HCfC: Chapter 7: 182nd Grey Tide Festival

The dizzying sensation of the memory-share left them both breathless. It was an uncanny feeling, like watching a film of someone else's life, only to realize the actor was you and the emotions were real. It was experiencing without experiencing, a phantom limb of memory that now felt as solid as their own.

Soma was the first to recover, his mind latching onto the most glaringly illogical detail from Zero's day. "Why didn't you put fixed prices on anything?!" he demanded, his voice a mix of bewilderment and frustration.

"That was your job!" Zero shot back, rubbing his temples. "You were supposed to be doing market research, not going out and befriending some high-and-mighty racist elf!"

"He wasn't—" Soma started to argue, but he stopped. The memory of Zero's afternoon, the sting of each customer's disgust, was now his own. The anger drained from his face, replaced by a quiet understanding. He spoke softly. "You know it's not your fault they didn't all stay, right?"

Zero sighed, a heavy, weary sound. He leaned back against the counter, his gaze distant. "They all walked out as soon as they saw my horns," he said, his voice quiet. "Honestly... at this point, I don't know what to think. In our past life, it was just a given that I'd be unlucky. Daily chores were like navigating a landmine. Work was five times harder just to get by. And for the first time, in this world, I felt... free." He looked down at his hands. "Yet I can't even go outside without being afraid of the world looking at me with that same coldness... like all of our foster parents did."

The words hung in the air, heavy with a lifetime of rejection. Soma walked over to him, closing the space between them, and wrapped his arms around Zero in a firm hug.

"Hey, hey," Soma whispered, his voice losing all its usual bravado. "It's not your fault. I know it isn't. Because I'm you. I felt it just now, all of it." He tightened his grip. "But I also know we can make things better. From now on. And remember your words to Cecil?"

Zero pulled back slightly, his expression confused. "What words?"

"You said you were going to enjoy a quiet life while sending a bunch of clones out to be heroes and villains," Soma reminded him, a small smile returning to his face. "This is the quiet life part. The part where we build our base."

A chuckle escaped Zero's lips, dry at first, then more genuine. "It'll take a long time to accumulate enough points for another Gacha. We can't exactly send out an army of one."

"Really? How much do we have now?" Soma asked.

"Less than a hundred," Zero admitted. "Around sixty."

"Then we'll build our café slowly," Soma declared, his confidence returning. "And we'll enjoy every single menu we serve."

Zero cracked a grin. "What are you, an anime protagonist now? You're going to 'talk-no-jutsu' me back into a cheerful state?"

Soma stepped back and walked toward his white apron, pulling it on with a flourish. "My card isn't from Naruto," he said, turning around with a wicked grin. "But I do know how to make some food that will make you happy. And probably naked again."

A real, hearty laugh burst from Zero's chest. Soma grinned back, the easy camaraderie restored as he turned to the kitchen and began preparing their dinner.

…

The aroma of seared meat and buttery potatoes filled the cozy loft apartment. Soma had prepared dinner with his usual flair: perfectly cooked steaks with a rich pan sauce, served alongside a mound of creamy mashed potatoes. They ate at the large dining table, the events of the day finally catching up to them.

"So, about the pricing," Zero said after swallowing a bite of steak that was so tender it practically melted.

"Oh, yeah, about that," Soma replied, expertly cutting into his own medium-rare steak. "I got a look at a few places. I didn't have any money on me, so I couldn't actually buy anything to taste the competition. For now, we can't base our prices on quality, only on the market average." He chewed thoughtfully. "From what I saw, a regular cup of coffee at a standard tavern or stall goes for about 2 Sol. A simple meal, like a meat pie or a stew, is anywhere from 5 to 10 Sol, depending on the place."

Zero paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "What? That low?" he asked, his voice incredulous. "Then the thirty Sol from Linda and Henry..."

Soma nodded, a wry smile on his face. "Yeah," he said, taking a large bite of mashed potatoes. "They didn't just pay. They really went overboard. That was a massive tip."

A heavy sigh escaped Zero's lips as he slumped back in his chair, the reality of their situation sinking in. At a rate of 2 Sol per coffee, earning the points they still needed for the Gacha felt like an impossible task. "Haaahh... so it's really gonna be a while, huh?"

