Two months into the semester, and Ryu had found a rhythm. Wake at 5 AM, practice in the kitchens until classes started at 8 AM, endure brutal lectures and practicals until 6 PM, then either study or continue practicing until midnight. Weekends were split between working at his father's restaurant and the practice shokugeki sessions with Soma and Megumi.
It was exhausting. It was brutal. And Ryu had never felt more alive.
His rankings had stabilized—he fluctuated between second and fourth place depending on the practical, with Erina consistently holding first, and a rotation of Alice Nakiri, Ryo Kurokiba, and occasionally Soma or Takumi Aldini competing for the other top spots.
He was in the middle of a particularly tedious food science lecture when a student messenger appeared at the classroom door, whispered something to the instructor, then pointed directly at Ryu.
"Nakamura-san, you're requested in the Shokugeki Administration Office immediately."
The entire class turned to stare. Being summoned to Shokugeki Administration usually meant one thing—someone had challenged you.
Ryu gathered his materials and left, his mind racing. Who would challenge him? And why?
The Shokugeki Administration Office was located in the central building, a formal space where official cooking battles were registered and managed. When Ryu entered, he found a tall, lean student with slicked-back hair waiting—someone he recognized from B-Block.
"Ryu Nakamura?" the student said with a smirk. "I'm Koji Minamoto, second-ranked in B-Block. I'm here to formally challenge you to a shokugeki."
The administrator, a middle-aged woman who looked perpetually bored, sighed. "Another cross-block challenge. State your terms, Minamoto-san."
"Simple," Koji said, his smirk widening. "If I win, Nakamura surrenders his A-Block position to me. If he wins, I'll... I don't know, acknowledge he's better or something. The stakes don't really matter since I'm going to win anyway."
Ryu studied Koji carefully. The guy radiated arrogance, but there was skill behind it—you didn't get to second in B-Block without legitimate talent.
"Why challenge me specifically?" Ryu asked.
"Because you're third in A-Block, which makes you a stepping stone. Beat you, and I prove B-Block students can compete with A-Block's 'elite.' Plus, your whole 'Southeast Asian specialty' thing is a gimmick. Real chefs master French technique, not street food."
The casual dismissal of his mother's heritage, his father's legacy, and entire cuisines that had existed for centuries made anger flash hot in Ryu's chest. But he kept his voice level.
"I accept."
Koji blinked, apparently surprised it was that easy. "Really? Just like that?"
"You're challenging my cooking, my training, and my heritage. Of course I accept." Ryu turned to the administrator. "What are the standard terms for cross-block challenges?"
The administrator consulted her handbook. "Theme will be randomly selected from the approved list. Three judges—one chosen by each competitor, one neutral appointed by the administration. Two-hour cooking time. Judging based on the standard five criteria: taste, aroma, presentation, originality, and technical execution."
"When?" Ryu asked.
"Shokugeki arena is available Friday evening, 6 PM. That gives you three days to prepare." The administrator looked between them. "Both parties confirm acceptance?"
"Confirmed," Koji said smugly.
"Confirmed," Ryu replied.
"Then it's official. Koji Minamoto versus Ryu Nakamura, this Friday at 6 PM. Theme will be revealed at the start of the match. Choose your judges by Thursday noon." She stamped the paperwork with finality. "Dismissed."
As they left the office, Koji leaned in close. "Hope you're ready to drop down to B-Block, Nakamura. Maybe hanging out with the mediocre students will teach you some humility."
Ryu said nothing, just walked away. But his mind was already strategizing. Three days to prepare. He needed to be ready for any theme, any ingredient, any challenge.
By lunchtime, word had spread across campus. Ryu's phone was flooded with messages—Soma offering to help practice, Megumi expressing concern, even a terse "Don't lose" from Erina.
He found Soma and Megumi in the cafeteria, both looking worried.
"Are you sure about this?" Megumi asked anxiously. "Koji Minamoto is really good! He's been challenging A-Block students all semester, trying to work his way up. What if—"
"I'm not going to lose," Ryu said calmly, sitting down with his lunch.
