Chương 101: The Champion's Aftermath

The golden confetti from the awards ceremony hadn't even been swept off the floor yet, and Chris's phone had already turned into a scalding brick. He sat in the temporary apartment the show had arranged for him, fresh out of the shower, hair still dripping, while the phone on the nightstand buzzed itself into a frenzy. The screen flared bright, went dark, flared bright again — twitching, like something in pain. He picked it up and glanced at it. Ninety-nine-plus missed calls. Hundreds of unread texts.

The little notification badge on his social media apps read a solid red 999+. He didn't feel like he'd won a cooking competition. He felt like he'd accidentally leaned on the button that launches the nukes. Bzzt. Bzzt. Dave again. Seventeenth call tonight. Chris sighed and swiped to answer.

"Chris! My champion! You finally picked up! I was starting to think your fans had you tied up in a basement somewhere!" Dave's voice came through loud enough to need its own PA system, buzzing with adrenaline and the smell of money.

"I'm fine, Dave. I just wanted a little quiet." Chris rubbed his temples. The roar of the finale set still seemed to be ringing somewhere behind his ears.

"Quiet? My God, now is not the time for quiet! Do you have any idea how hot you are right now? Your name has been trending on Twitter for three straight hours! People are searching 'Potato Trilogy' more than 'how to make the best burger'! It's a miracle, Chris. A miracle." Chris could picture Dave on the other end, waving his arms like a man landing a plane. He just felt tired.

"Listen, Chris. I've already fielded offers from at least fifteen brands. High-end cookware — they want you as the face of the line. There's a food company that wants to put your name on a frozen mashed-potato product. There's even a network that wants to hand you your own cooking show. We're rich, Chris. You never have to worry about rent again." Frozen mashed potato. The phrase flashed through Chris's head, and his stomach turned.

All that work, all that risk, everything he'd poured into The Balance of Solitude — so it could get freeze-dried into a plastic tray and stacked in a supermarket freezer case?

"Dave, this stuff… can we talk about it later? My head's a mess right now."

"Come on, my champion! Strike while the iron's hot — this window doesn't come twice! We have to sign while your heat is peaking! I've already narrowed it to the top options. I'll send the files first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll—""I said, later." Chris's voice cooled. There was a pause on the other end, as if Dave hadn't expected that. He gave two dry coughs and reined himself in a notch.

"All right. All right. You just came off a hard fight, you should rest. But Chris, hear me out — you're a champion now. You're not that anonymous programmer anymore. You have to grow into the new role. This is what champions get. They've earned it." Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

"I know." Chris made the right noise, but inside he was thinking: Is this actually what I want? To become an 'influencer chef' hawking my own name and face around town? He hung up, set the phone to silent, and tossed it aside. The world finally went quiet. He looked out the window at the Los Angeles night, ten thousand lights burning bright and dazzling. And he felt completely out of step with all of it.

The joy of winning, after being measured and re-measured against its commercial value, was fading fast — curdling into a nameless restlessness, a kind of hollowness. This wasn't what he'd risked everything for. Right then, the phone he'd just silenced lit up again. The caller ID showed a name he knew intimately well: Gareth Vane. Chris hesitated, then answered.

"Still awake, kid?" Vane sounded a little worn out, but the voice still carried.

"About to turn in, sir." In front of Vane, the honorific came out of him on reflex.

"Don't call me sir, you make me sound seventy." Vane grunted.

"I'm calling to tell you two things."

"Go ahead."

"First — your work contract at my restaurant is good whenever you want it. But if you've got other plans, you can apply to defer. I'm not going to drag a champion into my kitchen to peel potatoes. Even if you do peel a decent potato." Chris caught the needle in it and couldn't help a small laugh.

"Thank you."

"Second." Vane's tone turned serious.

"About that email. The one from New York." Chris's heart lurched. How does he know?

"Don't stare at your phone like that. I'm guessing." Vane seemed able to see straight through him.

"That old man rarely gives a damn about television. But he called me. Asked about you." Chris held his breath.

"He doesn't invite people into his kitchen on a whim. The last person he invited like this is running his own two-star in Paris now." Vane's voice was level, but every word landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending rings spreading through Chris's chest.

"My advice: forget the endorsements, forget the goddamn TV show, and go to New York. Go see what a real top kitchen looks like. The choice is yours, of course. You can be an easy-money television star, or you can take the harder road." The line went dead. Chris sat on the edge of the bed for a long time without moving. Vane's words were like a key, turning in a door inside him — a door the commercial noise and the fog had covered over.

He picked the phone back up, ignored the avalanche of congratulations and offers, and went straight to that email from New York. The sender's name was a single word, but it carried the weight of a mountain. The message was one line. Come to my kitchen. Let's talk. No pleasantries. No praise. A little condescending, even. But Chris knew: that one simple sentence outweighed all fifteen brand deals put together.

The system was still upgrading, the panel a sheet of black — no data analysis, no probability projections on any choice he might make. This time, he had no cheat to lean on. He had to make the call himself. Stay in Los Angeles and enjoy the fame and money a championship bought — become Dave's idea of a "winner at life"? Or go to New York, walk into that unknown, genuinely elite kitchen, meet the legendary chef, and take the road Vane had called "harder"? Chris looked down at his hands.

The finale's tension and relentless pace had opened a few fresh little cuts across his knuckles. His palms were ridged with calluses, laid down over years of gripping a knife. These were hands built to hold a sauté pan and a chef's knife. Not to sign an endorsement contract. He drew a deep breath, opened the airline app, and searched for the earliest one-way flight to New York the next morning.

The instant he pressed Confirm Payment, the stone that the champion's title had been pressing onto his chest finally settled to the ground.