Soma polished off his last bite of steak, then suddenly sat bolt upright, his eyes shining with a brilliant, manic energy. "Aha!"

Zero looked at him, his own expression flat and dejected. "What."

Soma slammed his hands on the table, a huge, triumphant grin spreading across his face as he shouted, "Cooking competition, baby!"

…

Morning light spilled into the alley outside Café LeBlanc, illuminating two figures bustling around large wooden crates. The café was closed for the day. Today, they were taking the business on the road.

Zero stood proudly, having forgone his usual simple attire for a far more dramatic ensemble. He wore a set of flowing, deep purple robes that resembled a traditional Han-style garment, the silk catching the light with every movement. On his head sat a wide-brimmed conical hat, from which a thin, black gauze veil hung, obscuring his face—and, more importantly, his horns—in an aura of mystique.

"What the fuck are you wearing?" Soma asked, staring at him flatly.

"I'm trying to emulate my Zhuge Liang stature here," Zero declared, striking a thoughtful pose with one hand on his chin. "Look at me. Am I not the very picture of Zhuge Liang from Dynasty Warriors right now? The brilliant, unassuming strategist."

Soma snorted. "With that dramatic purple color, you look more like the cunning Sima Yi. And besides, a veil is what women wear."

"How dare you!" Zero said, deeply and theatrically offended.

"Are you going to help me with these crates or not?" Soma said, gesturing to the heavy containers filled with their best knives, pots, and a few choice ingredients.

Zero let out a soft chuckle, his persona dropping instantly. He bent down and effortlessly lifted one of the heavy wooden crates. Thanks to his Archdemon body, a weight that would make a normal man struggle meant nothing to him. He smirked at Soma. "So, does my little brother need some help with his crate?"

Contrary to Zero's expectations, Soma simply bent his knees and hoisted his own crate with equal ease. He grinned, flexing one arm. "I'm you, remember? I'm your clone. Of course I have your power," he said with a smug "hehehehe."

Zero's face fell as he dejectedly picked up his crate and followed Soma out of the alley.

As they walked through the bustling city streets, Zero noticed people looking at him weirdly. The stares weren't the familiar looks of disgust and fear; they were looks of pure, unadulterated confusion.

"See?" Soma said jokingly, "It's not because you're a demon. They can't even see your horns with that ridiculous hat on. It's your clothes. You look like you escaped from an opera."

"Who cares," Zero said stubbornly, adjusting his grip on the crate. "I'm going to channel my inner Zhuge Liang."

They walked on, a pair of strangely dressed porters carrying their kitchen on their shoulders. A group of children playing on the cobblestone pavements stopped their game to watch them pass. One boy, puffing his chest out proudly, ran up to them. "Where are you guys going with those big boxes?"

Zero smiled behind his veil. "We are going to a cooking competition."

The word "competition" was like magic. The children's eyes lit up, and they immediately began to follow behind them, chattering excitedly. One small girl with pigtails skipped alongside Zero. "Mister, why are you wearing such strange clothes?"

Zero was about to offer a grand, mysterious explanation when Soma cut in. "That's because he's really ugly and isn't allowed to show his face in public," he said with a dramatic, winking "ehehehe."

"Hey!" Zero shouted, and without breaking stride, he swung a leg out and gave Soma a playful kick on the butt, which garnered a chorus of delighted laughter from their new entourage of kids.

Their procession finally spilled out into a massive, open plaza, the heart of the city's commercial district. It was their version of Times Square. Giant billboards, powered by glowing, shifting runes, advertised everything from magical artifacts to luxury carriages. The air was thick with the sounds of a thousand conversations, the hiss of steam-powered vehicles, and the hum of powerful magic. And there, in the very center of it all, a large area had been cordoned off. Several cooking stations were already lined up, and other contestants were beginning to gather, ready for the battle to begin.

Thankfully, Soma’s name was the last one called. A harried-looking committee member led him to the only remaining spot, tucked away in the back row. Soma waved a hand, gesturing for Zero to bring the crates.

With the gaggle of children still trailing behind him like ducklings, Zero carried both heavy crates over with an ease that drew a few surprised looks. As he set them down, he surveyed the area. "Quite lucky, you are," he said to Soma. "Got the very last spot."

