The interior of Ichiraku Ramen was a sanctuary of steam and savory smells.
It was mid-afternoon, the lull between the lunch rush and the dinner crowd. The air was warm and humid, carrying the rich, gelatinous scent of pork bones that had been boiling for twelve hours, layered with the sharp tang of pickled bamboo shoots and the earthy aroma of chopped scallions.
I sat on the end stool, sketching a bowl of ramen in my notebook. The charcoal stick made a soft scritch-scritch sound that was almost drowned out by the aggressive slurping happening to my left.
SLUUUUUUUUURP.
Naruto was on his third bowl. His face was buried in the ceramic, only the tips of his blonde hair visible above the rim. Next to him, Chōji Akimichi was eating with terrifying, mechanical precision—chopsticks down, noodles up, swallow, repeat. Shikamaru and Ino sat further down, nursing green tea and looking bored.
Behind the counter, a different kind of intensity was brewing.
"It's about volume, Teuchi-san! Volume!"
The voice was crackly, like dry leaves being crushed. It belonged to an elderly woman standing on a crate so she could see over the counter. She wore a brown striped robe and a light-colored apron with the symbol of Ankorodō—the famous dango shop—stitched on the pocket.
This was Tsubuan. Anko-sensei's grandmother. And she looked ready to start a war.
Teuchi, the usually jovial Ramen Guy, was wiping a bowl with a rag, his brow furrowed in concern. "I understand the concept, Tsubuan-san. But an eating contest? Here?"
"Think about the marketing!" Tsubuan insisted, waving a wrinkled hand. "The village is bored! Ninja need excitement! Civilians need a spectacle! You get ten contestants, line them up, and let them eat until they drop. The winner gets a prize, the losers pay for their meals, and the crowd goes wild! It drives business up!"
She paused, her sunken eyes darting around the shop nervously.
"But..." she muttered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The upfront costs... the ingredients... if nobody watches, we just wasted a hundred pounds of flour. And if the contestants are weak-stomached amateurs who throw up in the broth... it ruins the aesthetic."
She shuddered. "A partially digested narutomaki is not good for the brand."
Ayame, Teuchi's daughter, leaned over the counter. She had a mischievous glint in her eye.
"Why not do a test run, Dad?" Ayame suggested, tying her bandana tighter. "We have the ramen stock. Tsubuan-san has the mochi surplus from the Spring Festival. We combine forces."
Teuchi scratched his chin, looking at his bubbling pots. "A test run..."
"Exactly!" Ayame chirped. "We provide the noodles. Grandma provides the mochi for the 'Dessert Round'. We offer a simple prize so we don't lose the shop if someone actually wins. Something like... 50% off ramen for ten years?"
Teuchi's eyes widened. "Ten years?! Ayame, that's—"
"Who's gonna win against a ninja stomach anyway?" Ayame waved him off. "Most people tap out after four bowls. It's a safe bet. What could go wrong?"
The air in the shop seemed to freeze for a second.
What could go wrong?
That phrase was usually the precursor to an S-Rank disaster.
I looked up from my sketchbook. I adjusted my glasses, feeling the reflection of the steam cloud them over.
I looked down the line of stools.
Naruto slammed his empty bowl onto the counter. CLACK.
"OLD MAN! HIT ME AGAIN!" Naruto roared, broth dripping from his chin. "I'M JUST GETTING WARMED UP! BELIEVE IT!"
Next to him, Chōji silently stacked his seventh empty bowl on a tower that was already wobbling dangerously. He signaled for another with a single, raised finger.
I looked at Shikamaru.
He was already looking at me. He had slouched so far down in his stool he was practically horizontal, but his eyes were sharp. He looked at the bottomless pits sitting next to us. He looked at the worried old woman and the confident ramen chef.
A silent understanding passed between us. A telepathic message carried on the wavelength of Maximum Chaos Potential.
We have to make them do it, Shikamaru's eyes said.
Oh, absolutely, my eyes replied.
I cleared my throat, snapping my charcoal stick shut.
"Hey, Naruto," I said, my voice dripping with casual malice. "Did you hear that? They think ninja stomachs are weak."
Naruto froze. His head snapped toward me. "WHO SAID THAT?!"
"They're holding a contest," I lied smoothly. "To prove that nobody can eat more than ten bowls. The prize is... free ramen. For a decade."
The world stopped.
Naruto's aura flared visible orange. Chōji dropped his chopsticks.
Tsubuan stopped arguing. Teuchi stopped wiping. They both looked at the two boys who had suddenly become statues of pure, hungry ambition.
"I'm in," Chōji said, his voice grave.
"I'LL TAKE FIFTY!" Naruto screamed.
Teuchi paled. Tsubuan grinned, a terrifying expression that showed all three of her teeth.
"Excellent," the old woman cackled. "Fresh victims."