The wind carried whispers of ancient secrets across Shell Mountain. Komatsu wiped sweat from his brow, his hands still trembling slightly from the accelerated cooking earlier, but his eyes were bright with purpose. Around him, the team worked in organized chaos—setting up cooking stations, arranging ingredients, preparing for the monumental task ahead.
Toriko couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Every few moments, his gaze drifted to the cliff edge where the mysterious woman had stood, but she remained invisible to him now. Yet he felt her there. Like a warmth at the edge of his consciousness.
Starjun was similarly affected. His usual stoic demeanor cracked, replaced by something almost vulnerable. "Who is she?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
King reappeared as suddenly as he had vanished, stepping out from behind a cluster of crystalline formations. "Her name is Frohze," he said quietly, so only Toriko and Starjun could hear. "She was Ichiryu's foster mother. His mentor. The one who taught him that food was meant to be shared, not hoarded."
Toriko's eyes widened. "Frohze? But she's been dead for—"
"Centuries. Yes." King's gaze drifted to the cliff edge. "But some souls don't move on. Some wait. For what, exactly..." He shrugged. "That's between them and the universe."
Starjun's jaw tightened. "Why can only some of us see her?"
"Because you're connected to her. Through blood. Through spirit. Through the food you've eaten and the people you've loved." King smiled, but it was a sad smile. "The Soul World doesn't play by the rules of the living. Here, the bonds that matter are the ones you feel, not the ones you see."
Komatsu approached, wiping his hands on his apron. "Mr. King, Don Slime says we need to complete a full course for President Ichiryu's revival. A full course from scratch. In the Soul World." He swallowed. "I don't even know where to begin."
King placed a hand on his shoulder. "You begin the same way you always do, Komatsu. You listen. You ask the ingredients what they want to become. And you cook with love." He paused. "The rest will follow."
From across the mountaintop, Don Slime's voice boomed: "The Western Full Course consists of eight dishes: appetizer, soup, fish, meat, main, salad, dessert, and drink. Each dish must be prepared by a different chef, and each dish must represent the pinnacle of that chef's culinary philosophy."
The team exchanged glances.
"I'll handle the appetizer," Toriko said, cracking his knuckles. "I've got something in mind."
Rin stepped forward. "Soup. My family's recipe. Passed down for generations."
Kachinokishu raised her hand. "Fish. I've been waiting my whole life to cook for someone like Ichiryu."
Coco, Sunny, and Zebra claimed meat, salad, and main respectively, their usual competitiveness tempered by the solemnity of the occasion.
Saitama raised his hand. "I'll do dessert." Everyone stared at him. "What? I like sweet things. And I've been watching Komatsu cook for weeks. I picked up a few things."
Garou snorted. "You can't cook."
"I can follow instructions."
"That's not cooking."
"It's close enough."
Don Slime's form rippled with what might have been amusement. "And the drink? Who will prepare the drink?"
Silence.
Then Komatsu stepped forward. "I will. The [ANOTHER]... it showed me what it wants to become. Not a drink to quench thirst, but a drink to remember. I can do this."
Don Slime studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, it nodded. "Very well. You have until the stars align—approximately six hours in material world time, which will feel like six days here. Begin."
The chefs scattered to their stations.
King remained at the cliff edge, watching the clouds swirl below. Frohze materialized beside him, her form more solid now, more present.
"They're good children," she said softly. "Ichiryu would be proud."
"He's already proud," King replied. "He's just too stubborn to admit it."
Frohze smiled—a gentle, bittersweet expression. "He gets that from me."
"I know."
They stood in comfortable silence, watching the chefs work. The sun—or whatever served as a sun in the Soul World—began to set, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose.
"Will they succeed?" Frohze asked.
King looked at Komatsu, who was already deep in conversation with the [ANOTHER]'s essence, his hands moving as he described the drink he wanted to create. He looked at Toriko, who was arguing with Zebra about the proper way to sear a phantom beast. He looked at Saitama, who was carefully measuring sugar into a bowl while Garou watched with barely concealed horror.
"They'll succeed," King said. "Because they have to. Because that's what chefs do. They create. They share. They feed."
