The Blue Nitro's council chamber was a tomb of shattered pride. Once a place of opulent feasts and cosmic arrogance, now it reeked of decay and desperation. The surviving Blue Nitro huddled in their translucent soul forms, their ancient power reduced to flickering embers.
Joa's eyes swept over them with barely concealed contempt. "Pathetic. A billion years of dominion, and you cower like frightened fish at the first real challenge."
"You weren't the one who took that punch," one of them hissed, its form flickering with agitation. "The bald one... he didn't just kill us. He erased us. We felt our souls tear. We felt the void."
"Then you should be eager to return to the Soul World," Joa said coolly. "It's the only place you're safe now."
Another Blue Nitro spoke, its voice hollow. "Safe? The Soul World is no longer safe. That... that man... he walks between worlds. He could find us there too."
Joa uncrossed her legs, leaning forward. "Then you'd better hope Komatsu succeeds in harvesting the [ANOTHER]. Because if he doesn't, if the fish treasure remains beyond our reach..." She smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. "Then Acacia cannot revive. And if Acacia cannot revive..." She let the implication hang.
The Blue Nitro exchanged uneasy glances.
"What do you propose?" one finally asked.
Joa stood, her high heels clicking on the decaying floor. "I propose we stop hiding. I propose we go to Blue Grill ourselves. Not to fight—" she added, as several Nitro flinched, "—but to observe. To learn. The surface chefs have discovered something we overlooked. Something about the ingredients themselves. About listening."
She walked to the edge of the platform, looking out at the dying nebula. "Komatsu can hear the voice of ingredients. Yoda can make them want to be eaten. Even that brute Wa Hu lasted a hundred years in the Coffin Crab's time acceleration." She turned back. "These are not weaknesses. These are techniques. And if we can learn them, adapt them, use them..."
"We could harvest the [ANOTHER] ourselves," a Blue Nitro finished.
"Exactly." Joa's smile returned, sharper now. "So send a delegation. Not to fight. To watch. And while you watch, take notes. The future of gourmet depends on it."
The Blue Nitro murmured among themselves, their soul forms flickering with reluctant agreement.
On the dying planet, in the shadow of a rotting feast, a new plan began to form.
In the arena, the third round had begun.
Kachinokishū moved like water incarnate, her hands weaving through the air as she manipulated invisible currents of pressure. Ingredients rose around her, suspended in orbs of water that pulsed with her will. Each orb was a miniature pressure cooker, extracting freshness with surgical precision.
The crowd gasped. "She's cooking dozens of dishes at once! Each one at the perfect pressure!"
Komatsu, by contrast, worked on a single dish.
He had selected a single ingredient from the pile—a small, unremarkable fish that glowed faintly in the dim light. Its scales were translucent, its eyes milky with age.
"The Blind Lantern Fish," the host announced. "Extinct for thirty thousand years. Said to be the most difficult ingredient in existence to prepare, as its flesh spoils the moment it senses fear."
Komatsu did not show fear.
He laid the fish on his cutting board and closed his eyes. He did not reach for his knife. He simply... waited.
The crowd grew restless. "What's he doing? Why isn't he cooking?"
"He's scared. He doesn't know how to handle it."
"This is what the surface team sends? A boy who can't even start?"
Kachinokishū glanced over, her cat mask hiding her expression. "Little brother, if you cannot begin, perhaps you should—"
"Shh."
The word was soft, but it carried. The crowd fell silent.
Komatsu opened his eyes. "I'm listening."
He picked up his Dragon Tooth knife. The blade caught the light, gleaming with an inner fire. He laid it against the fish's flank—not cutting, just touching.
The fish's scales shimmered.
And then, impossibly, its milky eyes cleared.
"Thank you," Komatsu whispered. "For trusting me."
He began to cut.
Slowly. Deliberately. Each slice a conversation, each movement a promise. The fish did not spoil. It sang—a soft, resonant hum that vibrated through the arena.
The ST10 judges leaned forward, their ancient eyes wide.
"He's not cooking it," the monkey-masked judge breathed. "He's... he's awakening it."
The fish's flesh, which should have been pale and bland, began to glow with a golden light. Its scales, which should have been tough and bitter, softened into something that looked like candied petals.
When Komatsu finished, the dish was simple: a single fillet, resting on a bed of rice, garnished with nothing but a sprinkle of salt.
He carried it to Saitama.
The bald man, who had been watching with unusual stillness, picked up his chopsticks. He lifted a piece of the fish to his mouth.
And bit down.
His eyes—those dead, unfocused eyes that saw everything and nothing—went wide.
"This is..." He chewed slowly, deliberately. "This is the best thing I've ever eaten."
Komatsu's shoulders sagged with relief. "The Blind Lantern Fish... it's been waiting thirty thousand years to be tasted. Not by someone who wanted to conquer it. By someone who wanted to understand it."
Saitama took another bite. Then another. Then he set down his chopsticks and looked at Komatsu with something that might have been respect.
"I'm not full," he said. "But I'm... satisfied."
The crowd gasped.
Kachinokishū's hands fell to her sides. Her dozens of pressure-cooked dishes sat untouched, perfect but cold.
"I... I cannot compete with that," she said, her voice hollow. "You did not just cook the fish. You healed it."
Komatsu shook his head. "I just listened. That's all I've ever done."
The ST10 judges conferred briefly, their whispers too soft to hear. Then the monkey-masked judge stood.
"The winner," he announced, "is the surface team."
