The roar was a physical force.
It was a tidal wave of sound from fifty thousand throats, crashing against the chrome-and-quartz walls of the Aethertaste Culinary Colosseum. Millions more were watching the livestream, their comments a scrolling waterfall of hype and speculation.
BOOM!
Pillars of pyrotechnic flame erupted from the arena floor, bathing the stage in a searing golden light. The air filled with the scent of caramelized sugar, ambition, and ozone. This wasn't just cooking. This was war.
This was the opening placement duel of the Aethertaste Senior Academy.
On one side of the dueling kitchen stood Reign Voltagrave, and he was everything the academy worshipped.
His snow-white chef's uniform was so pristine it seemed to repel light. His silver hair was swept back from a face that looked like it was sculpted by a god who specialized in cheekbones. At his hip, the hilt of his custom 'Plasma-Sear' knife hummed with a low, predatory energy, crackling with faint blue sparks.
The crowd chanted his name, a single, thunderous heartbeat.
"REIGN! REIGN! REIGN!"
On the other side stood... a traffic accident.
Izen Loxidon blinked owlishly, his expression one of placid curiosity. He wore a hazard-orange safety vest, zipped up over a faded t-shirt with a cartoon spaceship on it. His apron was a frilly, pastel pink monstrosity emblazoned with a giant, winking cat face.
His feet were stuffed into two different-colored rubber clogs. One was the color of a cautionary road sign, the other the green of an unripe banana.
He looked less like a chef and more like he'd taken a wrong turn on his way to unclog a drain.
The unified chant for Reign dissolved into a ragged, confused murmur, which quickly swelled into a chorus of jeers and outright laughter.
On the livestream, the comments exploded.
[LOL, is that a joke? Who let the janitor in?]
[That apron! My eyes are bleeding!]
[This is an insult to the Lightning Prince! Get him off the stage!]
Up in the VIP commentator box, Nyelle Ardent leaned forward. Her hair, streaked with a fiery crimson that mirrored the meteor-fast movements of her wok, framed a face of intense focus. Her sharp, crimson eyes—said to be able to spot a single wilted herb from a hundred paces—narrowed in disgust.
"Are they kidding me?" she muttered, her voice a low growl that could curdle milk. "This is the best the new crop has to offer? A clown?"
Beside her, Ciela Vantablue, the academy's top social-stream star, was already live, her face glowing in the light of her phone.
"OMG, you guys, you are not going to believe this!" she chirped to her millions of followers. "We have a total disaster-chef about to get absolutely demolished by Reign Voltagrave himself! Smash that like button and get ready for the carnage! Hashtag #ClownCuisine!"
Izen seemed completely oblivious to it all. He was too busy admiring the kitchen. He set his heavy, dented, red metal toolbox on the pristine workstation with a dull thump. He hummed a cheerful, wildly off-key tune.
'Wow,' he thought, his gaze sweeping over the polished surfaces. 'Very shiny. They must have a great cleaning crew.'
A massive holographic screen flickered to life above the arena, and the booming, amplified voice of the Head Proctor echoed through the Colosseum.
"The theme for this duel is… PURITY!"
A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Purity. The ultimate test. It demanded a chef take a single, flawless ingredient and elevate it to a state of divine perfection. It was a test of elegance, of precision, of understanding an ingredient's very soul.
A gleaming pedestal rose from the center of Reign's station. On it, bathed in a holy golden light, sat a single 'Sun-Kissed Tomato.' It was a legendary ingredient, grown in zero-gravity greenhouses and watered with purified morning dew. Its skin was flawless, glowing with a gentle inner light that promised unparalleled sweetness and umami.
Reign smirked, a picture of absolute, unshakable confidence. He drew his Plasma-Sear knife.
FZZZZT!
The blade shimmered, the air around it wavering with heat and electricity.
Then, all eyes turned to Izen's station.
A rusty, grime-covered chute groaned open above his countertop. With a series of sad, wet thuds, a pile of garbage spilled out.
SPLAT. THUD. SQUISH.
There were bruised, discarded tomato ends, their flesh pale and watery. Wilted, browning basil stems. A half-squeezed, shriveled lemon rind. And the stale, rock-hard heel of a loaf of bread, so dry it looked fossilized.
It was the literal refuse from the academy's prep kitchens. The stuff they fed to the pigs.
The crowd, which had fallen silent in anticipation, erupted in a howl of derisive laughter. This wasn't a duel. It was a public execution. Reign's smirk widened into a look of utter, undisguised contempt.
"You have got to be kidding me," Nyelle breathed from the commentary box, her fists clenching. She felt insulted on behalf of her craft.
The Proctor's voice boomed again, showing no mercy. "Chefs! You have thirty minutes! Your time… BEGINS NOW!"
Reign was a blur of motion, a symphony of culinary perfection. His knife danced, a streak of lightning carving the Sun-Kissed Tomato into impossibly thin, translucent slices. He was already manipulating the ambient 'Umamancy,' weaving vectors of flavor and heat into a perfect, harmonious pattern around his station. He was a conductor, and the very air was his orchestra.
And Izen?
He calmly clicked open the latches on his red toolbox.
The crowd leaned in, a mix of morbid curiosity and scorn. What would he pull out? A rusty spork? A butter knife?
Instead, Izen reached in and pulled out a compact, battery-powered jackhammer, the kind used for breaking up concrete. A heavily modified tenderizer bit was attached to the end.
CLICK. WHIRRRRRR.
He held it up, tested its heft with a satisfied nod, and aimed it at the pathetic pile of garbage on his counter.
The entire Colosseum, all fifty thousand people, fell into a stunned, absolute silence. Even Reign paused his god-like movements to stare, his jaw slack with disbelief. Ciela's bubbly commentary died in her throat.
'Okay,' Izen thought, his expression as calm as a meditating monk. 'First things first. Gotta wake up the memories.'
Then, he pulled the trigger.
VRRRRRRRRRRR-RRRRRR-RRMMMMMM!
The deafening roar of industrial equipment shattered the sacred culinary atmosphere. The clown, it seemed, had begun to cook.