The morning after their quiet conversation in the garden, Riku Kaizen found himself unusually restless. The quiet moments with Erina lingered in his memory, not as a distraction, but as a fuel. There was something affirming in the way she had spoken, something that grounded him in a way nothing else had. Yet, the world around him offered no time to revel in calm.
Azami Nakiri's grip on the academy tightened by the day, and the whispers in the halls were no longer just about who would survive the next Shokugeki. They were about resistance. About rebellion. About which side of the line you stood on—Central or freedom.
As Riku walked through the halls of Tōtsuki, he noticed the changes more starkly now. The posters had changed. The ambiance had shifted. Gone were the vibrant bulletin boards displaying clubs, food festivals, and culinary experiments. In their place stood Central's sterile, dictatorial mandates—strict menus, uniform cooking styles, and lists of "approved" culinary techniques. The essence of creativity was being drained out of the academy, one rule at a time.
Yet it was not fear that stirred within Riku. It was purpose.
That evening, at the makeshift war council inside Polar Star Dorm, Riku stood before a group of familiar and equally defiant faces. Megumi, Takumi, Hisako, Ibusaki, and Isshiki sat in a loose circle, the tension palpable yet focused. On a nearby table lay a series of notes, matchup records, and folders detailing the remaining Elite Ten.
"We don't have the luxury of time," Isshiki said, arms folded but eyes sharp behind his usual laid-back expression "Central is going to move swiftly after what happened with Yukihira and Hayama. They'll want to reestablish control—publicly and aggressively."
Takumi nodded "Which means the next few matches will be brutal. They'll pit us against high-ranking members, probably even some of the top three."
"We need to choose our battles," Hisako added, "and we need to make every one of them count."
Riku stepped forward, placing his notebook on the table and flipping it open to a diagram he had drawn earlier. It showed a path—three battles, three key Elite Ten members, and a final match circled in red.
"I want to challenge Rindou Kobayashi," he said, without hesitation.
The room fell silent. Even Isshiki raised an eyebrow.
"You're aiming for second seat?" Megumi asked, eyes wide.
"She's unpredictable," Hisako added "Her cuisine spans cultures and wild ingredients. She's Central's ace in the hole."
Riku met their eyes, steady and unwavering "Which is exactly why I need to be the one to face her."
Erina, who had arrived silently moments earlier, stepped into the circle. She wore her usual stoic expression, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—respect, pride, and perhaps something even more personal.
"If you challenge Rindou," she said, "you'll be pushing into territory very few ever dare enter. Her flavor palette is boundless. Her technique is brutal and precise. And her mind… is always two steps ahead."
Riku didn't flinch "I've been preparing something that might just be enough."
They all looked at him now, not with doubt, but anticipation. His reputation had been steadily rising since the Autumn Elections, and his culinary instincts had proven themselves time and again under pressure. If anyone had the creativity and courage to stand against someone like Rindou, it was Riku Kaizen.
"What's the theme of your dish?" Takumi asked.
Riku flipped to another page. The sketch showed a multi-course layout, but the centerpiece was bold—Grilled Requiem: A dish inspired by ancient Japanese funerary cuisine, infused with elements of modern fermentation and Peruvian seasoning profiles.
"The idea," Riku explained, "is to embrace the idea of endings. Of honoring what came before, while introducing something new. Rindou thrives in the unfamiliar. I'm going to serve her something old and sacred—then transform it into something she can't anticipate."
"Symbolism through flavor," Isshiki mused "That's a dangerous game… but if pulled off, it could be unforgettable."
"Exactly," Riku said "And I want you all to taste my first trial run tomorrow. I need critique, and brutal honesty."
The group dispersed for the night with renewed energy. Plans were in motion, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like they weren't just reacting to Central—they were moving against it.
Later that night, in the dorm's quiet kitchen, Riku stood alone. The ingredients lay ready. Aged miso, fermented black garlic, wild mountain herbs, and an unassuming fish—fugu, known for its delicacy and danger. He worked with measured precision, each motion deliberate. The base broth had to be soul-deep. The grilled cuts needed a smoke that evoked memory. And the final sauce—a blend of yuzu, mirin, and charred Peruvian aji amarillo—needed to haunt the tongue long after the meal.
As he plated the dish, the aroma filled the kitchen with an intoxicating pull of nostalgia and mystery. He took a slow breath, closed his eyes, and tasted.
It wasn't perfect. Not yet. But it was close.
Behind him, he felt a presence.
"You're going to scare her," Erina's voice said, low and calm.
He turned, surprised to see her watching from the doorway.
"Good," he replied.
Erina walked over and took the offered plate without hesitation. She examined the composition, let the scent linger, and then took a bite.
Her reaction was subtle—but her eyes widened, her breath slowed, and she looked at him as if seeing a part of his soul laid bare.
"You're not just challenging her," she said slowly, "you're trying to tell her who you are."
Riku nodded "I want her to taste the path I've walked. I want her to feel everything I've learned. Everything I've lost. And everything I refuse to let go."
She smiled faintly, and this time, it was not guarded "Then she doesn't stand a chance."