The crowd erupted—not with boos this time, but with cheers. Even the citizens of Blue Grill could recognize something extraordinary when they saw it.
Komatsu bowed to Kachinokishū, who returned the gesture with a deep, respectful nod.
Then he turned to Saitama, who was already eyeing the remaining ingredients with renewed interest.
"Mr. Saitama," Komatsu said, "I'll cook for you anytime. As much as you want. For as long as it takes."
Saitama's deadpan face cracked into something that might have been a smile. "You're okay, kid."
The third round was over. The surface team had won two out of three.
But the true test—the journey into the Soul World, the hunt for the [ANOTHER]—was still to come.
And in the shadows, ancient eyes watched and waited.
Another's scream echoed through the decaying chamber as Joa's fingers dug into its soul form. The other Blue Nitro watched in frozen horror as she began to pull—not to destroy, but to reshape.
"W-what are you doing?!" Another's voice distorted, flickering between frequencies.
"Giving you a gift." Joa's smile was serene, almost gentle. "A second chance. A purpose."
Dark energy flowed from her fingertips—not the raw power of the Blue Nitro, but something older. Something that had been cooking in the space between worlds since before the first gourmet cell divided.
The other Nitro recognized it.
"NEO's essence," one whispered. "She's infusing him with NEO's essence."
Another's soul body began to stabilize, then grow. Where it had been translucent and flickering, it now pulsed with a deep, hungry crimson. Its form shifted, becoming more solid, more present.
"There," Joa said, releasing her grip. "You should be able to maintain physical form now. At least long enough to complete your mission."
Another looked down at its hands—no longer ethereal, but solid. Flesh and blood and something else. Something that ached with hunger.
"What... what did you do to me?"
"I gave you a taste." Joa turned away, walking back toward her throne. "A taste of what Acacia will offer all of us when he returns. Immortality. Power. The ability to consume without consequence." She sat, crossing her long legs. "But first, you must earn it. Bring me the [ANOTHER]. Or don't bother coming back."
Another's newly solidified hands clenched into fists. It wanted to argue, to refuse, to flee. But the hunger in its veins—NEO's hunger—was already spreading. Already demanding.
"I... I will go," it said finally.
"Of course you will." Joa waved a dismissive hand. "Take whatever you need. The Coffin Crab is already en route to Blue Grill. The surface chefs are competing as we speak. By the time they reach the Soul World, you should be in position."
Another nodded stiffly and turned to leave. The other Blue Nitro parted before it like water before a shark, none willing to meet its crimson gaze.
When it was gone, the chamber remained silent for a long moment.
Then one of the Nitro spoke, its voice barely a whisper. "He won't survive."
Joa's lips curved. "Perhaps not. But he'll cause enough chaos to distract them. And while they're dealing with him..." She reached into her robes and withdrew a small, pulsing orb—a fragment of the [ANOTHER], harvested centuries ago, preserved in stasis. "I'll have all the time I need."
The Nitro stared at the orb, at the swirling darkness within.
"You planned this," another said. "From the beginning."
Joa's smile widened. "I always plan, darling. That's why I'm still alive. And why, soon, Acacia will rise again."
The orb pulsed, and somewhere in the depths of the Soul World, something ancient stirred in response.
In the arena, the celebration was winding down. The surface team had won the cooking duel, earning the right to pass through the Spirit Food Gate. Komatsu was being mobbed by well-wishers, his face red with embarrassment and exhaustion.
Saitama, still not entirely full but content for the moment, had returned to the judges' stand and was eyeing the remaining ingredients with speculative interest.
"Hey, King," he called out. "Think they'll let me take some of this stuff home? For snacks?"
King, who had been watching the celebrations with quiet amusement, shrugged. "Probably. You did eat an entire mammoth. I think you've earned a doggy bag."
"Sweet."
Don Slime floated down to the arena floor, its form shifting with satisfaction. "Young chefs of the surface world, you have exceeded my expectations. The Spirit Food Gate will open for you at dawn. Until then..." It gestured toward the city beyond the arena. "Enjoy Blue Grill. Eat. Rest. Prepare yourselves for the journey ahead."
Komatsu, finally escaping the crowd, made his way to King's side. "Mr. King, do you really think we can do this? Can we really find the [ANOTHER]?"
King looked at him—at the young chef who had cooked a blind fish back to life, who had satisfied an appetite that should have been insatiable, who had listened when everyone else had shouted.
"I think," King said slowly, "that you've already done the impossible. Twice. Three times. I'm starting to think that's just what you do."
Komatsu smiled—a tired, genuine smile. "I just cook. That's all I've ever done."
"And that's all you'll ever need to do." King clapped him on the shoulder. "Now go eat something. You look like you're about to collapse."
Komatsu nodded and wandered off toward the food stalls, where Rin was already waving him over.
King watched him go, his expression thoughtful.
Then he looked up, toward the sky—toward the place where the barriers between worlds grew thin, where the Soul World pressed against the material plane.
Something was coming. Something old and hungry and desperate.
He could feel it in the Emperor Engine's pulse.
"Heracles," he murmured.
The Horse King, lounging at the edge of the arena, lifted its head.
"We may have company soon. Uninvited guests."
Heracles snorted—a sound that might have been annoyance, or anticipation, or both.
King smiled. "Let them come. We'll be ready."
The sun set over Blue Grill, painting the shell city in shades of gold and rose. The feast continued, the laughter echoed, and somewhere in the depths of the Soul World, a gate waited to be opened.
The final hunt was about to begin.