Two weeks later, Ryu found himself in the most intimidating situation of his new life: standing in a professional kitchen at Totsuki's administrative building, facing a panel of three judges for his final pre-entrance evaluation.
In the center sat an elderly man with a presence so commanding it made the air feel heavy "Senzaemon Nakiri", Director of Totsuki Academy and living legend of the culinary world. To his right sat Gin Dojima, now head of Totsuki's resort operations, who had been First Seat during his father's generation. To his left sat a severe-looking woman Ryu recognized from photos "Fumio Daimido", former Elite Ten member and current dormitory head.
His father stood in the corner, arms crossed, face neutral. This was Ryu's test alone.
"Ryu Nakamura," Senzaemon's voice resonated like distant thunder. "Son of Takeshi Nakamura, former Third Seat. Grandson of Mei Lin Tan, whose laksa once made three French master chefs question their entire careers."
The weight of legacy pressed down on Ryu's shoulders.
"You've been accepted to Totsuki based on your preliminary evaluations," Senzaemon continued. "But your father has requested this additional assessment. He believes you're ready for something most first-years never face, a proper shokugeki-level evaluation before you even begin classes."
Ryu swallowed hard but kept his posture straight.
"Your challenge," Gin Dojima spoke up, his voice calm but authoritative, "is simple. Create a dish using Southeast Asian techniques that will make us understand why your father believes ASEAN cuisine deserves recognition at the highest levels of culinary arts."
"You have two hours," Fumio added. "The ingredients available are comprehensive but not unlimited. Choose wisely."
Senzaemon's eyes bore into Ryu. "And understand this, we will judge this not as a student dish, but as if it were served at a three-Michelin-star restaurant. Your father requested no mercy, and we will show none. Begin."
Ryu moved to the ingredient station, his mind racing. Two hours. A dish that represented everything he'd learned. Everything his mother's heritage and father's training had built toward.
What would make three masters understand?
He could make rendang, it was his strongest dish now, after weeks of practice. But rendang took four hours minimum. Laksa was still inconsistent for him. Kare-kare was good but maybe too esoteric.
Then his eyes landed on a whole fish, sea bass, fresh, probably from this morning's market. And suddenly, he knew.
Ikan kuah asam pedas.
Spicy and sour fish curry, a Malaysian dish his mother had apparently made for his father on their first date. It was complex but achievable in two hours. It showcased the balance of ASEAN cooking, heat, sourness, sweetness, savoriness. And it had personal meaning.
Ryu began gathering ingredients with purpose: the sea bass, fresh turmeric, galangal, lemongrass, torch ginger flower, dried chilies, candlenuts, belacan (shrimp paste), tamarind, okra, tomatoes, pineapple, and Vietnamese coriander.
He started by making the rempah, the soul paste. His hands moved automatically now, muscle memory from weeks of practice. Pound the dried chilies first to break them down. Add candlenuts and shallots. Grind until a coarse paste forms. Add fresh turmeric (staining his hands bright yellow), galangal, belacan. Pound until everything surrenders its individual identity and becomes unified.
Twenty minutes of pounding. His arms burned, but the pain was familiar now, a reminder of effort, of care.
While the rempah rested, he prepared the fish, cleaning it thoroughly, scoring the flesh so flavors could penetrate, rubbing with salt and turmeric. Not to dominate the fish, but to prepare it for its transformation.
He heated oil in a pot and fried the rempah until it sang that crucial moment when the paste split, releasing its oils, transforming from raw to aromatic. The kitchen filled with the scent of toasted spices and shrimp paste.
Ryu added water, tamarind paste (for sourness), a touch of palm sugar (for balance), and that secret ingredient his mother's notes emphasized. torch ginger flower, sliced thin. Most Japanese cooks never used it, but in Malaysian cooking, it added a complexity that elevated the entire dish.
The broth simmered, and Ryu tasted constantly, adjusting. Too sour? Add a bit more palm sugar. Too sweet? More tamarind. The balance had to be perfect. aggressive but harmonious, complex but clear.
