Saitama's eyes went wide as saucers, his chopsticks frozen mid-air. "We get to eat a whole mammoth?"
The monkey-masked judge nodded gravely. "If it can be cooked properly. But the challenge is not merely the scale. The Gluttonous Mammoth's meat is notoriously difficult to prepare. It absorbs flavors unpredictably, sometimes becoming bland, other times overwhelmingly intense. Many chefs have tried to master it. Most have failed."
The Coffin Crab's carapace opened wider, and from within emerged not one, but three massive figures. They were smaller than the crab itself—which was to say, each was the size of a house—with shaggy brown fur and tusks that gleamed like polished ivory. Their eyes, milky white, suggested they had been preserved in the crab's cold storage for millennia.
"The rules for the second round," the host announced, "are simple! Each team will cook one Gluttonous Mammoth in its entirety. The dish must be completed within the time limit, and the taste will be judged by the ST10 and our special guest judges!"
Saitama raised his hand. "What's the time limit?"
The host smiled—a thin, predatory expression. "One hour."
The crowd erupted. One hour to cook an entire mammoth? Impossible. Even the fastest chefs in Blue Grill would need at least three.
Komatsu's team huddled together.
"This is insane," Rin said, her face pale. "One hour? For a creature that size?"
Toriko cracked his knuckles. "We've faced worse odds."
"Have we?" Zebra asked, arms crossed. "Because I don't remember ever cooking a house-sized elephant with a time limit that short."
Coco's analytical mind was already working. "The key is not cooking the entire mammoth at once. We need to divide it. Multiple chefs working simultaneously on different sections."
"But we only have one Komatsu," Sunny pointed out. "He's the only one who can hear the ingredients."
Komatsu took a deep breath. "Then I'll have to teach you. Not how to hear—that takes years—but how to listen. The mammoth's meat is unpredictable, but it's not random. It responds to intention. To care."
Golden Chef Gigi stepped forward. "Young chef speaks wisdom. In Blue Grill, we have a saying: 'The ingredient knows the chef's heart.' If you approach the mammoth with fear, it will taste bitter. If with arrogance, it will taste foul. But if with respect..." He smiled. "It will sing."
On the other side of the arena, the Ten Shell Five had selected their champion for the second round: a massive, barrel-chested man with arms like tree trunks and a mask shaped like a boar's skull. Ten shells gleamed on his chest.
"Grond," the host announced. "Master of the Inferno Kitchen. He once cooked an entire sea serpent in forty-five minutes using nothing but volcanic heat."
Grond cracked his knuckles, and small flames flickered between his fingers. "I don't need an hour. I'll be done in thirty minutes. Watch and learn, surface dwellers."
Komatsu ignored the taunt. He was already moving toward the Coffin Crab, his Dragon Tooth Knife in hand.
"Toriko, you take the front legs. They're the meatiest, but also the toughest. Slow cooking is best, but we don't have time for slow, so you'll need to use your Fork Shield to tenderize as you go."
Toriko nodded, already rolling up his sleeves.
"Rin, you handle the torso. The meat there is the most unpredictable. Taste as you cook—don't wait until the end."
Rin's eyes widened. "Taste as I cook? But it's raw—"
"You'll know when it's ready. Trust your palate."
"Coco, you're on the internal organs. They'll be the most delicate. Use your poison membrane to seal in moisture, but don't let it overpower the natural flavor."
Coco inclined his head. "Understood."
"Sunny, you take the skin. Render it down into cracklings. The fat will be useful for basting."
Sunny's hair flared with enthusiasm. "Finally, a task worthy of my aesthetic sensibilities."
"Zebra, the bones. They'll make the broth. Use your sound waves to extract the marrow—it's faster than cutting."
Zebra grunted. "Fine. But I'm not stirring."
Komatsu turned to Golden Chef Gigi. "And you, sir. The tusks. They're ivory, but they're also part of the ingredient. There must be a way to use them."
Gigi's eyes twinkled. "Young chef, you have a keen eye. The tusks of the Gluttonous Mammoth are not just decoration. When ground, they become a thickening agent unlike any other. I will prepare them."
