The "L'Eclat" bar was a tomb of mahogany and polished glass, tucked away in a corner of Tokyo that didn't exist on common maps.
This was a sanctuary for the elite, a place where the air was heavy with the scent of expensive peat smoke and the cold, ozone-like chill that followed Azami Nakiri like a funerary shroud.
[Ding! Sign-In Condition Met: Observing a 'Dark Lord' of cuisine.]
[Reward: Gourmet presentation mastery (advanced)]
In a private room Azami Nakiri sat with his back to the door. Even without seeing his face, the aura of absolute authority was suffocating.
He didn't look up when Eishi Tsukasa entered. He didn't have to; he could feel the boy's anxiety—or what he assumed was anxiety—vibrating in the air.
With a slow, deliberate grace, Azami moved a crystal glass of neat Scotch exactly one inch to the left. It wasn't a gesture; it was a silent command to sit.
"You're late, Eishi," Azami said, his voice a smooth, dangerous silk. "Three minutes. In a kitchen, three minutes is the difference between a masterpiece and garbage."
"My apologies, Azami-sama," Eishi replied, his voice devoid of its usual stutter. He took a seat across from the man who had effectively groomed him into a tool.
Azami turned, his sharp eyes narrowing. He noticed it immediately—the change in Eishi's gaze. The "lifelessness" was still there, but the vacuous quality was gone. It had been replaced by something cold and calculating.
"I called you here because the 'True Gourmet' movement requires a catalyst," Azami stated, pouring tea with surgical precision. "The Council is wavering and I have already secured more than fifty percent of the board," Azami's voice was a low, melodic hum, the sound of a predator confident in its trap. He spoke as if he were reciting a holy scripture, his gaze fixed on the golden amber of his drink.
"The coup is no longer a possibility; it is an inevitability. Tōtsuki is an overgrown garden, Tsukasa-kun, choked by the weeds of mediocrity. We are the shears."
He finally looked up, his violet eyes flickering with a fanatic gleam. "Now, it is your turn. You will mobilize the remaining five members of the Elite Ten. They respect your strength—or rather, they fear the vacuum your absence would create. Once they sign the petition to remove Senzaemon Nakiri, the era of the 'common' chef ends. Tōtsuki will finally belong to the truly gifted."
"For the startars, "I called you here because the future '92nd generation'—those pebbles—are beginning to show 'individuality.' It is a rot that must be excised. I need you to initiate a series of Shokugeki to purge the research societies."
Azami slid a heavy, black leather folder across the bar. It slid over the polished wood with a sickeningly smooth sound, coming to a rest against Eishi's hand.
To anyone else, it was a packet of administrative documents. To the old Eishi, it would have felt like a coffin lid.
"Sorry," Eishi said.
The word was small, but it hit the silent room like a gunshot. His voice was raspier than usual, worn thin by the mental strain of his new reality, but there was an edge to it—a jagged, metallic quality that hadn't been there before.
"But I won't do it," Eishi continued, his eyes meeting Azami's without the customary flinch. "And honestly? You should stop while you still have a shred of dignity left. This grand 'New Order' of yours? It's just a mid-life crisis with a high budget."
The silence that followed was not empty; it was pressurized. The ambient noise of the bar—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant, muffled roar of city traffic—seemed to vanish into a vacuum.
The "manipulative warmth" Azami usually reserved for his chosen puppets didn't just fade; it curdled into an absolute zero that threatened to crack the very glassware between them.
To Azami Nakiri, a tool that develops a will of its own isn't an evolution. It's a defect. A flaw in the manufacturing process that must be ground down or discarded.
"I see," Azami whispered. The sound was like a razor blade sliding over silk. He stood up, his movements fluid and predatory, unfolding his tall frame until he loomed over the counter.
He didn't reach for the folder. He reached for his phone, his expression shifting from cold fury into a mask of bored dismissal.
"I mistook your exhaustion for refinement, Tsukasa-kun. I thought the 'White Knight' was weary of the filth of the world, that you sought the same purity I do.
In reality, your spirit has simply rotted. You are no longer the centerpiece of my New Order. You are a broken prototype." He began to dial a number that Eishi knew belonged to the Tōtsuki administrative council.
"If a tool is broken beyond repair, it is discarded. I don't need a rebellious First Seat. I will have you stripped of your rank and expelled by morning."
