pathetic. Your seasoning's undisciplined."
Arin flipped his noodles one last time. "Your soul's undercooked."
The wok exploded in light.
When it cleared—two plates remained.
Gordon's: Frozen Galaxy Pasta, artful, sterile, flawless.
Arin's: Pancit of Two Flames, messy, steaming, alive.
6 — THE JUDGMENT
The judges tasted Gordon's dish first.
"It's… exact," one said. "Technically divine."
Then Arin's.
One bite.
Then silence.
The oldest judge — a transparent hologram of Marco Pierre White himself — materialized from the Flavor Archive.
He pointed his spectral knife at Arin. "That taste… that chaos… that's human. You've revived the lost fire of flavor."
Arin blinked. "Wait—Marco Pierre White's ghost just complimented me?"
The hologram sniffed. "Don't get sentimental, boy. You still overcooked the bean sprouts."
Then vanished.
7 — AFTERTASTE
The announcer droid roared:
"ROUND EIGHT WINNER — TEAM EARTH!"
Arin collapsed, grinning.
Lira leaned over him. "You're an idiot."
"Yeah," he breathed, watching the wok glow faintly like a heartbeat.
"But at least I'm a legendary idiot."
She smirked. "Ano, ayos?"
He nodded. "Ayos ba, Lira?"
She smiled softly. "Ayos. Planetarily ayos."
END OF CHAPTER 9