The week between preliminaries and the main tournament felt surreal. Ryu's face was suddenly everywhere—in culinary magazines, on Totsuki's official social media, even in some mainstream news coverage about the prestigious competition.
"Third Seat's Son Advances to Autumn Elections Finals!" one headline proclaimed.
"Ten First-Years Who Could Change Japanese Cuisine" read another article, featuring profiles of all ten finalists.
But the attention brought pressure. Everywhere Ryu went on campus, students stared, whispered, evaluated. Some offered congratulations; others looked at him like an obstacle to be overcome.
The practice kitchen sessions with Soma and Megumi took on new intensity. All three had made it to the finals, which felt like victory already, but also added stakes—they might face each other in competition.
"So," Soma said one evening as they cooked together, "we could end up competing against each other. That's kind of wild."
"I don't want to fight you guys," Megumi said quietly. "You're my friends. How am I supposed to cook against my friends?"
"The same way you cook against anyone," Ryu replied. "With everything you have. If we face each other, we honor that friendship by giving it our all, not holding back."
"Exactly!" Soma agreed. "I'd be insulted if you went easy on me. The whole point is to push each other to be our best!"
Takumi, who'd started joining their practice sessions regularly, nodded. "In Italy, we have a saying: 'The best battles are fought between brothers.' Competition doesn't diminish friendship—it strengthens it by demanding mutual respect and excellence."
Wednesday evening, five days before the tournament, Ryu received an unexpected summons to the headmaster's office. He'd never been there before, and the massive doors felt intimidating as he knocked.
"Enter," Senzaemon's voice boomed.
The office was exactly what you'd expect for the director of Totsuki Academy—massive, opulent, lined with culinary awards and photographs of famous alumni. Senzaemon sat behind an enormous desk, and standing beside him was Ryu's father.
"Nakamura-kun," Senzaemon began. "I asked your father to join us for this conversation. Sit."
Ryu sat, confused and nervous.
"The Autumn Elections final tournament is where careers are launched," Senzaemon continued. "Past winners have gone on to Elite Ten positions, Michelin stars, prestigious restaurant openings. The culinary world watches closely to identify the next generation of masters."
He leaned forward. "You are carrying a particular burden in this tournament. You are not just representing yourself—you represent your father's legacy, Southeast Asian cuisine's place at Totsuki, and a culinary philosophy that many still dismiss as 'ethnic' or 'exotic.'"
The weight of those words settled over Ryu.
"I've watched your development closely," Senzaemon said. "Your rendang in the preliminaries was extraordinary. Your shokugeki victory over Minamoto was decisive. Your consistent high rankings demonstrate skill and dedication. But—" his eyes grew sharp, "—skill alone won't win the tournament. You'll face competitors with equal or greater technical ability. What will determine victory is your ability to cook under pressure while maintaining your identity as a chef."
Takeshi spoke up. "What the director is saying is—don't try to be someone you're not to impress judges. Some competitors will try to guess what judges want and cook to those preferences. That's a losing strategy."
"Cook your truth," Senzaemon agreed. "Cook Southeast Asian cuisine with such confidence and excellence that judges have no choice but to recognize its legitimacy. Make them understand that curry paste pounded by hand isn't 'primitive'—it's sophisticated technique passed down through generations. Make them see that belacan and fish sauce aren't 'acquired tastes'—they're fundamental flavor builders as valid as French mother sauces."
He stood, his massive presence filling the room. "You have the skill. The question is whether you have the courage to stand firm in your identity when facing pressure to conform."
Ryu met his gaze steadily. "I do."
"Good. Then I expect great things. Dismissed."
As Ryu and his father left the office, walking through Totsuki's grand hallways, Takeshi spoke quietly.
"When I competed in the Autumn Elections, I tried to prove I was as good as the European cuisine specialists. I made dishes that were Southeast Asian in technique but French in presentation. Trying to be acceptable to judges who didn't understand my cooking."