Soma’s eyes scanned the other stations. Each was already a hive of activity, with contestants directing two or three assistants in pristine uniforms who were already polishing cutlery and prepping ingredients.

Zero noticed too, then grinned at their own little entourage. "Alright, you rowdy bunch," he announced to the kids. "If you help this big brother here prepare his station, you're all going to be rewarded with cake back at our café later."

A loud cheer went up from the children, who immediately swarmed the station, eagerly trying to "help" by unpacking pots with loud clangs and arranging vegetables in mismatched piles. The other contestants sneered at the chaotic, unprofessional display. "How dare he bring street urchins here," one muttered.

The contestant at the neighboring station, a dark-haired human with a perpetually sour expression, strode over. "Hey, you," he said condescendingly. "You'd better give up your spot. This is a place for professionals."

Soma turned from his crate. "What? Who are you?"

The man looked stunned, as if the very notion that someone didn't recognize him was a mortal offense. "I," he declared, puffing out his chest, "am Gaylord de Jacquard, the heir of the renowned Jacquard Restaurant."

Soma’s face remained blank for a second. Then he snorted. Then he began to laugh. "Ehehehe... Your name is Gaylord? Ehehehehe!" He slapped his knee. "Hey, Zero! Zero, look at this guy!"

Zero turned from his task of setting up their stove. "What?"

"His name is Gaylord!" Soma wheezed. Zero took one look at the fuming man, processed the name, and burst into hard laughter himself. "Hehehehe!"

Gaylord Jacquard's face went from pale to pink to furious red. He was about to shout something when a sudden shower of shimmering, rainbow-colored leaves began to rain down from the sky, halting the commotion. Everyone looked toward the main stage, where a female MC held her hands aloft, a gentle smile on her face as her magic signaled the start of the event.

One by one, assistants and onlookers were asked to clear the competition area. "Alright kids, field trip's over for now," Zero said, leading his little helpers out of the station. As he passed Soma, he gave him a pat on the back. "Break a leg."

Soma grinned back. "Hey, that's not nice to wish for someone." They shared a final chuckle before Zero and the children were lost in the crowd.

On stage, the other MC, a charismatic man, raised his hands. The raining leaves swirled upwards into a vortex, which he then ignited with a snap of his fingers, turning the leaves into a crackling, multi-colored firework display.

"Welcome," the two MCs shouted in unison, "to the 182nd Grey Tide Festival!"

The crowd roared. As the opening ceremony continued, Soma turned back to his station, his smile fading. He saw it clearly now. Gaylord had three assistants. The elven woman two stations down had four. Every single contestant had a team. He was the only one alone. He suddenly remembered the man who had accepted his registration, the way he’d held back a laugh when Soma said he was competing solo.

‘So that's why,’ he thought, a grim understanding dawning on him. ‘They want me to be humiliated. I'm the underdog clown to make the event more hype, huh.’

"Hey, country bumpkin," Gaylord sneered from his station, having recovered his composure. "Did you get that scar on your forehead by messing up while learning to chop an onion? Ohohohohoho!"

The insult, aimed at the small scar near his hairline that had come with the character card, was the final spark. The competitive rage, the core trait of Sōma Yukihira, ignited in his chest. He would not be humiliated. He would not lose in the kitchen.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rolled-up strip of white cloth. With sharp, deliberate motions, he tied the white headband around his forehead. His entire demeanor shifted. The playful clone was gone, replaced by a chef whose eyes burned with focus and an unshakeable will to win.

"Let the 182nd Grey Tide Festival... BEGIN!" the male MC boomed, his voice magically amplified to fill the massive plaza. The crowd roared in approval.

"And to preside over this glorious culinary battle," the female MC chimed in, gesturing to the elevated table on the stage, "we have our esteemed panel of judges!"

Spotlights flared, illuminating the five figures seated behind a long table.

"First, the ever-elegant Countess Genevieve," the MC announced. A stern-looking noblewoman with sharp features gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "Her palate is so refined, it is said she can identify the vintage of wine just by the aroma left on the cork!"

"Next, the world-renowned adventurer and food critic, Baron Kael!" The man beside her was her complete opposite: rugged and weather-beaten, with a scarred face and a weary but sharp gaze. He had, as the MC explained, eaten in every duchy of the realm, from the lowliest taverns to the Archdukes' tables.