Frohze's eyes glistened. "And what about you? What do you create?"
King was silent for a moment. Then he smiled—a rare, genuine smile. "I create opportunities. For people like them. For people like Ichiryu. For people like you." He turned to look at her. "The rest is up to them."
The stars began to align.
The final course was about to be served.
King's smile didn't waver. "I'm not asking you to stay in the real world. I'm asking you to cook for me here. In the Soul World. Where you belong."
Frohze's ethereal form flickered, something complicated crossing her shadowed features. "You want me to cook... for you? A living person? In the realm of the dead?"
"Why not?" King gestured to the bustling mountaintop below, where Komatsu and the others worked feverishly on Ichiryu's revival feast. "They're cooking for the dead right now. What's one more meal?"
Frohze was silent for a long moment, her gentle eyes searching King's face for something—deception, perhaps, or hidden motive. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't find it.
"You're serious."
"I'm always serious about food."
A soft laugh escaped her—the first genuine sound of amusement King had heard from her. "You remind me of someone."
"Acacia?"
"No." Her gaze drifted to the distant figure of Komatsu, who was carefully stirring a pot that glowed with inner light. "Ichiryu. He had that same... hunger. Not for power or control, but for connection. For the joy of sharing a meal."
King nodded. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Frohze turned back to him, her form stabilizing, becoming more solid. "What would you have me cook? A dish for the living, from the hands of the dead? Such a thing has never been attempted."
"Then we'll figure it out together." King reached into his coat and withdrew a small, crystalline vial. Inside, a golden liquid swirled—the essence of the [PAIR], preserved and concentrated. "This should help. It bridges the gap between worlds. Between life and death. Between memory and reality."
Frohze's eyes widened. "You've had this prepared."
"I've had a lot of things prepared." King's smile was enigmatic. "I've been waiting for the right moment. The right chef."
"The right chef." Frohze repeated the words, tasting them. "You think I'm the right chef?"
"I know you are." King held out the vial. "The question is: do you still remember how? It's been a long time since you've cooked for anyone but yourself."
Frohze's hand trembled as she reached for the vial. The golden light reflected in her eyes, making them shine with something that might have been hope.
"I remember," she whispered. "I remember everything. Every recipe. Every technique. Every feeling." She clasped the vial to her chest. "But I don't know if I still have the strength."
"You don't need strength." King's voice was gentle. "You need purpose. You've been wandering the Soul World for centuries, watching, waiting, mourning. It's time to cook again. For yourself. For your sons. For the man who loved you and the world that forgot you."
Frohze's ethereal form shimmered with emotion. "You ask a lot of a dead woman."
"I ask what you've always wanted to give. You just never had anyone to give it to."
She was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, she uncorked the vial. The golden essence rose in a shimmering plume, wrapping around her like a second skin.
"What would you have me cook?" she asked again, her voice steadier now.
King's smile widened. "Something simple. Something that tastes like forgiveness. Like second chances. Like home."
Frohze closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were no longer shadowed. They were alive.
"I know just the thing."
She walked toward the cooking station that had been prepared for her—a simple stone slab, a fire that burned with blue flame, ingredients that Komatsu had gathered without knowing who they were for.
King watched her go, then turned his gaze back to the mountaintop below.
Toriko and Starjun were working side by side, their movements unconsciously synchronized, as if drawn together by invisible threads. They didn't know yet. Didn't know that the woman they had glimpsed was their mother. Didn't know that she was about to cook for them.
But they would.
Soon.
"King," a voice called from behind him.
He turned to find Don Slime floating there, its dark form pulsing with barely contained energy.
"The preparations are nearly complete. Ichiryu's revival... it's actually going to happen." The ancient being's voice cracked with emotion. "After all these centuries..."
King placed a hand on its gelatinous surface. "He'll be proud of you. Of everyone."
Don Slime's form rippled. "I hope so. I hope..." It trailed off, unable to finish.
Below, the stars continued to align. The feast was almost ready.
And somewhere in the depths of the Soul World, a old man who had forgotten what it felt like to be full began to stir, drawn by the scent of something he had not smelled in a very, very long time.
The scent of home.