Winds of Rebellion, Aroma of Oxtail

In a glittering American metropolis, nestled within a high-walled estate invisible to the chaos beyond, a Renaissance-style mansion stood as a symbol of power, prestige, and wealth. The sprawling building—four stories tall and covering more than 10,000 square meters—boasted over 200 meticulously maintained rooms. Its finely carved arches, marble columns, and golden chandeliers whispered of old European nobility, while every detail screamed of modern affluence.

Inside one of its opulent halls, lit by warm golden lights and scented faintly of aged oak and wine, two men sat across from each other—one a guest, the other the master of this fortress of culinary ambition.

Osaji Kita, a large-framed man with a flushed face and sharp gaze, swirled the wine in his glass. The dark red liquid caught the light like a ruby dancing at twilight.

He took a deep breath, savoring the aroma. "Ah," he exclaimed, lips curling into a smile as he took a sip, "Lafite Rothschild, 1982. A perfect vintage… I didn't expect Nakamura Trading Company's American branch to be led by you, Azami."

Across from him, the man in question leaned back, a subtle smirk playing on his lips.

"Nakamura was my original surname," Azami said, his tone calm and clipped, as he gently set his glass down.

Osaji's eyebrows twitched slightly. Of course. Everyone in the culinary world knew that Azami had married into the prestigious Nakiri family. But few truly understood that Nakiri wasn't his birth name. That revelation carried weight—because the power he now wielded was earned, not inherited.

And that power was vast.

Totsuki Academy.

WGO—the World Gourmet Organization.

The Nakiri International Research Institute.

And now, the Nakamura Trading Company.

These weren't just institutions—they were culinary empires. And behind them all, in some shape or form, stood the influence of the Nakiri family. A family whose roots intertwined with almost every major culinary force across continents.

Azami leaned forward, his sharp eyes gleaming.

"This year alone," he said, "our American branch made massive strides. We poured exclusive funding into the culinary reality show Fun Gourmet, which broke ratings records across three networks. Our educational arm, the Square Culinary Academy, swept the national competition, claiming the top six spots. We have no rivals here."

He paused, letting the silence weigh heavy.

"But I'm not content with just America. I want to return focus to Asia. And when it comes to Japan's culinary underground, no one is better placed than you, Osaji."

Azami offered a cold, commanding smile.

"So—are you interested in collaborating?"

Osaji chuckled bitterly. "Azami… do I even have a choice?"

He wasn't wrong. The implication was clear: Azami intended to turn the Japanese culinary world on its head, starting with Totsuki. And by the looks of it, he'd already laid most of the groundwork.

The Nakamura Trading Company operated with ruthless precision. Membership required vast wealth and elite connections. Their control over North America's high-end food scene was ironclad, bolstered by exclusive contracts, underground restaurants, and aggressive expansion tactics.

Refusing Azami wouldn't just be foolish—it would be suicidal.

What they discussed after that remained behind closed doors. But when Osaji left the estate later that night, his expression was grave. A storm was coming.

More than a decade earlier, Azami had walked away from Totsuki in disgrace, expelled by the Director for his dangerous methods and unrelenting ideology. But he hadn't crumbled.

He'd gone west. And in America, he found the perfect battleground to rebuild his power.

Nakamura Trading Company had been little more than a skeleton when he arrived. But under his iron-fisted leadership, it grew into a culinary juggernaut. He used its vast network to spread his doctrine—culinary perfection through structure and elite breeding.

And all of it, every dollar and decision, had been preparation. Preparation to reclaim Totsuki.

Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, Azami looked out at the glittering skyline, a glass of Lafite still in hand.

"Senior Saiba," he whispered. "The path you couldn't finish… let me complete it."

In his youth, Azami had idolized Joichiro Saiba. When Joichiro's brilliance began to fade under the weight of pressure and burnout, Azami stepped in—rising to the second seat of the Elite Ten as a first-year, and first seat by his second year. His star had risen faster and brighter than any before.

And to change Totsuki from within, he'd married into the Nakiri family.

But just as he was about to seize real control—he was cast out.

So he turned his ambitions elsewhere… to Erina. His daughter, raised under strict, almost militaristic training, was his legacy. A vessel for his ideals.

But the old Director had seen through his methods and exiled him. A move that Azami would never forgive.

