Chapter 150: The Beast is Unleashed, The Wok's Fury
The atmosphere inside the Dimensional Restaurant had settled into a state of harmonious tranquility, a stark contrast to the bustling world outside.
Inui Hinako sat at her table near the window, her posture relaxed for the first time since entering the shop. The empty bowl of Chawanmushi sat before her, scraped clean of every last vestige of egg custard. She held her porcelain spoon, staring at her reflection in the ceramic glaze, lost in a reverie that went far beyond simple satiety.
Sometimes, a dish is not just a collection of ingredients. It is not merely proteins, fats, and carbohydrates arranged on a plate. Sometimes, a dish is a key that unlocks a dormant room in the memory.
When the warm, savory custard had slid down her throat earlier, it didn't just feed her body; it evoked an all-encompassing warmth. It was a simple, unadorned comfort that bypassed her critical chef's brain and spoke directly to the little girl she used to be.
The taste of childhood... Hinako thought, watching the steam rise from her refilled cup of tea.
The so-called "taste of childhood" is never a specific Michelin-starred recipe. It isn't about complex molecular gastronomy or rare truffles imported from Europe. It is a feeling. It is the taste of safety. It is the taste of a time when the world was small, manageable, and kind—a time before the pressures of the Elite Ten, before the brutal competition of the culinary world, before the weight of running her own business settled on her shoulders.
It was the taste of innocence, perfectly preserved in a bowl of steamed egg.
While Hinako floated in her nostalgic bubble, a different kind of activity was happening at the adjacent table.
Cerberus was sprawled across the tabletop like a boneless cat, her chin resting on her crossed arms. Her smartphone was propped up against a napkin holder, the screen glowing in the dim light. She was staring at the screen with intense interest, her crimson eyes darting back and forth as she scrolled through the chat history of the Dimensional Group.
"Eh?"
Cerberus blinked, tapping the screen with a clawed finger. She read the names listed in the chat log—names that had popped up during the earlier conversation about basketball.
"Green-kun... Red-kun... Purple-kun... Yellow-kun... and Blue-kun..." Cerberus counted on her fingers, her brow furrowing in confusion. "They're all colors! Why are they all colors?"
Lucifer, who was sipping her red wine nearby, leaned over to look. The Queen of Hell scanned the chat, a small, amused smile playing on her lips.
"Hmm," Lucifer nodded sagely, swirling her glass. "You are right. They are indeed all colors. Akashi (Red), Midorima (Green), Murasakibara (Purple), Kise (Yellow), Aomine (Blue)... It seems this 'Generation of Miracles' has a very consistent naming theme. It's almost like a Sentai hero team."
She chuckled softly. "But I never thought Sonoko and Kirari actually knew that Akashi boy personally. The human elite circles are smaller than I thought."
Cerberus frowned, tapping her chin with her index finger. A vague sense of déjà vu washed over her chaotic mind.
"How do I always feel like I've forgotten something...?" Cerberus whispered, tilting her head.
Lucifer glanced at the Hellhound but didn't say anything. For Cerberus, thoughts were like butterflies—colorful, erratic, and fleeting. Whatever she had forgotten was probably unimportant, like where she buried a bone or what day of the week it was. It was better not to trouble her simple mind.
"Eh? What is this?"
Cerberus swiped to the next image in the chat. Her eyes widened.
It was an old photo. In the frame, a slightly younger-looking Ren stood in the center of a basketball court, holding a ball. Surrounding him were five tall teenagers with colorful hair, all wearing Teiko Middle School jerseys. They looked exhausted, sweaty, but genuinely happy.
"It's a group photo of Ren and that 'Generation of Miracles'!" Cerberus exclaimed in a hushed whisper. "Did Ren know them that early? He looks... different here."
Lucifer leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing as she inspected the image. "He does. Look at his eyes. They are... sharper there. Less gentle."
