Flames Beneath the Plum Blossoms, Ashes in Rome

—WGO, China Division—It was well past 3 AM.

The moon hung low in the sky over the WGO's China Division headquarters, casting a pale glow through the sheer curtains of the top-floor office. Inside, Mana Nakiri was pacing the length of the room, her silk robe fluttering with every step like a restless flame.

Her normally composed expression was replaced with growing agitation.

"Why hasn't she returned yet?"

Mana's voice trembled with impatience. The silence of the headquarters was deafening.

Suddenly—

"Lady Mana!" came a frantic voice.

The door burst open and in rushed Anne, flushed from exertion, her heels clicking wildly against the marble floor. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, but she didn't pause even to catch her breath. In her hands was an insulated lunchbox, clutched like treasure.

"This—! This is the sour plum fried rice! I brought it back from the tavern!"

Mana's eyes sharpened.

"Give it here. Quickly. No wasting time!"

She didn't even wait for Anne to hand it over—Mana practically snatched it midair and ripped open the lid with an almost primal hunger.

A radiant, golden light spilled from within.

"Huh?"

Mana blinked.

Even before tasting a bite, the dish glowed—literally glowed—in the dim room, as though each grain of rice had trapped a flicker of sunlight within.

Inside the box, the sour plum fried rice glistened like a bed of stars.

The rice grains were perfectly plump, coated in the crimson juice of sour plums. Their translucent bodies caught and refracted light, almost shimmering with warmth. The thin slices of plum added delicate accents—like brushstrokes on a painting. Bits of green onion peeked through, their aroma piercing and bright.

Beneath it all, a faint yet tantalizing whiff of lard and char hinted at a master's control of wok heat.

It smelled of autumn—sweetness ripened by the sun, carried on a chill wind. It was sour and smoky, like dried leaves crackling underfoot. A dish that told a story.

Mana didn't speak.

She didn't need to.

With trembling fingers, she lifted a spoonful to her lips.

The moment the rice entered her mouth—

It was as if she'd been swallowed by a swirl of color and memory.

Her God Tongue surged awake, every taste bud flaring like a field of tiny comets. The tangy electricity of the sour plumhit first, sharp and invigorating. Then came the mellow, nostalgic warmth of smoky wok-seared rice, followed by a deep savory sweetness that cradled the sourness like yin balancing yang.

It didn't just taste good.

It dragged her soul forward.

"Mmm—!!"

The sour plum fried rice clung to her tongue like velvet suction cups, teasing and shaking her entire digestive tract. The flavor punched through the fog of exhaustion and hunger with the force of a lightning strike.

"A—Amazing! This is…"

Mana's face flushed with bliss. She shoveled another mouthful in, and then another—completely lost in the dish.

"Isn't it amazing, Lady Mana?" Anne said brightly. "Zane's cooking really is incredible."

"Even after an hour, this still tastes as if it just came out of the wok…"

Mana glanced at the box.

"Wait—how is it still hot?"

"Oh!" Anne beamed. "Zane used an advanced insulated lunchbox to store the dish."

The lunchbox itself was no ordinary container.

It had three stackable stainless-steel compartments, each with a vacuum-sealed lid. Despite its compact appearance, it could carry enough food for two full meals. The outside was matte black with minimalistic gold inlays—Zane's usual style of understated flair.

But its real marvel was the technology inside.

Zane had used a custom Japanese design with nanothin insulation that allowed the box to retain internal temperatures for over 26 hours, maintaining optimal texture and aroma.

Anne explained proudly, "It's leakproof, lightweight, heat-retaining, and designed to keep the rice above 60°C for almost a day. He even preheated it before loading the rice!"

Mana nodded as she stuffed another bite in.

"Mmm—! So good it's infuriating…"

But then—

She coughed.

And again.

"Lady Mana?!"

Anne jolted forward.

Mana's face was turning pale.

Her throat convulsed as she beat her chest with a fist.

Her cheeks puffed out, eyes wide as saucers.

"Did it go bad?! Did it ferment too fast?! I knew I should've come back sooner!"

Anne was panicking now, rummaging through a side drawer for digestive pills, even reaching for the emergency medical button.

But then—

"Pfffuhhhh!"

Mana finally swallowed.