He added okra (for body), tomatoes (for acidity and umami), and pineapple chunks (for sweetness and texture contrast). Let them simmer until they surrendered their flavors to the broth.
Finally, with thirty minutes left, he gently slid the sea bass into the broth. This was the crucial moment, overcook the fish and it would dry out, undercook and it would be raw.
Ryu watched carefully, spooning the hot broth over the fish to ensure even cooking. He could feel the judges' eyes on him, but he blocked them out. Right now, only the fish mattered.
As the fish cooked, he prepared the garnish, fresh Vietnamese coriander (polygonum), sliced torch ginger flower, bird's eye chilies sliced thin, and lime wedges. In ASEAN cooking, garnishes weren't decoration,they were flavor components that let diners customize their experience.
Twenty-five minutes later, the fish was perfectly cooked—the flesh just turning opaque, still moist, flaking gently when tested with a spoon.
Ryu plated carefully. The broth went into a shallow bowl first—that vibrant orange-red color that promised heat and complexity. The fish positioned elegantly in the center. Okra, tomatoes, and pineapple arranged around it. The garnishes placed precisely—not fussily, but with intention. A drizzle of the aromatic cooking oil over the top. Fresh Vietnamese coriander scattered like green confetti.
"Time," Fumio announced.
Ryu stepped back, breathing hard, and presented his dish.
The three judges leaned forward, examining the presentation. Senzaemon's expression remained inscrutable. Gin Dojima's eyes narrowed analytically. Fumio's severe face showed nothing.
"Explain your dish," Senzaemon commanded.
"Ikan kuah asam pedas," Ryu began, his voice steadier than he felt. "A Malaysian spicy and sour fish curry. The broth represents the core philosophy of ASEAN cooking—balancing five fundamental flavors: spicy from chilies, sour from tamarind, sweet from palm sugar and pineapple, salty from the fish and belacan, and savory from the torch ginger flower and aromatics."
He continued, "The fish is cooked gently in the broth so it absorbs the flavors while maintaining its own integrity. The vegetables add textural contrast—the okra's slight mucilaginous quality thickens the broth naturally, the tomatoes provide acidity, the pineapple adds sweetness and a clean finish."
"The garnishes," Ryu gestured to them, "allow customization. More herbs for freshness, more chilies for heat, lime juice for additional sourness. In ASEAN cuisine, we believe diners should participate in finalizing their dish's flavor balance."
Gin Dojima was the first to taste. He took a spoonful of broth, then a piece of fish with some vegetables. His expression remained neutral as he chewed slowly.
Then his eyes widened slightly. "The heat builds rather than attacks," he said, more to himself than anyone. "The sourness cuts through the richness of the fish. The pineapple—unexpected but it works. Provides sweetness without being cloying."
He took another bite, this time adding some Vietnamese coriander. "The herbs add a cooling element that lets you taste more without the heat overwhelming. Sophisticated heat management."
Fumio tasted next, her analytical approach evident in how she separated each component mentally. "The rempah is well-integrated. I can taste the belacan providing depth without being fishy. The torch ginger flower adds a floral note that prevents the dish from being one-dimensionally spicy. The fish is cooked perfectly—moist, flaking gently."
She added lime juice and more chilies, then tasted again. "The dish responds to adjustment. The lime juice brightens everything, the additional chilies add heat without disrupting balance. This is interactive cuisine—the diner becomes a participant."
Finally, Senzaemon tasted. He took his time, eating slowly, methodically. The room was completely silent except for the sound of his spoon against the bowl.
Then something happened that made Ryu's heart stop—Senzaemon's chef coat began to strain. The buttons were flexing against the fabric, and Senzaemon's face showed something Ryu had never expected to see: genuine pleasure.
"This broth," Senzaemon said slowly, his voice carrying authority that came from decades at the pinnacle of culinary arts, "is not trying to be French bisque. It's not apologizing for its fermented shrimp paste or its aggressive heat. It simply is, with complete confidence in its own tradition."