"That's the spirit!" Soma grinned. "But seriously, want to practice together? We could run through different theme scenarios, help you prep for whatever they throw at you."
"Actually, I have a better idea." Ryu pulled out his phone and made a call.
His father answered on the second ring. "Ryu? Shouldn't you be in class?"
"Dad, I've been challenged to a shokugeki. Friday, 6 PM. Random theme. I need your help preparing."
There was a pause, then Takeshi's voice came back, different—harder, sharper. "Who challenged you?"
"Koji Minamoto, second-ranked B-Block student. He called Southeast Asian cuisine a 'gimmick' and 'street food.'"
Another pause. Then: "Come to the restaurant after classes today. We're doing intensive training. And Ryu?"
"Yes?"
"Show him that street food cooked by masters is more sophisticated than French cuisine cooked by amateurs. Make him regret disrespecting your heritage."
That evening, Ryu found his father waiting in the restaurant kitchen with ingredients covering every available surface—proteins, vegetables, spices, everything imaginable.
"Here's how we're going to prepare," Takeshi announced. "I'm going to give you random themes every thirty minutes. You'll have thirty minutes to conceptualize, prepare, and execute a dish. No breaks, no mercy. We're going to run through every possible theme category until you can adapt to anything instantly."
"That's... intense," Ryu said.
"You're defending our family's culinary philosophy against someone who thinks it's inferior. Intense is appropriate." Takeshi's eyes were hard. "First theme: Eggs. Go."
For the next six hours, Ryu cooked non-stop. Eggs, seafood, vegetables, meat, desserts, specific ingredients like mushrooms or tomatoes, cooking methods like grilling or steaming. Each theme demanded instant creativity and flawless execution.
By midnight, Ryu could barely stand. His hands were covered in burns and cuts. His arms ached from constant motion. But he'd successfully completed eighteen different themed dishes, each one better than the last.
"Good," Takeshi said, surveying the kitchen full of finished dishes. "Now you understand—adapting isn't about memorizing recipes. It's about understanding ingredients so deeply you can dance with them regardless of the music."
He handed Ryu a glass of water. "Thursday evening, we'll do this again. But tomorrow and Wednesday, I want you to study your opponent. Watch him in classes, see how he cooks, identify his weaknesses. Knowledge is as important as skill."
The next day, Ryu made a point of observing Koji during lunch service practical—a mandatory class where students prepared meals for actual customers. Koji was working the French cuisine station, making classic dishes with solid technique.
But Ryu noticed something crucial: Koji's cooking was technically perfect but uninspired. Every dish looked exactly like the textbook version—proper ratios, correct temperatures, appropriate garnishes. There was no personality, no innovation, no soul.
He cooked like someone following a script rather than expressing themselves.
That's his weakness, Ryu realized. He can execute perfectly, but he can't create. He probably chose the shokugeki format betting on a theme he's already mastered, expecting to out-technique me in classical preparation.
Wednesday evening, during practice with Soma and Megumi, Ryu shared his observations.
"So he's a technical fighter," Soma mused. "Strong fundamentals but no creativity. That means you need to cook something that showcases both technique AND personality—something he can't replicate."
"Your Southeast Asian dishes have both," Megumi pointed out. "Your rendang is technically complex but also deeply personal. Even if the theme isn't specifically Southeast Asian, you could incorporate those techniques and flavors to create something unique."
"Exactly," Ryu agreed. "Whatever the theme is, I'm not going to cook what he expects. I'm going to cook what I know, adapted to the challenge."
Thursday arrived, and Ryu submitted his judge selection: Fumio Daimido, the dormitory head who'd evaluated him before. Koji selected a French cuisine instructor named Roland Chapelle—known for his exacting standards and classical preferences. The neutral judge appointed by administration was Gin Dojima himself.
The stage was set.
Friday evening, Ryu arrived at the Shokugeki Arena an hour early. The space was impressive—a massive cooking stadium with full professional kitchens on a raised stage, stadium seating for spectators, and massive screens for close-up viewing.