Even though they were surprised, the two demons kept their voices low. This was a private discovery, a glimpse into their Master's mysterious past before the restaurant became a dimensional hub. To the other diners, it just looked like two girls gossiping over a phone.
Across the room, the sound of a chopstick hitting a plate signaled the end of the meal.
Clink.
Inui Hinako placed her chopsticks down on the rest. The last piece of Mixed Tempura had been consumed, leaving only a few golden crumbs on the oil-absorbing paper. The crisp sound of the final bite still echoed in her ears.
She rubbed her stomach, feeling the pleasant, heavy warmth of a meal well eaten.
"Phew..." Hinako exhaled, a smile of pure contentment stretching across her face. "It looks like I'll have to become a regular customer now..."
She finally understood.
She understood why the Director of Totsuki, the legendary Joichiro Saiba, and the discerning Nakiri Erina all praised this humble shop in the back alley. This Restaurant was magical. Despite using the most normal methods—frying, steaming, baking—Ren delivered flavors that surpassed the dish itself. He didn't just cook ingredients; he cooked emotions.
Hinako sat up straighter, her professional instincts kicking back in. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook. She opened it to a fresh page, clicking her pen.
I must analyze this, she thought, her eyes narrowing in concentration. I must understand how he achieved that texture in the Housho Yaki. The moisture retention was technically impossible.
She looked at the empty table, trying to recall the exact flavor profile. She wrote a few sentences about the heat distribution.
Then she stopped.
She frowned. She crossed out the lines.
She wrote again. Batter viscosity... oil temperature... marination time...
She stopped again. She sighed, closing the notebook.
She had no idea how to replicate it. She could analyze the chemical components, the cooking times, the heat distribution. But she couldn't analyze the feeling. She had written about the changes in texture, the balance of seasoning, but the words felt hollow on the paper.
Hinako stared at the cover of her notebook, lost in thought.
She realized that some flavors shouldn't be dissected. Not because they are terrible, but because they are too delicious. The more you analyze them, the more you lose the magic. The more you try to break down the rainbow, the less you see the colors. The more she savored the memory of the taste, the more she realized she was chasing a ghost.
"For this part," a gentle voice whispered near her ear, "I suggest changing the lemon juice to lime juice."
"Oh..." Hinako nodded absentmindedly, still in her daze. "Lime juice... yes, the acidity is sharper... it would cut through the fat..."
Then she froze.
"Eh?! Shopkeeper Ren?!"
Hinako jumped in her seat, nearly knocking over her tea cup. She scrambled to hide her notebook behind her back, her face flushing a deep crimson. Analyzing a meal in another chef's restaurant right after eating—taking notes like a spy—was incredibly rude. It was a breach of culinary etiquette.
Ren stood beside her table, smiling calmly. He didn't look offended in the slightest.
"Relax, Miss Inui," Ren chuckled. "Aren't dishes made for fellow chefs and gourmets to analyze, and for diners to enjoy? It's fine. Besides, today I also learned an interesting little idea from your sous chef regarding preparation. We are always learning."
Hinako breathed a sigh of relief, clutching her notebook to her chest. "Shopkeeper Ren... you really are a gentle person. Completely different from those seniors at Totsuki who like to tease juniors until they cry."
She looked up at him. "But... Shopkeeper Ren, why are you here?"
Ren pointed to the table. The empty plates had already been cleared away. In their place sat a single glass containing a dark, ruby-red liquid.
"After eating heavy, fried food," Ren explained softly, "it's always good to drink something acidic, right? Sour Plum Juice. It helps with digestion and cleanses the palate."
Hinako looked at the juice. It was chilled, condensation beading on the glass.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Just as she reached for it, Ren spoke again.
"Miss Inui," he said, his tone shifting slightly. "Your Housho Yaki... the one you made for Erina earlier... it doesn't have any major technical problems. Your knife skills are excellent."
Hinako looked up, surprised. "Then... why?"
"But you made one mistake," Ren said gently.
Hinako was stunned. She looked at Ren in confusion. "A mistake?"