He stopped walking, turning to face Ryu. "I placed third. Lost to two chefs who cooked with complete confidence in their own traditions—Gin Dojima with his Japanese kaiseki, and a French specialist who made classic French cuisine without apology. I learned that trying to be acceptable makes you forgettable."
"So what should I do?"
"Be unapologetically yourself. Make dishes so definitively Southeast Asian that judges either love them or hate them, but can't ignore them. Polarizing food is memorable. Safe food is forgotten."
That night, Ryu couldn't sleep. He spent hours in the practice kitchen, making different curry pastes, testing flavor combinations, pushing his techniques to their limits.
Around 2 AM, he was surprised to find Erina entering the practice kitchen.
"Nakiri-san? What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing, Nakamura-kun." She approached his station, examining the various pastes he'd been making. "Can't sleep before the tournament?"
"Preparing. Making sure I'm ready for any theme."
"Nervous?"
The question was surprisingly direct. Ryu considered lying, then decided honesty was better. "Terrified. You?"
Erina was quiet for a long moment. "Always. My God Tongue means I taste every flaw in my own cooking. It's a curse as much as a blessing. I can create dishes of technical perfection, but I'm never satisfied because I can always taste what could be better."
She picked up one of his curry pastes, smelling it with professional interest. "Your cooking doesn't have that problem. It's not technically perfect—your ratios are sometimes unconventional, your presentations prioritize authenticity over aesthetics. But it has something my cooking often lacks."
"What's that?"
"Soul." Erina set down the paste. "When I tasted your rendang in the preliminaries, I could taste the hours of work, the respect for tradition, the love for the cuisine. My dishes impress. Yours connect. That's a powerful advantage."
"But your technical skill is extraordinary," Ryu countered. "I've seen you execute dishes that would take most chefs years to master."
"Technique can be learned. Soul is either there or it isn't." Erina moved toward the door, then paused. "The tournament matchups are being announced tomorrow. If we face each other—"
"We'll both give it everything we have," Ryu finished.
"Exactly." Something that might have been a smile crossed her face. "Good luck, Nakamura-kun. You'll need it."
After she left, Ryu returned to his work, but his mind was turning over their conversation. Erina Nakiri, the seemingly invincible God Tongue, had just revealed vulnerability. Had admitted that his cooking had qualities hers lacked.
We're all fighting our own battles, Ryu realized. Erina fights perfectionism. Hayama fights to prove himself. Soma fights to honor his father's diner while reaching for fine dining. Megumi fights her own self-doubt. And I fight to prove that my heritage deserves respect.
The Autumn Elections isn't just about who's the best chef. It's about who can cook their truth under the most intense pressure imaginable.
The next morning, the tournament matchups were announced:
Quarterfinals Round 1: Erina Nakiri vs. Hisako Arato
Quarterfinals Round 2: Ryu Nakamura vs. Akira Hayama
Quarterfinals Round 3: Soma Yukihira vs. Alice Nakiri
Quarterfinals Round 4: Takumi Aldini vs. Megumi Tadokoro
Quarterfinals Round 5: Ryo Kurokiba vs. Shun Ibusaki
Ryu stared at his matchup. Akira Hayama—the spice specialist who'd warned him about holding back. This wasn't just a cooking competition; it was a philosophical battle. Traditional techniques versus scientific innovation. Honoring heritage versus pushing boundaries.
The theme would be announced twenty-four hours before the match, giving competitors one day to prepare.
That evening, Ryu received a text from Hayama: Looking forward to our battle. Don't hold back. I want to face your absolute best.
Ryu texted back: Same to you. May the best curry win.
Because deep down, despite the different approaches, both of them were fighting for the same thing—to prove that spices, aromatics, and bold flavors deserved respect at the highest levels of culinary arts.
The stage was set. The matchups determined. The pressure mounting.
In two days, Ryu would face Akira Hayama in front of professional judges and a televised audience.
Time to show them what Southeast Asian cooking can really do, Ryu thought.
Time to make Mom and Dad proud.