"Joining them is the guild master of the Stonestove Cooks, the venerable Master Chef Borin!" A dwarf with a magnificent, braided beard grunted, his arms crossed over his chest. He represented centuries of culinary tradition.

"From the Evercrest University of Magic, we have Magister Elara!" an elf with intelligent eyes and scholar's robes gave a serene smile. "She will be judging not just the taste, but the arcane harmony and magical properties of each ingredient!"

"And finally," the male MC bellowed, "a man who needs no introduction in this city, the heart and soul of the common folk's fare, 'Big' Sal!" A large, beaming human tavern owner waved enthusiastically at the cheering crowd.

"And now, for our contestants!"

One by one, chefs were called to the stage. "Chef Antoine of the Azure Palace Hotel!" "Chef Griselda from the Duke's own kitchens!" Each was a pillar of the culinary world, representing a famous and respected establishment. Then came Soma's neighbor.

"And from the world-famous Jacquard Restaurant, the heir to a culinary dynasty, Gaylord de Jacquard!" Gaylord strode onto the stage with an arrogant smirk, bowing to the judges as if he'd already won.

After he returned to his station, the male MC glanced at his notes with a confused frown. "And next... from... uh... Café LeBlanc... Sōma Yukihira!" He looked toward Soma's station, noting the lack of assistants. A cruel, professional smile spread across his face. "Mr. Yukihira, are your sous-chefs perhaps calling in sick today?"

The crowd, sensing an easy target, let out a wave of laughter.

Soma walked onto the stage, completely unfazed. He took the offered microphone, his eyes sweeping over the crowd with a confident grin. "Nope," he said clearly, his voice ringing out across the plaza. "I alone will cook."

A wave of shocked murmurs rippled through the audience. A lone chef? In the Grey Tide Festival? It was unheard of, an act of either supreme arrogance or sheer idiocy.

The female MC, sensing the mood shifting, quickly tried to steer the conversation. "A bold strategy, Chef! Please, introduce yourself to the crowd."

"Gladly!" Soma said cheerfully. "Hello everyone! My name is Sōma Yukihira, and I'm representing Café LeBlanc!"

His enthusiastic introduction was met with confused silence, followed by a fresh wave of whispers. ‘Café LeBlanc? Never heard of it.’ The previous contestants were all head chefs from renowned restaurants and grand hotels. But this young man, a boy really, was not only competing alone, but he was from a place that didn't even exist on the city's culinary map. He was a nobody.

"Thank you, Chef Yukihira," the female MC said quickly, ushering him off the stage. As Soma walked back to his station, he could feel thousands of eyes on him, a mixture of pity, scorn, and derision. This was exactly what the organizers wanted. He was the opening act's fool.

As Soma returned to his station, the whispers at the judges' table were a low, discordant hum.

"A café?" Countess Genevieve murmured to Baron Kael beside her, her lips barely moving. She fanned herself slowly, her expression one of profound boredom. "They're letting cafés compete now? How utterly provincial. The standards of this festival are slipping."

Baron Kael, the adventurer, watched Soma with a curious glint in his eye. "The boy's got guts, I'll give him that," he grunted, stroking his scarred chin. "Or he's a complete fool. Either way, it's a better show than another pampered hotel chef."

On the other side of the table, the dwarven guild master, Chef Borin, scowled into his beard. "One man cannot be a kitchen," he grumbled to no one in particular. "He has no brigade, no respect for the structure of the culinary arts. This is an insult to the craft."

"His confidence is unusual," Magister Elara noted quietly, her sharp elven eyes focused intently on Soma. "It does not match his station. There may be more to him than meets the eye."

"Hey, give the kid a break," boomed "Big" Sal, leaning back in his chair. "We all started somewhere. I'm more interested in what he can cook than how many assistants he has."

On the stage, the MCs silenced the crowd. "And now, for the first challenge of the day!" the man announced.

"This challenge," the woman continued, "is brought to you by the esteemed Countess Genevieve!"

The spotlight swung to the Countess. She rose from her seat with a sigh, as if the effort of standing was a great burden. She looked down upon the contestants, her gaze sweeping over them with disdain before landing, for just a moment, on Soma's station.