Knock knock.

"The door isn't locked. Come in," he called.

A secretary entered in a hurry, pushing up her glasses. "President… bad news. Three Nakamura Trading Company restaurants in New York were attacked. Witnesses say the culprits were masked night chefs."

Azami's eyes narrowed sharply.

"Night chefs?"

A flicker of surprise. But almost instantly, it was replaced by something else—anticipation.

He turned back toward the skyline, a storm building behind his eyes.

"Looks like I'll need to accelerate the plan," he said with a faint smile. "Erina… we'll be together again soon. I'm coming home."

2:00 AM – Japan. Zane's Tavern.

The lights dimmed as the final guests filtered out into the night.

Sonoka had long since left to rest for the next day's service at Shunkatei. Megumi had waved goodbye after savoring a bowl of Sapporo-style miso ramen, returning to the Polar Star Dormitory to reunite with Yuuki and Ryoko.

Only a few lingered.

"Natsume, Orie, it's time," Zane called gently.

Natsume glanced back one last time at the curry pot.

"Owner… when we return, you'll cook for us again, right?" she asked, reluctant to leave. "That Japanese curry rice… it was divine."

Zane chuckled, folding his arms. "This is a tavern. You order, and I'll cook."

"Good." She smiled, took Orie's hand, and walked out into the night.

Just as the door shut behind them—

[Ding-dong.]

[Host successfully signed in once.]

[Congratulations! You've obtained special recipe: 'Jade Flute Melodies,' special recipe: 'Cloud Dragon Shrimp,' and ingredients: 20 lbs beef kidney, 20 lbs venison leg, 20 lbs rabbit meat, 5 pig ears, and 50 lbs lamb rump.]

Zane blinked. Two special recipes and a mountain of rare meats? This was a haul.

'Jade Flute Melodies'—a dish that elevated the humble grilled beef strip into something majestic. Its name came from the flute-like shape of the meat rolls, made by blending beef kidney, lamb rump, pig ear, and rabbit meat in 25 unique combinations. The flavors were intense, intricate, and elegant—like music on the tongue.

He remembered the tale of Huang Rong from Legend of the Condor Heroes, hiding her brilliance beneath a beggar's clothes and silencing critics with her astonishing palate. This was one of her signature dishes.

Then there was 'Cloud Dragon Shrimp'—a culinary weapon from Cooking Master Boy. Shrimp, wrapped tightly in tofu skin, sealed in flavor until it exploded with a burst of umami at first bite. It once helped Liu Maoxing win an impossible battle.

Two legends in one night. He'd have to try them soon.

But tonight, he had another task.

Takumi was officially joining the tavern staff, and Zane had prepared something comforting and rich to mark the occasion: Red-Braised Oxtail.

He started by washing and chopping his mirepoix: carrots, onions, celery. Garlic was minced finely. The oxtail was washed, dried, seasoned with salt and pepper, then dusted in flour to give it a golden crust when seared.

In a large pot, he browned the oxtail until every side was sealed in a dark, caramelized hue. He sautéed the vegetables, let them soften and soak in the oxtail's aroma, then added tomato paste to deepen the color and umami.

A generous splash of red wine—300ml—followed by 250ml of rich broth. He added rosemary, bay leaves, thyme, and star anise. Once it boiled, he dropped the heat to a low simmer and let it cook.

The aroma filled the tavern.

"Zane…" Rindō peeked in from the corner, eyes shining. She hadn't left after hours.

"You're still here?" Zane raised an eyebrow.

"I wasn't full," she muttered, cheeks pink.

He rolled his eyes. "You're unbelievable."

But he didn't say no. Instead, he waved her over.

"Takumi's welcome party. You can stay."

"YES."

She grabbed a small bowl, ladled in the stew, and took a bite.

Tender. Juicy. Rich.

"HMM!?"

The oxtail melted in her mouth. Then came the layers—the bold tomato paste, the deep wine, the floral thyme, the comforting meatiness of the broth. The carrots and potatoes brought sweetness, the celery a slight bitterness.

It was perfect.

Zane smirked. "Still not full?"

Rindō beamed.

"I think I just became your biggest fan."

And in that quiet tavern, as the pot simmered and the storm of culinary war brewed across the sea, a new chapter was beginning—one full of flavor, fire, and fate.