Finally, Komatsu looked at King, who had been watching the preparations with quiet amusement. "Mr. King. The heart."
King raised an eyebrow. "The heart?"
"The mammoth's heart is the key. If it's not cooked perfectly, the entire dish fails. I need someone who can handle heat that intense without flinching. Someone who won't be intimidated by the pressure."
King smiled. "You trust me with the most important part?"
Komatsu met his eyes. "I trust you with everything."
For a moment, something flickered in King's gaze—surprise, perhaps, or respect. Then he stood, stretching languidly. "Fine. But if I do this, you owe me first taste of the finished dish."
"Deal."
The hour began.
On the surface team's side, chaos transformed into coordinated precision. Komatsu moved between stations, tasting, adjusting, offering quiet words of encouragement or correction. He was not the fastest chef, nor the strongest, nor the most experienced. But he was the one who held them together, who saw the dish not as separate parts but as a whole, who listened to the mammoth as it cooked and told them what it needed.
On the other side, Grond worked alone. His Inferno Kitchen blazed with volcanic heat, flames so intense that the air shimmered. He moved with brutal efficiency, his massive hands tearing through the mammoth's flesh, his fires searing and cooking simultaneously. It was impressive—a display of raw power and technique that left the crowd breathless.
But as the minutes ticked down, something became clear.
Grond's mammoth was cooking faster. But Komatsu's mammoth was cooking better.
The aroma from the surface team's station was complex, layered, shifting—now savory, now sweet, now something that defied description. It made mouths water. It made stomachs growl. It made the ST10 judges lean forward in their seats, their ancient noses twitching with anticipation.
Grond's mammoth, by contrast, smelled only of smoke and char.
When the hour ended, both dishes were complete.
Grond presented first: a massive platter of roasted meat, blackened at the edges, glistening with fat. It looked impressive, in a primal sort of way. But when the judges tasted it...
The monkey-masked judge chewed slowly, his expression unreadable. Then he set down his chopsticks.
"It is... adequate," he said. "The meat is cooked through. The seasoning is consistent. But there is no soul here. No joy. It is the work of a craftsman, not an artist."
Grond's face darkened behind his boar mask.
Then it was Komatsu's turn.
He did not present a single platter. Instead, his team brought forward multiple dishes: the front legs, braised until they fell apart at the touch; the torso, roasted to perfection and glistening with herb-infused butter; the organs, transformed into a rich, complex pâté; the skin, rendered into golden cracklings; the bones, boiled into a broth that smelled of forests and fields and ancient things; the tusks, ground into a sauce that thickened and glistened like liquid pearl.
And at the center, on a simple stone plate, the heart.
King placed it there himself, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "It took everything I had not to overcook it," he admitted. "The heat from the soul furnace... it wanted to consume. But I reminded it that cooking is not about destruction. It's about transformation."
The ST10 judges tasted.
One by one, their masks came off. One by one, tears streamed down their ancient faces.
"This is not just food," the monkey-masked judge whispered. "This is... this is memory. This is the taste of the world before it was broken. This is hope."
The verdict was unanimous.
The second round went to the surface team.
But as the crowd erupted in cheers, Komatsu was not celebrating. He was already planning. The third round would be his. And the ingredient...
The Coffin Crab clicked its claws.
The final round was about to begin.
The moment Wa Hu landed inside the Coffin Crab, the temperature dropped sharply. The air was thick with moisture and the smell of ancient brine—preservatives that had kept ingredients fresh for millennia. Bioluminescent algae lined the walls, casting everything in an eerie blue-green glow.
Magnesium Mei had already claimed her territory, her massive iron pot already heating over a geothermal vent that pulsed with volcanic heat. She moved with the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times, her wizened hands flying across her station.
Wa Hu took a moment to survey his surroundings. His station was simpler—a stone slab, a fire pit that flickered with uncertain flame, and a collection of tools that looked more suited to a blacksmith's forge than a kitchen.
"Not exactly Hell's Kitchen," he muttered, "but it'll do."