Word had spread, and students were filing in to watch. Ryu spotted his father in the front row, his expression neutral but his presence grounding. Soma and Megumi had claimed seats nearby, both holding handmade signs that said "GO RYU!" in enthusiastic lettering.
Even Erina was there, sitting in the VIP section with Hisako, her expression cool but her attendance notable.
Koji arrived exactly on time, surrounded by a group of B-Block supporters. He was dressed in an expensive-looking chef's coat with his name embroidered in gold thread.
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena. "Welcome to tonight's shokugeki! B-Block's second-ranked Koji Minamoto challenges A-Block's third-ranked Ryu Nakamura! The stakes: A-Block position versus pride!"
The crowd roared. Apparently this had become a bigger event than Ryu expected.
The three judges took their positions at the judging table—Fumio looking interested, Chapelle looking stern, and Gin Dojima looking completely neutral.
"The theme for tonight's shokugeki," the announcer continued, building tension, "will be randomly selected now!"
A large wheel appeared on the main screen, filled with different theme categories. It began to spin, ticking through options: Seafood, Poultry, Vegetables, Desserts, Regional Cuisine, Comfort Food...
The wheel slowed, ticking through options until it finally stopped on—
"COMFORT FOOD!"
Ryu felt his heart race. Comfort food—broad category, open to interpretation. Perfect for what he had in mind.
Koji looked momentarily uncertain—comfort food wasn't his forte of classical French cuisine—but quickly masked it with confidence.
"Chefs, take your stations!" the announcer called. "You have two hours to create a comfort food dish that will satisfy the judges. Begin!"
The crowd roared as both chefs moved to their ingredient stations.
Ryu's mind was already made up. He was making laksa—the dish his mother had used to defeat his father in their legendary shokugeki. The spicy coconut noodle soup was the ultimate comfort food in Malaysia and Singapore, beloved across Southeast Asia.
But he wasn't making ordinary laksa. He was making his version—refined through months of practice, incorporating everything his father had taught him about balance and flavor building.
He gathered his ingredients quickly: chicken, shrimp, rice noodles, coconut milk, dried chilies, shallots, garlic, ginger, galangal, lemongrass, candlenuts, belacan, tamarind, fish sauce, tofu puffs, bean sprouts, laksa leaves, and Vietnamese coriander.
Across the arena, Koji was assembling ingredients for what looked like French onion soup—a classic comfort food, technically demanding, but very traditional.
Ryu started with the laksa paste—the soul of the dish. Thirty minutes of pounding in the mortar and pestle, his arms finding the familiar rhythm. The paste came together beautifully—aromatic, complex, vibrant red from the chilies.
The screens zoomed in on his technique, and he heard the announcer explaining: "Nakamura is making his spice paste completely by hand using traditional methods! That's dedication to authentic technique!"
He toasted the paste in hot oil until it split, releasing those incredible aromatics that filled the entire arena. Students in the audience leaned forward, inhaling the scent of toasted chilies, belacan, and spices.
While the paste cooked, Ryu prepared his broth base—chicken stock enriched with shrimp shells, creating layers of umami. The paste went into the broth, along with coconut milk, carefully balanced so the soup would be rich but not heavy.
He made two versions of the broth—the main spicy one, and a milder version for those who couldn't handle extreme heat. Both would be available, showcasing his understanding that comfort food should be accessible.
The chicken was poached gently in the broth until just cooked, then shredded. The shrimp were deveined and prepared for quick cooking at the end.
For his noodles, Ryu had chosen fresh rice noodles—softer, more authentic than dried ones. He blanched them perfectly, timing it so they'd maintain texture when swimming in hot broth.
The garnishes were crucial: tofu puffs cut in half to absorb broth, bean sprouts blanched briefly for that crucial crunch, hard-boiled eggs marinated in soy sauce and sliced to show the jammy yolk, laksa leaves for aromatic freshness, and Vietnamese coriander for herbal complexity.
