Three weeks had passed since that first rendang. Three weeks of waking up at 5 AM, going to the market with his father, cooking until midnight. Three weeks of calluses forming on his hands from the mortar and pestle. Three weeks of burns, cuts, and exhaustion so deep Ryu sometimes forgot which life he was living.
He'd made rendang seventeen times now. Each one better than the last. Each one teaching him something new about patience, about flavor, about listening to ingredients.
But rendang was only the beginning.
Ryu stood in the kitchen at 11 PM, staring at the ingredients for his next challenge: laksa lemak, the spicy coconut noodle soup that had won his mother her legendary shokugeki against his father.
"This one's harder," Takeshi had said that morning, his expression serious. "Rendang is meditation, slow, patient. Laksa is precision. The broth must be balanced perfectly, too much coconut milk and it's cloying, too little and it's thin. Too much spice and it overwhelms, too little and it's bland. The noodles must be cooked exactly right. The garnishes must be fresh and properly prepared. Everything comes together in the final bowl, and there's no hiding mistakes."
Ryu had nodded confidently. After three weeks of intensive training, he felt ready.
He was wrong.
The first attempt at laksa broth had been a disaster, the coconut milk curdled because he'd added it to broth that was too hot. The second attempt was too thin, lacking body. The third had perfect consistency but the spice balance was off—too much galangal, not enough lemongrass.
Now, at 11 PM, on his sixth attempt of the day, Ryu was on the verge of breaking.
His hands trembled as he pounded the laksa paste, shallots, garlic, dried chilies, turmeric, lemongrass, galangal, candlenuts, coriander seeds, and that crucial terasi. His arms, already exhausted from making rendang that morning, screamed in protest.
Just use the food processor, a voice in his head whispered. Your father's asleep. He'll never know. You're so tired. Just this once.
Ryu's hand moved toward the cabinet where the food processor was stored.
Then he remembered: in his previous life, he'd taken shortcuts constantly. More efficient, he'd told himself. More professional. But those shortcuts had led to food that was technically perfect but soulless. Food that earned stars but didn't earn love.
No. I'm not making the same mistakes.
He pounded harder, ignoring the pain, tears of frustration streaming down his face.
"Why are you crying?"
Ryu jumped. His father stood in the doorway, wearing pajama pants and an old t-shirt, looking more human than Ryu had ever seen him.
"I'm not—" Ryu started, then gave up. "I can't get it right. Six attempts. Six failures. The broth is either too thick or too thin. The balance is always off. And I'm so tired, Dad. My arms hurt, my back hurts, I can barely think straight."
Takeshi walked over and looked at the laksa paste Ryu was making. He said nothing for a long moment.
"Your mother" Takeshi finally began, "spent two months perfecting her laksa before that shokugeki. Two months of daily attempts. She cried almost every night, just like you're doing now."
He pulled up a stool and sat down. "Do you know why laksa is so hard?"
Ryu shook his head.
"Because it demands balance," Takeshi explained. "Rendang can overpower—it's supposed to be intense, bold, unapologetic. But laksa? Laksa is like conducting an orchestra. Every element must be present but none can dominate. The coconut milk's richness, the spice paste's heat, the fish or chicken's umami, the herbs' freshness, the noodles' texture, all equal voices in a perfect harmony."
He took the pestle from Ryu's trembling hands. "And you can't force harmony. You can't brute-force balance. You have to feel it."
Takeshi began pounding the paste himself, and Ryu saw the difference immediately. His father's movements weren't aggressive—they were rhythmic. Each strike had purpose, breaking down ingredients with the minimum force necessary. It looked effortless, but Ryu could see the decades of experience in every motion.
"When your mother beat me," Takeshi continued, still pounding, "I was so confident. I'd made perfect bouillabaisse hundreds of times. Classic French technique, expensive ingredients, flawless execution. But when I tasted her laksa, I understood what I'd been missing my entire culinary life."
He paused, looking at the paste in the mortar. "Her laksa wasn't trying to be anything other than what it was. It wasn't trying to impress. It wasn't trying to prove superiority. It was simply... complete. Every flavor in perfect balance, creating something greater than the sum of its parts."
Takeshi met Ryu's eyes. "You're trying too hard to make it perfect. You're thinking with your head instead of your heart. Laksa doesn't respond to pressure, it responds to understanding."
"But how do I understand something I keep failing at?" Ryu asked, frustration making his voice crack.
"By accepting the failure as part of the process," Takeshi said simply. He continued pounding, the paste transforming under his experienced hands. "Every failed attempt teaches you something. Too thick? You learned about coconut milk reduction rates. Too spicy? You learned about chili quantities. These aren't failures, they're education."
He finished pounding and added the paste to a hot wok with oil. The sizzle filled the kitchen, and Ryu watched as his father cooked the paste with the same care Ryu had learned for rendang, stirring constantly, waiting for the split, coaxing out flavors through heat and time.
"In Totsuki," Takeshi said as he worked, "you're going to face people who've never failed. Prodigies who get everything right on the first try. Natural talents who make cooking look effortless. And they'll make you feel inadequate."