"Tōtsuki has plenty of 'trash' I can mold into a more obedient shape. You will be forgotten before the sun rises, Eishi. Your 'perfection' was always a lie I told you so you would serve."
For the old Eishi Tsukasa, these words would have been a death sentence. The fear of failure, the paralyzing obsession with his own culinary "perfection," and the crushing weight of others' expectations would have brought him to his knees, begging for a second chance.
But this Eishi was looking at the world through a HUD.
In his peripheral vision, a [System Alert] flashed in urgent, neon crimson. He could feel the heavy, dragging weight of his heart thumping erratically against his ribs from the sheer physical toll of the last few days.
But his mind was firing at a frequency Azami couldn't comprehend, running simulations, calculating social variables, and dissecting the man's psychological armor.
"Expel me? Go ahead," Eishi said. A mocking, jagged grin broke through his mask of fatigue. He didn't just stand; he leaned forward, invading Azami's carefully maintained personal space. "But we both know the math doesn't work, Azami-sama. You're a strategist, right? Then do the numbers."
Azami's thumb hovered over the "Call" button, his brow twitching.
"If the First Seat—the 'White Knight of the Table'—vanishes without a fight, the rest of the Elite Ten won't fall in line. They'll panic," Eishi's voice grew stronger, fueled by the cold logic of the system.
"Rindō isn't as blind as you think she is; she's a predator, and she'll smell the blood in the water. She'll see the strings you're pulling. You won't have a Council."
"You'll have a mutiny on your hands before you can even find a new puppet to fill my chair. You'll lose the board, you'll lose the coup, and you'll go back to being an exile in the snow."
The logic was sound. The Elite Ten followed the hierarchy of strength. If the pinnacle was removed by administrative decree rather than culinary defeat, the entire meritocratic structure of Tōtsuki would crumble into chaos.
Azami knew it. Eishi saw the micro-hesitation in the way Azami's grip tightened on the phone.
Eishi stepped closer, ignoring the freezing aura radiating from the older man. "So, let's make it official. A Shokugeki. Right here, right now. The kitchen in the back is fully stocked for the gods of industry. Let's see if your 'true gourmet' can actually stand up to the 'trash' you're so afraid of."
"And the stakes?" Azami hissed, his eyes narrowing into slits.
"If I lose, I'll sign my whitdrawl papers myself," Eishi declared, his voice ringing out in the empty bar.
"I'll vanish. No drama, no mutiny. I'll just be a 'failure' who couldn't handle the pressure of the throne. You get your clean transition."
"And if you win?"
"If I win, you leave me alone. I keep my seat, and I run the Elite Ten my way. No more 'Educational Shokugekis.' No more of your leashes. I become the sole authority of the Council, and you stay in the shadows where you belong."
A digital chime echoed only in Eishi's mind.
[SYSTEM ALERT: HIGH-STAKES DUEL INITIALIZED!]
[Target: Azami Nakiri (The God of Gourmet)]
[Host Status: STA: 4 (Dangerously Low)]
[Quest: The Rogue Knight]
[Objective: Secure independence by defeating Azami Nakiri in an unofficial Shokugeki.]
[Reward: 800 FP (Fate Points) Three Types of Haki (Unlock: Observation, Armament, Conqueror)]
[Trait: [Unshackled] – Immunity to psychological manipulation and intimidation.]
[Penalty: Permanent Expulsion]
Azami let out a short, dry chuckle. It wasn't a sound of amusement, but a rattle of suppressed rage. He tucked his phone away and began to unbutton his cuffs, peeling back the layers of his black coat to reveal the pristine white shirt beneath.
"You've grown a spine, Tsukasa-kun. It's a shame I have to snap it. I suppose even a broken tool can be used one last time to demonstrate the necessity of its replacement." He walked toward the kitchen doors, his stride elegant and lethal.
"Very well. I accept. I shall personally oversee your 'retirement.' Prepare yourself—I will show you the difference between a chef who cooks for perfection and a man who is perfection."
Eishi took a deep breath, the [STA: 4] warning blinking rhythmically. His hands were shaking, but his mind was a fortress of cold data. He followed Azami into the kitchen, the battle for the soul of Tōtsuki—and his own survival—beginning under the hum of the industrial fluorescent lights.