Meanwhile, Koji was making his French onion soup with impressive technique—caramelizing onions with precision, building a proper beef stock, preparing perfect cheese-topped croutons.
But watching him work, Ryu could see the difference. Koji's cooking was mechanical—each step executed correctly but without passion. He was following a recipe perfectly, but there was no love in it.
With thirty minutes left, Ryu began his final preparations. He cooked the shrimp in the broth until they turned pink and curled perfectly. He tasted the broth constantly, adjusting—a touch more palm sugar for sweetness, more fish sauce for umami, a squeeze of lime for brightness.
The balance had to be perfect. Spicy, sour, sweet, salty, savory—all five fundamental flavors in harmony, each one supporting the others without dominating.
He assembled his presentation bowl carefully: noodles in first, then the poached chicken and shrimp, tofu puffs arranged artfully, the jammy egg halves positioned to show their centers, bean sprouts for texture, laksa leaves and Vietnamese coriander scattered like fresh confetti.
The broth went in last—he ladled it carefully, making sure the beautiful orange-red color showed through, the coconut milk creating a glossy sheen on the surface.
On the side, he placed a small bowl of sambal belacan—additional chili paste for those who wanted even more heat—and lime wedges for extra brightness.
"Time!" the announcer called.
Both chefs stepped back from their creations. Koji's French onion soup looked textbook-perfect—golden cheese bubbling on top, the soup dark and rich beneath. Ryu's laksa looked vibrant and alive—the bright orange broth, the colorful garnishes, steam rising invitingly.
The judges approached Koji's station first. He presented his soup with a formal bow. "Classic French onion soup, made with a sixteen-hour beef stock, Gruyère cheese, and homemade croutons. Comfort food in the French tradition."
Chapelle tasted first, his expression revealing nothing. He took several spoonfuls, examining the broth, the onions, the crouton. "Technically flawless. The onions are properly caramelized, the stock is well-developed, the cheese is perfectly melted. This is exactly what French onion soup should be."
Fumio tasted next. "It's good. Very good, actually. The execution is perfect." But there was something in her tone—a reservation.
Gin Dojima tasted last, his face impassive. He said nothing, just nodded and made notes.
Then they moved to Ryu's station.
Ryu presented his laksa with a bow. "Malaysian laksa lemak—spicy coconut noodle soup. This is comfort food from my mother's homeland, refined through generations of street vendors and family kitchens. It represents the philosophy that comfort food isn't about sophistication—it's about making people feel cared for, satisfied, and happy."
Fumio tasted first, taking a full spoonful with noodles, chicken, shrimp, and garnishes. Her eyes widened immediately.
"Oh," she said, then took another spoonful. "Oh, this is—" She paused, clearly trying to articulate something. "This is complex but not complicated. Every flavor is distinct—I can taste the coconut, the chilies, the shrimp, the herbs—but they're all supporting each other. And this broth—" she took another spoonful, "—it's rich but not heavy. Spicy but not overwhelming. This is—"
She looked up at Ryu, genuine emotion in her eyes. "This is what comfort food should be. This makes me want to sit down and eat the entire bowl, slowly, savoring every bite. This isn't food to impress—it's food to nourish."
Chapelle tasted next, his expression skeptical. He sampled the broth carefully, his face revealing nothing. Then he tried the noodles with the toppings. Tasted again. Added some of the sambal belacan. Tasted once more.
"This is..." he paused, clearly struggling with something. "This is not French technique. The paste is pounded rather than blended. The broth isn't refined—it's intentionally textured. The presentation is casual rather than formal."
He set down his spoon. "And yet, I cannot deny that it is excellent. The balance of flavors is masterful. The technique, while different from classical French methods, is executed with precision and understanding. This is comfort food that shows profound skill disguised as simplicity."
Finally, Gin Dojima tasted. He took his time, sampling everything—the broth, the noodles, each garnish individually, then together. He tried both the regular and spicy versions of the broth. He even added lime juice and more sambal to see how the dish responded to customization.
His expression remained neutral, but he took multiple spoonfuls—eating more than necessary for judging, which spoke volumes.