"For today's first trial," she stated, her voice crisp and cutting, "you will be working with one of the realm's most exquisite and challenging ingredients."

With a wave of her hand, attendants brought out covered silver platters to each station. At her signal, they lifted the lids in unison. On a bed of shimmering, magically chilled ice lay a single, perfect scallop. It was larger than a man's palm, its shell iridescent, and the meat within seemed to pulse with a faint, golden light.

"The Sun-Kissed Aether Scallop," the Countess announced, her voice leaving no room for excitement. "Harvested only during the spring tide from the deepest, most magically-charged oceanic trenches. Its flavor is the very essence of the sea—subtle, pure, and impossibly delicate."

She paused, letting the weight of the challenge sink in. "Your task is simple. You will create an appetizer. Your dish must elevate the natural, subtle flavor of the scallop, not mask it. It is a test of precision, restraint, and elegance. Any clumsy, rustic, or overpowering flavors will be considered an immediate failure. You have one hour. Begin."

The massive Sun-Kissed Aether Scallop sat before him on its bed of ice, its faint golden light a silent challenge. As other teams erupted into a flurry of motion, with head chefs barking orders at their sous-chefs and assistants, Soma stood perfectly still. His eyes were closed, his headband taut across his forehead.

Inside his mind, a hurricane of knowledge was churning. A library of recipes, techniques, and flavor pairings collided and rearranged themselves at lightning speed. Aether Scallop. Delicate, sweet, briny. High magical content means it cooks incredibly fast. High heat, short time. Overcook it by a second, and it's ruined. The Countess wants elegance, not a flavor bomb. She wants to be impressed by technique, not buried in seasoning. He mentally discarded dozens of complex ideas—heavy sauces, elaborate garnishes, spicy marinades. They would be an insult to the ingredient. No. The answer had to be simple. Precise. A dish that wasn't a mask, but a pedestal.

His eyes snapped open. He had it.

While the MCs were busy commentating on Gaylord de Jacquard’s complex deconstruction of a root vegetable, Soma began to move. And his movement was a spectacle. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation. His hands became a blur, a whirlwind of focused, efficient energy.

First, the base. He grabbed a handful of vibrant spring peas, blanched them for exactly ten seconds in boiling water, then plunged them into a bowl of ice water, locking in their brilliant green color. They went into a blender with a touch of cream, a sprig of fresh mint, and a pinch of salt. The resulting purée was impossibly smooth, the color of liquid emerald.

Next, the sauce's foundation. With his knife a silver flash, he micro-diced a shallot with a precision that seemed inhuman.

Then, the main event. He took the Aether Scallop, patting it perfectly dry with a clean cloth. He placed a heavy-bottomed pan on the enchanted flame, turning it up high. A splash of clarified butter hit the screaming-hot surface. With the reverence of a priest placing a relic on an altar, Soma gently laid the scallop in the center of the pan.

Tssssssssssss!

The sound cut through the noise of the festival, drawing the attention of the MCs.

"And what's this?" the male MC announced, his attention finally shifting. "It seems our lone chef from Café LeBlanc has finally decided to start! He's going for a simple sear?"

"A dangerous move, Ken," the female MC added. "With an ingredient this delicate, the line between a perfect Maillard crust and a rubbery disaster is thinner than a hair!"

Soma ignored them. He didn't move the scallop. He just watched, his senses tuned to the smell, the sound. After exactly forty-five seconds, he flipped it. The top was a perfect, golden-brown crust, a beautiful caramelization that sealed in the scallop's juices. He tossed a knob of butter, a sprig of thyme, and a crushed garlic clove into the pan, tilting it to continuously baste the scallop in the foaming, aromatic butter for another thirty seconds before whisking it from the pan to rest.

Into the still-hot pan went his diced shallots, followed by a splash of dry white wine that erupted in a cloud of fragrant steam. He scraped the bottom of the pan, lifting all the flavourful brown bits. A squeeze of lemon juice, a spoonful of salty capers, and then, off the heat, he began whisking in cold knobs of butter, his wrist moving in a fluid, hypnotic motion, creating a silky, emulsified sauce.

