Monday morning arrived with an announcement that sent ripples of excitement and terror through the first-year class.
"The Autumn Elections," Fumio Daimido announced to the assembled A-Block students, "is Totsuki's premier first-year competition. Only the top sixty students from the entire year group will be invited to participate. From those sixty, preliminary rounds will select eight finalists. Those eight will compete in a televised final tournament judged by professional critics and industry leaders."
She paused, letting that sink in.
"The winner of the Autumn Elections receives: immediate consideration for Elite Ten membership when positions open, industry connections that can launch careers, and recognition as the finest first-year chef in Japan. Past winners include several current Elite Ten members, numerous restaurant owners, and even a few who've earned Michelin stars before graduation."
The room buzzed with nervous energy.
"Invitations will be distributed at the end of this week based on your cumulative scores, practical rankings, and instructor recommendations. If you receive an invitation, participation is mandatory. If you decline or withdraw, you will be expelled."
Megumi's hand shot up, trembling. "S-Sensei, what if we're invited but don't think we're ready?"
"Then you'll learn through failure or rise to the challenge. Totsuki doesn't coddle self-doubt." Fumio's expression softened slightly. "But understand—if you were invited, it means we believe you have potential to succeed. The question is whether you believe in yourself."
After class, the usual group gathered in their practice kitchen spot—Ryu, Soma, Megumi, and recently, Takumi Aldini had started joining them, drawn by the quality of their practice sessions.
"The Autumn Elections," Takumi said, his competitive fire evident. "This is where I prove Italian cuisine stands among the best. Ryu, Soma—I expect we'll all three be invited. And when we are, I'll show you both what real culinary excellence looks like."
"Bring it!" Soma grinned. "I've been wanting a big stage to show off my cooking!"
"I'm... I'm going to be sick," Megumi moaned. "There's no way I'll be invited. My scores are too inconsistent. I'll probably—"
"Megumi-san," Ryu interrupted gently. "You ranked 47th in the entrance practical. You're still in A-Block. You've improved every week. If you're invited, you deserve to be there."
"But competing against the entire year group's best?" Megumi's anxiety was spiraling. "People like Erina-sama, and Alice-san, and Ryo-kun, and Hayama-kun—they're all prodigies! I'm just a normal girl from a small town who—"
"Who made judges cry with her hospitality cooking," Soma reminded her. "Who executes traditional technique better than most professional chefs. Who belongs here just as much as anyone else."
Megumi looked at them with watery eyes. "You really think so?"
"We know so," Ryu said firmly.
The rest of the week was a blur of intense practicals and studying. Every student was on edge, knowing that Friday would determine who was invited to the Autumn Elections and who was passed over.
Friday afternoon, sixty envelopes were distributed during the final class of the day.
Ryu received his envelope with steady hands, though his heart was racing. Inside was a formal invitation:
Ryu Nakamura,
Based on your exceptional performance in practicals, your ranking of 3rd in A-Block, and your demonstrated mastery of Southeast Asian culinary techniques, you are hereby invited to participate in the Totsuki Autumn Elections.
Preliminary rounds will begin in three weeks. The theme will be announced at the start of the competition. Participation is mandatory upon acceptance.
Congratulations on this achievement.
He looked around. Soma was grinning at his invitation. Takumi looked grimly satisfied. Even Megumi had received one, and she looked like she might faint from shock.
"I... I got invited," Megumi whispered. "They actually invited me."
"Told you," Soma said cheerfully. "Now we all get to compete together!"
Erina, of course, had received an invitation. So had Alice Nakiri, Ryo Kurokiba, Akira Hayama, Hisako Arato, and fifty-two other students representing the best of the first-year class.
That evening, Ryu sat with his father at the restaurant, the invitation on the table between them.
"The Autumn Elections," Takeshi said quietly. "I competed in these when I was a first-year. Made it to the finals, placed third. Lost to Gin Dojima and someone who later became a renowned sushi master."
"What was it like?"
"Terrifying. Exhilarating. Eye-opening." Takeshi looked at Ryu seriously. "You'll be cooking in front of professional judges whose standards are even higher than Totsuki instructors. You'll face competitors who've been training for this their entire lives. And the themes—they'll be designed to push you beyond your comfort zone."
"How do I prepare?"