When all three judges had finished tasting both dishes, they conferred quietly while the entire arena held its breath.
Finally, Fumio stood to announce the results.
"Both dishes showed technical skill and understanding of comfort food. Minamoto-san's French onion soup was executed perfectly—exactly what one expects from classical French training. However—" she paused, "—it lacked soul. It was comfort food made correctly, but without the comfort. It was food to admire rather than food to crave."
She turned to Ryu. "Nakamura-san's laksa was everything comfort food should be—complex yet accessible, sophisticated yet humble, impressive yet inviting. This was food that made us want to keep eating, not because we were judging, but because it was genuinely satisfying. This is what comfort food means—not just good taste, but emotional satisfaction."
Chapelle spoke next. "From a technical standpoint, both dishes were well-executed. Minamoto-san's classical technique is sound. However, I must agree with Fumio-sensei. Nakamura-san's dish, while using non-traditional methods, showed deeper understanding of what the theme demanded. Comfort food is not about impressing—it's about comforting. His dish achieved that goal more successfully."
Gin Dojima stood last. "I've eaten comfort food in dozens of countries. Street food in Bangkok, diners in America, trattorias in Italy, izakayas in Japan. The best comfort food always has one thing in common—it's made by someone who understands that cooking for comfort requires empathy, not just skill. Minamoto-san cooked with precision. Nakamura-san cooked with heart. In comfort food, heart wins."
The announcer's voice boomed: "The judges have decided! The winner of tonight's shokugeki is—RYU NAKAMURA!"
The arena erupted. Soma and Megumi were jumping and cheering. His father stood, a proud smile finally breaking through his stern exterior. Even Erina was applauding, though her expression remained cool.
Koji stood frozen, staring at his soup in disbelief. "But... but my technique was perfect. The execution was flawless. How did I lose to—to street food?"
Ryu walked over to him calmly. "You lost because you cooked what you thought would impress judges rather than what would fulfill the theme. Comfort food isn't about perfect technique—it's about making people feel something. And you forgot that."
He extended a hand. "You're skilled, Minamoto-san. But skill without understanding is just mechanics. Maybe think about why you cook, not just how you cook."
Koji stared at the offered hand for a long moment, then turned and walked out of the arena without a word.
As Ryu descended from the stage, he was immediately mobbed by Soma and Megumi.
"That was incredible!" Soma shouted. "Your laksa made the judges practically cry! And that spice paste technique—I want to learn that!"
"I was so worried," Megumi admitted, "but you were amazing! The way you explained comfort food, the way you cooked with such confidence—that was the same Ryu-kun who made rendang in our practice shokugeki!"
His father appeared, placing a hand on Ryu's shoulder. "Your mother would have been proud. That laksa—" his voice caught slightly, "—that was her spirit in every spoonful. You honored her memory and defended our cuisine. Well done, son."
The simple praise from his father meant more than the victory itself.
As the crowd dispersed, Erina approached, Hisako trailing behind her.
"Nakamura-kun," Erina said coolly. "Congratulations on your victory."
"Thank you, Nakiri-san."
"That laksa was..." she paused, choosing words carefully, "...exceptional. I've had laksa at three-Michelin-star restaurants in Singapore. Yours was better. More honest. More real."
Coming from Erina's God Tongue, that was perhaps the highest compliment possible.
"And Nakamura-kun?" Erina added, a slight challenge in her eyes. "Don't get comfortable at third place. Because I'm still first, and I intend to stay there."
"Wouldn't have it any other way, Nakiri-san," Ryu replied with a slight smile.
As everyone left the arena, Ryu felt something profound settle in his chest. He'd defended his heritage, honored his mother's memory, proven that Southeast Asian cuisine belonged among the culinary elite.
But more than that, he'd cooked with heart. With soul. With the understanding that food wasn't just about impressing people—it was about connecting with them.
This is why I cook, Ryu thought. Not for rankings or validation. But for moments like this—where food becomes a bridge between people, cultures, and hearts.
And I'm just getting started