On the judges' table, the reactions were a silent story. Countess Genevieve's fan stopped moving. Her eyes, narrowed in critical assessment, recognized the flawless Athenean technique of a beurre blanc. Master Chef Borin leaned forward, his dwarven eyes wide with shock at the sheer speed and precision of the solo chef. This wasn't amateur hour. This was mastery. Baron Kael, the adventurer, had a wide, predatory grin on his face. This was the raw, untamed talent he lived to see.

With seconds to spare, Soma began to plate. A graceful, decisive swoosh of the vibrant green pea purée across the white plate. The perfectly seared scallop placed gently in the center. A delicate drizzle of the lemon-butter caper sauce over the top. It was minimalist, confident, and breathtakingly beautiful.

In the cheering crowd, Zero watched the entire performance from the side, the excited children jumping up and down beside him. A slow, immensely proud smile spread across his face, hidden behind his veil. He watched as his clone, his other self, plated the dish that could change their lives.

"Show-off," Zero muttered, his voice thick with pride and affection.

The judges moved down the line of stations with an air of practiced authority. They would taste, make a few clipped notes, and move on, their expressions giving away little. Finally, they arrived at the station of Gaylord de Jacquard.

He stood with a smug, self-assured smirk, his dish presented like a piece of abstract art—a chaotic jumble of foams, gels, and micro-herbs. The Countess’s eyes narrowed as she read his name placard. "Jacquard? Are you Harland de Jacquard's son?"

Gaylord preened, bowing deeply. "The one and only, Your Grace."

The Countess picked up her fork and took the smallest, most delicate bite. Her expression, already disdainful, twisted into one of utter revulsion. She turned her head and spat the mouthful gracefully into a silk napkin.

"In an attempt to showcase your own cleverness," she said, her voice dripping with ice, "you have utterly obliterated the scallop. It is buried, drowned in a cacophony of tasteless, pretentious flourishes. There is no scallop here. There is only the noise of your own ego."

Gaylord’s face went white. The other judges, more diplomatic, tasted the dish.

"The technique on the foam is... interesting," Baron Kael offered, "but the Countess is right. The hero is lost."

"A good dish, perhaps," Master Chef Borin grunted, "but not the one you were asked to make."

Leaving a humiliated Gaylord in their wake, the judges proceeded down the line until they stood before Soma's station. His single, elegant plate stood in stark contrast to the previous dish. As the Countess reached for her fork, Soma held up a hand.

"I'm sorry, esteemed judges," he said, his voice firm but respectful. "But I must implore you to taste my dish in your private rooms."

Magister Elara blinked. "And why is that, ‘Chef’ Yukihira?"

Soma met their confused gazes. "Please," he said, "it is for the sake of your own dignity. I would also highly recommend you bring a change of clothes."

The judges stared, stunned into silence. Countess Genevieve looked as if he had slapped her. "How dare—" she began, but was cut off by a sudden, booming laugh.

"Hahaha!" "Big" Sal slapped his knee. "Alright! I like this kid's style! I guess we should follow the chef's instructions on how to properly eat his dish!"

"Are you serious, Sal?" Master Chef Borin growled, scandalized by the blatant disrespect.

Soma bowed deeply from the waist. "Please," he urged. He couldn't possibly tell them that he had gotten so caught up in the thrill of creation that he'd forgotten to hold back. He could practically feel the waves of pure, fabric-rending flavor radiating from the plate. This dish would absolutely make them naked.

After a moment of tense deliberation, swayed by Big Sal's enthusiasm and their own curiosity, the judges agreed. Attendants carefully carried the five covered plates backstage to the private rooms the organizers had provided for makeup and breaks. As the judges disappeared one by one, the MCs tried desperately to guess what was happening, their commentary a confused babble. The other contestants whispered amongst themselves, baffled by the strange development.

Only Zero, standing in the crowd, smiled and chuckled to himself.

A hush fell over the plaza as everyone waited. Then, from the backstage area, it began. A sound. A low moan of pleasure from one room. Then a louder, more guttural groan from another. It grew into a chorus—gasps, sighs, and sounds of such pure, unadulterated ecstasy that the MCs on stage were stunned into silence. The crowd, utterly confused and deeply intrigued, murmured amongst themselves.

Soma stood at his station, listening to the symphony of culinary bliss he had unleashed, his face a perfect picture of profound regret. ‘I really should have held back.’