The Gluttonous Mammoth's carcass hung between them, suspended by chains of coral that creaked under its weight. It was smaller than the ones in the previous round—perhaps the size of a large van rather than a house—but still intimidating. Its fur had been singed off, leaving behind skin that gleamed with natural oils.
"Old lady," Wa Hu called across the chamber, "you ever cook a mammoth before?"
Magnesium Mei didn't look up. "I have cooked creatures older than your civilization, land-dweller. This will be no different."
"Famous last words."
The bell rang.
Magnesium Mei moved first, her iron pot erupting with a geyser of pressurized seawater. The water moved as if alive, wrapping around the mammoth's carcass, beginning the cooking process before Wa Hu had even touched his ingredients.
The crowd gasped. "High-pressure sea current cooking! She's already started!"
Wa Hu, by contrast, was still. He stood before the mammoth, his hands resting on its flank, his eyes closed.
"What is he doing?" someone in the audience asked.
"Praying," another suggested.
Saitama, watching from the judges' stand, chewed on a leftover crackling. "He's listening. Like Yoda taught him."
Inside the crab, Wa Hu opened his eyes.
"I hear you," he said quietly. "You're scared. You've been dead for thousands of years, but you remember. The cold. The dark. The hunger." He patted the mammoth's flank. "I'm going to warm you up. I'm going to make you taste like sunshine. Trust me."
He began to work.
Unlike Magnesium Mei's flashy technique, Wa Hu's cooking was grounded. He built a fire—not with the volcanic heat, but with wood he had brought himself, smuggled from the surface. The flames crackled, and the smell of cedar and pine filled the crab's interior.
He cut slowly, deliberately, each slice following the natural grain of the meat. He seasoned with salt and pepper—simple, familiar—and let the fire do the rest.
The minutes ticked by.
Magnesium Mei's mammoth was already changing color, the pressurized water forcing flavors deep into the meat. She added spices—exotic things from the deepest trenches, ingredients that glowed with their own inner light.
Wa Hu added nothing. He simply watched. Waited. Turned the meat when it needed turning. Basted it with its own juices.
"He's not doing anything," the crowd murmured. "He's just letting it sit there."
"Maybe he doesn't know how to cook mammoth."
"Sounds like the surface team is going to lose this round."
Inside the crab, Magnesium Mei sneered. "Is that all you've got, land-dweller? I'll be finished before you've even started."
Wa Hu smiled. "Cooking isn't a race, old lady. It's a conversation."
The timer continued to count down.
With five minutes left, Magnesium Mei's dish was complete. The mammoth had been transformed into a glistening tower of meat, each layer infused with the flavors of the deep sea. It looked impressive. It smelled impressive.
She presented it to the bubble projection, and the ST10 judges nodded appreciatively.
"Fine work," the monkey-masked judge said. "The flavors are complex. The technique is flawless. A worthy entry."
Wa Hu, meanwhile, was still cooking.
With two minutes left, he finally added his finishing touch: a handful of fresh herbs, grown on the surface, carried across the world in his pack. He scattered them over the meat, and the aroma that rose was not of the deep sea or ancient times.
It was of home.
He presented his dish: a simple roast, the meat falling apart at the touch, the skin crispy and golden, the herbs still fragrant.
The ST10 judges tasted Magnesium Mei's dish first. They nodded. They approved. They set down their chopsticks.
Then they tasted Wa Hu's.
The monkey-masked judge took a single bite. His hand trembled. He set down his chopsticks and removed his mask.
"This is..." His voice cracked. "This is the taste of my childhood. Before Blue Grill sealed itself away. Before we forgot what the surface smelled like." He looked at Wa Hu. "How did you know?"
Wa Hu shrugged, his broad shoulders rising and falling. "I didn't. I just listened to the mammoth. It told me what it wanted to taste like. What it missed." He smiled. "Turns out, it missed the sun."
The verdict was unanimous.
The second round went to the surface team.
But as Wa Hu climbed out of the Coffin Crab, battered and exhausted but grinning, Komatsu was not celebrating.
The third round would be his.
And the ingredient...
The Coffin Crab clicked its claws, and the arena fell silent.
The final round was about to begin.