"By remembering why you cook." Takeshi's voice was firm. "Everyone else will be trying to impress the judges, trying to prove they're the best, trying to win at any cost. But you? You cook to honor tradition while pushing it forward. You cook to connect people with flavors they've never experienced. You cook to show that Southeast Asian cuisine belongs on the world stage."
He leaned forward. "So when you're standing in front of those judges, don't cook to win. Cook to teach them something they didn't know. Cook to make them understand what we do, why it matters, why our traditions deserve respect."
"And if I lose?"
"Then you lose with dignity, having cooked your truth. But Ryu—" Takeshi's eyes blazed with intensity, "—don't plan on losing. You've trained too hard, learned too much, grown too far to settle for anything less than showing them what you're capable of."
The next three weeks were the most intense of Ryu's life—even more brutal than his pre-Totsuki training. Classes became secondary to preparation. Every spare moment was spent in practice kitchens, running through scenarios, refining techniques, experimenting with flavor combinations.
The weekly practice shokugeki sessions with Soma and Megumi intensified. They pushed each other relentlessly, challenging each other with increasingly difficult themes and constraints.
Even Erina started occasionally joining their practice sessions—she never admitted it was helpful, but her presence and critiques made them all sharper.
One week before the Autumn Elections preliminary rounds, Ryu received an unexpected visitor at the restaurant—Akira Hayama, the mysterious first-year who specialized in spices and aromas, currently ranked fourth in A-Block.
Hayama had silver hair, intense golden eyes, and a quiet confidence that reminded Ryu of a predator sizing up prey.
"Nakamura," Hayama said without preamble. "I've been watching you. Your use of spices—galangal, lemongrass, bird's eye chilies—shows understanding. But you're holding back."
Ryu raised an eyebrow. "Holding back?"
"Your rendang, your laksa—they're refined, balanced, safe. You're cooking to be accepted rather than cooking to dominate. In the Autumn Elections, safe won't win. You need to push your spices to their absolute limit."
"And you're telling me this because...?"
Hayama smiled slightly. "Because when I beat you in the finals, I want it to be your best versus mine. Defeating a restrained version of you wouldn't be satisfying."
The directness was almost refreshing. "You're confident you'll reach the finals."
"I'm certain. The question is whether you'll make it there to face me." Hayama turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing. Your curry paste—you're still pounding it by hand, right?"
"Of course. Traditional technique—"
"Is limiting you," Hayama interrupted. "The mortar and pestle has a ceiling. If you want to create the most intensely aromatic paste possible, you need to understand the science of spice release, not just the tradition. Tradition is important, but innovation matters too."
He left before Ryu could respond, leaving Ryu standing there with uncomfortable thoughts.
Was he holding back? Was his commitment to traditional techniques limiting his potential?
That night, Ryu experimented—making curry paste both ways, traditional pounding versus modern blending with strategic temperature manipulation. The results were humbling. The modern method did produce more intense aromatic release, more efficient extraction of essential oils.
But when he tasted the finished dishes, something was missing. The modern paste was technically superior but lacked the soul of the hand-pounded version. It was more intense but less balanced, more aromatic but less harmonious.
Hayama is right that I need to push further, Ryu realized. But he's wrong about abandoning tradition. The answer isn't choosing between old and new—it's understanding both so deeply I can use whichever serves the dish better.
The night before the preliminary rounds, Ryu couldn't sleep. He sat in the kitchen at 2 AM, his mother's journal open in front of him, reading her notes on cooking philosophy.
One entry stood out:
"Takeshi asked me today why I still pound curry paste by hand when blenders exist. I told him: when you pound spices, you have a conversation with them. You feel when they're ready. You hear the change in sound as oils release. You smell the transformation. A machine is efficient, but it's a monologue, not a dialogue. And cooking, at its heart, is always a conversation—between cook and ingredient, between food and eater, between tradition and innovation. Never forget to listen." - Mei Lin
Below that, his father had written: "She was right. Still is right, even now that she's gone. The conversation matters more than the efficiency."
Ryu closed the journal, feeling centered again. Hayama could chase maximum intensity. Others could chase perfect technique or flashy innovation.
Ryu would cook his truth—honoring tradition while pushing it forward, balancing technique with soul, creating food that spoke to both mind and heart.
Tomorrow, the Autumn Elections begin, Ryu thought. And I'm ready. Not to win at any cost, but to show everyone—judges, competitors, the entire culinary world—why Southeast Asian cuisine deserves to stand among the greatest.
Let's make Mom and Dad proud.
To be continued...