"The dishes you make," Ren said, leaning against the empty chair opposite her, "are for customers to eat. Not for critics to judge. Not for those who just want to eat."
He looked her in the eye.
"What you pursue—technical perfection, innovation, complexity—is often what guests don't really care about."
"Eh?" Hinako blinked.
Ren smiled. "A chef's dish must first ensure that they like to eat it. If you don't enjoy your own food, how can you expect others to? And then, you must ensure the guests like to eat it. So, don't think about irrelevant things like scores or rankings."
He gestured with his hand. "Cooking is not a difficult matter; the operations are just cutting and heating. It is simple. But the result varies according to your different states of mind."
"My state of mind..." Hinako murmured. "Does it determine the quality of the dish?"
"No," Ren shook his head. "It determines whether you can be more meticulous."
He looked toward the kitchen where the preparations for the Hori family were waiting.
"Next time," Ren advised, "try treating every guest as the first guest to arrive after the Shop hasn't had anyone for a long time. Treat them with that level of freshness, gratitude, and hospitality. You'll understand then."
"What guests want is never as complicated as you imagine. Just like the dishes you just ate. Simple comfort."
Hinako stared blankly at Ren. The advice was simple, yet it struck a chord deep within her.
Ren turned to leave. He pushed his cart toward the kitchen. At the doorway, he paused and looked back over his shoulder with a gentle smile.
"Not every guest is Erina," he said.
He disappeared behind the noren curtains.
Hinako sat there for a long time. She pondered his words. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face. She shook her head.
"I didn't expect to still learn basic lessons after leaving school..." she whispered to herself.
Infusing emotions into cooking sounds like magic or superstition. It sounds absurd. But it is practical. Your mood determines your focus. Your focus determines your care.
Hinako realized that her stubborn desire to learn from Ren was driven by insecurity over Erina's critique. She wanted to be perfect. But Ren had shown her that the solution wasn't a new technique or a secret ingredient. It was meticulousness driven by care.
She understood now. There was no need to pursue such rigid perfection. Her Shop wouldn't have as few people as Ren's; she might make a dish countless times a night, but not all guests had the God Tongue. Most just wanted to be happy.
She picked up the glass of Sour Plum Juice from the table, intending to take a sip.
Just as the glass touched her lips, her chef's intuition spiked. She froze.
Her head snapped toward the kitchen.
ROAR.
It wasn't the gentle sizzle of frying tempura anymore.
Through the gap in the noren curtains, a flash of intense orange light erupted.
Fire.
Following the flash came the sound—the rhythmic, aggressive clack-clack-clack of metal striking metal. It was the sound of vigorous stir-frying.
And then, the smell hit.
Accompanying the stir-frying sounds was an aroma that made the salivary glands contract instantly.
It was spicy. It was savory. It was smoky. It smelled of garlic, ginger, fermented bean paste, and searing heat.
Cerberus and Lucifer stopped their conversation. They were stunned. This smell was not just ordinary fragrance. It was aggressive. It was commanding.
Without a word, the two exchanged a knowing glance. They both stood up and silently inched towards the kitchen entrance, peeking through the gap.
Fire. They saw fire.
At this moment, Ren held a heavy iron wok in one hand and a metal spatula in the other. He wasn't stir-frying on a standard stove; he was cooking over a fierce, roaring flame that licked the sides of the wok.
He tossed the wok. The contents flew into the air, engulfed by the flames.
With each stir, with each toss, the aroma intensified. It filled the kitchen, a physical presence of spice and heat.
Lucifer and Cerberus retreated, sitting back down at their table, eyes wide.
"What is that?" Lucifer asked, looking confused. "Ren... it's the first time I've seen him use that stove. He looks... intense."
Cerberus nodded, mesmerized.
Slowly, the firelight in the kitchen died down. But the aroma remained, thick and heavy in the air.
A beast composed of intense fragrance emerged from the kitchen door.
The beast was unleashed.
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