She sat back, dazed and breathing hard, her hair tousled from the sudden trauma.

"…I choked."

She said this with a blank stare.

"…On flavor."

Anne froze.

Then sighed.

"You were eating too fast?"

"I was hungry. I couldn't stop myself."

Mana licked her lips, then wiped her brow with a napkin.

Anne looked at her for a long moment, then asked softly, "Why didn't you just come to the tavern yourself?"

Mana didn't answer at first.

Instead, she set her chopsticks down.

"…If you were me," she began quietly, "would you show up and risk making everything worse for your daughter—during her internship, no less?"

She turned, her expression unreadable.

"With Hisako gone, Erina's already carrying too much on her back."

"I appear now? What for? To hurt her more? No."

"I'll stay here and starve if I must. But I won't burden her."

Anne stared at her in silence, something in her chest twisting.

She had seen tension at the tavern, yes—but she hadn't truly grasped the pain beneath the surface.

"…Lady Mana," she murmured. "Sometimes I think you're a better mother than you realize."

Mana chuckled, her voice bitter.

"No. I'm just a coward. And a hypocrite."

Her fingers curled over the lid of the now-empty lunchbox.

"Anyway, enough of that," she said briskly. "Report. What did you find about Subway?"

Anne straightened, pulling a thick folder from her bag.

"Yes. Just as you suspected—the sudden explosion of Subway franchises across Neon was no accident."

Mana's eyes narrowed.

"Who's behind it?"

"…The Nakamura Trading Company. From Wall Street. In other words… your former husband."

Anne paused.

"Nakamura Ji."

A shadow crossed Mana's face.

So he was finally moving.

She leaned forward.

"And their expansion route?"

Anne flipped to a map filled with pins.

"Every Subway outlet opened directly adjacent to one of the 56 restaurants managed by current Elite Ten member Eishi Tsukasa."

Mana's brows furrowed.

So this wasn't random growth.

This was an economic attack—a strike meant to undermine Totsuki from the shadows.

"Then we fight fire with fire."

She stood up, her tone commanding now.

"I want every WGO officer assigned to audit every Subway branch in Neon. No exceptions. From head chef to garbage bins."

"I want reports on their licenses, finances, ingredient origins—hell, I want to know what brand of mop they use."

Anne blinked.

"…Within a month?"

Mana turned sharply.

"No. Within three weeks."

"And notify Saiba Asahi."

Her eyes turned razor-sharp.

"Tell him to return to Neon. I want every Midnight Chef back on my soil within 72 hours."

"But—Lady Mana, weren't we putting the Midnight Chefs on ice?"

"That was before they threatened my school, my daughter, and my country."

Mana's expression darkened.

"They were swords once. Time to unsheathe them."

—Rome, Italy—A continent away, the ancient city of Rome slept under moonlight.

Its streets, cobbled and timeworn, whispered stories of fallen empires and undying glory.

Amidst the old-world charm stood a prestigious WGO three-star restaurant, nestled on the banks of the Tiber.

Inside, jazz music hummed softly.

The aroma of coffee, truffle butter, and roasted pork belly perfumed the air.

Elegant diners sipped Barolo wine, unaware of the storm brewing in their kitchen.

In that very kitchen, chaos reigned.

A masked young man in a black baseball cap stood at the stove.

Before him simmered a golden Milanese risotto, its rich saffron color deepened by bone marrow, truffles, Lodi cream, and Piedmont red wine.

The head chef stared, pale as a ghost.

"Impossible… You're not even Italian. How did you… replicate our signature dish to such perfection?!"

The man did not answer right away.

He plated the risotto with eerie grace.

"Using Vialone rice. The exact ratio of cream, marrow, and wine. You think your secrets are hidden? They're just recipes."

He turned, his voice muffled through the mask.

"And by Shokugeki rules… this restaurant is now closed."

The chef dropped to his knees.

"Please! I spent 40 years—this is my life's work! Don't destroy it!"

He wept openly, trembling.

The masked man—Asahi Saiba—paused.

His expression unreadable.

"…A three-star chef begging like a dog. Pathetic."

Then, with one cold glance, he walked out, leaving only a silence behind.

The fire under the risotto slowly dimmed.

So too, did the light in that chef's dreams.