Crown, Spice, and Secrets

In the shadows of Rome

The night stretched endlessly across cobbled Roman streets, heavy with history and silence.

Beneath the faded streetlamps, Asahi Saiba walked alone.

His silhouette emerged from the back entrance of the shuttered three-star restaurant. He moved with the calm efficiency of a man used to winning, his face half-shrouded by his trademark mask.

The wind carried faint traces of saffron and bone broth as he turned into an alleyway thick with shadows.

There, a figure was already waiting for him.

"Commander, you're as handsome as ever."

The voice was smooth, confident.

Saji, dressed in a sharp money-blue military uniform, stepped forward. Her high-heeled boots clicked with power and precision, leaving firm prints on the rain-damp pavement. Her hat cast a faint shadow over her keen eyes, the faintest smirk curling on her lips.

Her uniform was tailored immaculately, hugging her curves yet maintaining a martial crispness. Silver pins gleamed on her collar.

"Speak," Asahi said flatly, tugging down his mask. His sharp gaze locked with hers. "Why are you here?"

"Message from Anne."

"She wants all of us back in Japan—within three days."

"…So it's finally starting."

Asahi's eyes glinted.

Without another word, he pulled the mask back over his face, the corners of his lips curling into a faint smirk.

He turned toward the mouth of the alley, the night swallowing him as easily as he had devoured the Roman chef's pride.

Tōtsuki Academy – The Archive Room

The air in the archive room was old—papery, musty, and faintly electric, like the smell of secrets on the verge of awakening.

Towering shelves lined the narrow hall, packed with carefully labeled records: Elite Ten rosters, policy documents, graduation theses, partnership contracts. Few students ever ventured here. Fewer still left with answers.

Tonight, however, Eishi Tsukasa—Tōtsuki's Ninth Seat—was here for one reason.

He ran his fingers across the spine of a leather-bound register. When he reached the 69th Elite Ten list, he froze.

There it was.

Third Seat: Jōichirō Saiba.

"Ha… ha ha ha…"

A low laugh echoed eerily through the room.

"So that's it," Tsukasa whispered. "The hidden architect of the American culinary empire—Jōichirō Saiba himself."

He flipped pages feverishly.

"No wonder Subway's expansion is aimed at me. No wonder their methods felt… familiar."

His voice dropped as he tapped the page.

"But why would his records suddenly vanish? Why erase him from Tōtsuki history?"

The more he dug, the deeper the mystery became.

Fragments from the Dojima Golden Era spoke of genius after genius emerging during the 69th generation. Tōtsuki's fame surged in that time. But official accounts abruptly grew vague around the midpoint of the year.

Records redacted.

Mentions missing.

Timelines fractured.

"What happened to make Jōichirō walk away from it all?" Tsukasa murmured. "And why is his shadow returning now, through Zane… and Subway?"

As a businessman, his instincts screamed at him: something big was coming.

Something far beyond the reach of culinary rivalry.

Shiomi Research Society – Night Blooming Spices

In the quiet of her laboratory, Jun Shiomi held a single tarragon leaf under the light.

Its slender, jade-green form seemed to shimmer with vitality. A faint sweet scent danced off its surface.

She exhaled softly.

"Grow fast, little one. I'll need your strength soon…"

"Jun! You're still up?" came a voice.

Ryo Kurokiba entered with a pot cradled in both arms, his white lab coat flaring behind him.

Though it was internship season and most students had scattered to far corners of the culinary world, a few—like Ryo—remained within Tōtsuki to work in specialized departments. Every evening, after finishing tasks for the Ingredient Division, he returned here.

He placed the pot on the workbench.

"Come take a look. Think I found something rare."

Jun approached, eyes curious—then widened.

"Wait… is this vanilla?!"

Ryo blinked.

"Vanilla? Like, real vanilla? I thought it was just some fragrant bean."

Jun adjusted her glasses, stepping into lecture mode.

"Vanilla is one of the world's most prized spices."

"Most commonly sourced from Madagascar Bourbon beans, it undergoes a six-month curing process to unlock its aroma."

"It contains over 170 aromatic compounds, and is second only to saffron in price."

"It's used in perfumes, desserts, even in savory sauces."

She leaned in, inhaling deeply.

"This one… it's Grade 1. High moisture. Excellent flexibility. The real deal."

Ryo whistled.

"No wonder it smelled different."

He gently placed the plant near the warmth lamp.

"I found it on a supplier's rejected cart. Some idiot didn't recognize what he had."

Jun smiled.

"It's good you brought it to me."

Their conversation shifted as they worked.

"You've seemed happier lately," Ryo noted, watching her hum softly as she organized test tubes.

Jun glanced up, cheeks slightly pink.

"Well… after meeting someone as talented and generous as Zane, how could I not be?"

"He encouraged me. I've been struggling with my iris cultivation project, and though I didn't get to ask him directly, just seeing his methods gave me hope."

Ryo crossed his arms.

"You think he's better than you? In spices?"

"In experience? No doubt."

"But more than that—it's his heart. He doesn't hoard knowledge. He shares it. That's rare."

Her eyes softened.

"We chase fame and recognition, but he chases something else. I admire that."

Ryo fell silent.

He remembered Gin Dojima's warning from the Autumn Election:

"Great talent will eventually show its claws."

Ryo was a born warrior. A slum orphan. His love for cooking wasn't for art or legacy—it was for survival. He had always fought for recognition, for purpose.

But now?

Watching Jun, and thinking of Zane—

He wondered what it meant to chase something bigger than himself.

Later that Night – The Tavern

The tavern kitchen glowed with warm yellow light as Zane worked quietly at the counter, sleeves rolled, brows furrowed in concentration.

Tonight's dish wasn't for a customer.

It was for tradition.

He was perfecting his next signed recipe:

Crown Dumplings.

Steam hissed.

The scent of fresh wheat flour, lard, shrimp paste, and scallions filled the air.

He pinched the dumpling edges into small pleats with masterful precision. Each one looked like a miniature crown, glimmering slightly from a brush of oil.

Dumplings, in many cultures, represent wealth and joy.

The gold-ingot shape is tied to Lunar New Year superstitions. Eating them at midnight is said to bring fortune for the coming year.

But Zane wasn't making just any dumpling.

This was inspired by the legendary dish from Cooking Master Boy—where the protagonist battled elite chefs aboard the Dragon Train, and used Crown Dumplings to counter a terrifying showpiece.

There, "Crown" referred not just to shape—

But supremacy.

Zane's version required:

Scalding wheat starch with boiling water to create ultra-smooth, translucent dough

Hand-shelling and draining fresh shrimp

Mixing them with ginger, lard, and umami boosters

Shaping into triangular folds

Steaming in precise intervals for five minutes

Finishing with a mist of sweet rice wine for sheen

As the steam lifted, the dumplings gleamed like pale jewels.

"Perfect," Zane whispered.

Tonight was quiet.

But the crown was rising.

And a new storm was on its way.