He took another bite of the fish. "The sea bass is treated with respect—enhanced but not dominated. In French cooking, we might make a beurre blanc, a velouté, something that showcases classical technique. But this broth doesn't showcase technique—it showcases understanding. Understanding of balance, of heat management, of how to build complexity through layering rather than multiplication."
Senzaemon looked directly at Ryu, and his expression was unreadable. "I've eaten in three-star Michelin restaurants across Europe. I've tasted dishes that cost thousands of dollars per portion. And yet this—" he gestured to the bowl, "—this humble curry made with accessible ingredients has made me think. Made me question assumptions I didn't know I had about what constitutes 'fine dining.'"
He set down his spoon. "Your father told me you've been training for three months with an intensity that borders on obsessive. That you wake at 5 AM and cook until midnight. That you've cried from frustration and exhaustion but never quit."
Senzaemon's eyes gleamed with something that might have been approval. "And now I understand why he pushed you so hard. This dish doesn't taste like a student's work. It tastes like someone who understands not just how to cook, but why we cook."
He stood, his massive presence seeming to fill the entire kitchen. "Ryu Nakamura, you pass this evaluation with distinction. More than that—you've reminded three old chefs that cuisine isn't a hierarchy with European traditions at the top. It's a vast landscape where every tradition has wisdom to offer, if we're humble enough to learn."
Ryu felt his legs almost give out from relief.
Gin Dojima spoke up, a slight smile on his usually stoic face. "Your father and I had a famous rivalry. We pushed each other constantly, and I won't lie—I resented his success with ASEAN cuisine because it challenged everything I'd been taught about French technique being supreme. But time has given me perspective. Congratulations, Ryu. You're going to be a worthy addition to Totsuki."
Fumio added, "The girls in Polaris Dormitory are going to either love you or hate you when they taste your cooking. Probably both simultaneously."
Senzaemon walked over to where Takeshi stood. "Your son has your technical skill and his mother's heart. That's a formidable combination." He turned back to Ryu. "But understand—Totsuki will not be this kind. Your fellow students will see your father's legacy as a target on your back. Some will want to prove they're better than the 'Third Seat's kid.' Others will dismiss ASEAN cuisine as exotic novelty."
His voice became steel. "Prove them wrong. Not through arrogance, but through excellence that cannot be denied. Make every dish a statement that your tradition deserves respect. Can you do that?"
Ryu thought about his previous life—the loneliness, the emptiness of chasing validation. Then he thought about the past three months—the pain, the failures, the growth. The warmth of his father's guidance. The weight of his mother's legacy.
"Yes," Ryu said firmly. "I can. I will."
Senzaemon nodded once—a gesture that seemed to carry decades of authority and judgment. "Then I look forward to seeing your growth at Totsuki Academy. Dismissed."
As the judges left, Takeshi walked over to Ryu. For a moment, his stern instructor's facade cracked, and Ryu saw pride blazing in his father's eyes.
"Your mother," Takeshi said quietly, "would have been so proud. That dish—that was her spirit in every bite."
Then his expression hardened again. "But this was just one evaluation. One dish. One moment. At Totsuki, you'll face this pressure constantly. Every day will be a test. Every class will be a battlefield. And the Elite Ten—" he paused, "—the Elite Ten is where the real wars are fought."
"Are you ready for that?"
Ryu looked at his father—the man who'd walked this path before him, who'd fought these wars, who'd earned his place in culinary history not through privilege but through relentless excellence.
"I'm ready," Ryu said. "Teach me everything else I need to know before the entrance ceremony."
Takeshi smiled, rare, genuine, warm. "Then let's get back to the restaurant. You've got six more weeks until classes start. We're going to use every single day."
As they left Totsuki's administrative building, Ryu looked back at the imposing structure that would become his home for the next three years.
Here I come, Totsuki Academy. This time, I won't lose myself. This time, I'll remember why I cook.
This time, I'll do it right.