He added stock to the wok, then coconut milk, stirring gently. "But you know what? Those prodigies plateau. Because they've never learned to learn from failure. They've never developed the resilience that comes from screwing up and trying again."
The broth began to simmer, and Takeshi adjusted the heat precisely. "Your mother wasn't a natural talent. She worked for every skill she had. And that made her stronger than people who'd never struggled. Because when she hit a wall, she knew how to break through it."
He tasted the broth, considered, added a squeeze of lime juice. Tasted again. Nodded with satisfaction.
"Here," he said, offering Ryu the spoon. "Taste this and then taste your last attempt. Tell me the difference."
Ryu tasted his father's broth first. It was perfect, rich but not heavy, spicy but not overwhelming, with layers of flavor that unfolded gradually. The coconut milk's sweetness balanced the lime's acid. The fish sauce's funk added depth without being obvious. Every element supported the others.
Then he tasted his own last attempt. It was... fine. Good, even. But compared to his father's, it lacked that completion. His had competing flavors—the coconut milk and spice paste fighting for dominance rather than supporting each other.
"Mine tastes like ingredients," Ryu said slowly. "Yours tastes like a dish."
"Exactly." Takeshi smiled. "And you know what the difference is? I wasn't trying to make it taste like anything specific. I was listening to the broth tell me what it needed. Too coconut-forward? Add acid. Too spicy? Add more coconut milk. Too flat? Add fish sauce. The broth guides you, if you listen."
He poured the broth into a bowl and added fresh rice noodles, shredded chicken, bean sprouts, and herbs. The presentation was simple but beautiful—nothing fussy, just honest food.
"Eat," Takeshi commanded. "Then go to bed. Tomorrow, you're not making laksa."
Ryu looked up in surprise. "But I haven't gotten it right yet."
"Exactly," his father said. "You're too in your head about laksa now. You need to reset. Tomorrow, we're making something completely different—Filipino kare-kare. Peanut-based oxyail stew with vegetables and shrimp paste on the side. Different philosophy, different techniques. Give your mind a break from laksa, and when you come back to it next week, you'll see it with fresh eyes."
As Ryu ate the perfect laksa his father had made, he felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. The broth was comforting, warming, exactly what he needed.
"Dad," Ryu said quietly, "in my—" He caught himself. He'd almost said 'in my previous life.' "In my dreams sometimes, I'm a chef who forgot why he loved cooking. Who chased perfection until food became just... work. No joy. No soul. Just technique."
Takeshi looked at him seriously. "Those are important dreams. Dreams that remind you of who you don't want to become." He placed a hand on Ryu's shoulder. "The path ahead is hard. Totsuki will push you to your limits and beyond. You'll face people who seem better than you, more talented, more successful. And it would be easy to lose yourself trying to match them."
"But remember this moment," he continued. "Remember what it feels like to struggle, to fail, to cry over a pot of broth that won't balance. Because this frustration? This is where growth happens. Not in the successes, but in the failures you learn from."
Ryu nodded, feeling something settle in his chest. His father was right—he'd been so focused on making perfect laksa that he'd forgotten to learn from each attempt.
"Now finish eating and go to bed," Takeshi ordered, his voice returning to its usual commanding tone. "5 AM comes early, and tomorrow you're learning to make peanut sauce from scratch. Your arms think they're tired now? Wait until you've pounded roasted peanuts for forty-five minutes."
Despite everything, Ryu laughed. It felt good to laugh, to remember that this journey, while difficult, was also a gift. How many people got a second chance at life? How many got to train under a legend, learning traditions passed down through generations?
As he climbed the stairs to his room, bowl of perfect laksa in hand, Ryu looked back at his father cleaning the kitchen. Takeshi moved with the same economy of motion he brought to cooking, efficient but never rushed, purposeful but never rigid.
I'm going to make you proud, Ryu thought. Both of you, my mothers, my father, everyone who came before me. I'll honor this second chance. I'll remember why cooking matters.
He finished the laksa in his room, savoring every spoonful, letting the perfect balance of flavors remind him what he was aiming for. Not perfection for its own sake, but perfection in service of connection, of joy, of soul.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. Kare-kare. Then maybe Vietnamese bun bo hue. Then Thai massaman curry. Then back to laksa with fresh perspective.
Two and a half months until Totsuki. Two and a half months to transform from a competent home cook into someone ready to face the academy's challenges.
It wasn't enough time. It would never be enough time.
But it was the time he had, and he'd use every second of it.
Ryu set his empty bowl on the nightstand and opened his mother's journal again, reading her notes about kare-kare:
"Patience with peanuts. They must surrender completely, becoming smooth as silk. Rush this and you get chunky sauce. Respect the time, respect the ingredient, and you get velvet that coats everything with love. - Mei Lin"
Below that, his father had added: "Made chunky peanut sauce six times before I learned. She was patient with me. Be patient with yourself."
Ryu smiled, closed the journal, and let exhaustion take him into dreamless sleep.
To be continued...