Chương 124: Old Rivals Reunited, Both Long Since Changed

New York, on the banks of the Hudson. An unremarkable red-brick building was the site of this US Regional Selection. It was a private culinary academy closed to the public, with the most elite kitchen equipment and the strictest security in the country. Chris, hauling a suitcase packed with his chef's knives and a few changes of clothes, cleared identity verification at the door and walked in. The moment he stepped inside, he felt a killing air.

Six people already stood in the hall, each like a drawn sword, giving off a keep-away presence. They kept a safe distance from one another, no one speaking, only sizing each other up with their eyes. Chris's arrival immediately drew every gaze.

"Chris White. Burning Kitchen champion." A Latin chef with a full beard, who looked like he'd come from Miami, murmured to the man beside him.

"I saw that finale. His Potato Trilogy really was something," replied a refined-looking Asian chef in black-framed glasses.

"Just a TV star. Who knows how long he'll last in a real professional kitchen." A tall, blond, blue-eyed white chef spoke with obvious disdain. The comments were quiet, but they still carried clearly to Chris's ears. He paid them no mind, simply found a corner to stand in and began observing his opponents. Right then, the door swung open again. A figure both familiar and slightly strange walked in.

He wore a plain black T-shirt, his bearing upright, his face still handsome — but the cold, keep-your-distance edge he'd once carried seemed to have melted away considerably. His eyes were no longer sharp as a scalpel; there was a new steadiness and reserve in them. Ethan Cole. The instant he walked in, the air in the whole hall seemed to freeze. Every gaze fixed on him. If Chris White was the newly minted TV star, then Ethan Cole, within the professional chef circle, was the true, long-established genius.

The looks the other six candidates gave Ethan were noticeably weightier than the ones they'd given Chris. Ethan felt the mood too. He scanned the room, his gaze passing over each face in turn, and finally landed on Chris in the corner. Their eyes met. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Time seemed, in that moment, to return to a few months ago — the finale stage of Burning Kitchen. But they both knew: neither was the person he'd been then.

To everyone's surprise, Ethan walked straight toward Chris. Every line of sight in the hall followed his steps; the air turned tense. They all knew the legendary duel these two had fought on television, and everyone wanted to see what kind of collision this reunion of old rivals would be. Ethan stopped in front of Chris. He didn't speak, only looked Chris up and down.

"You've changed," Ethan said first, his voice lower than before.

"Thinner. But the calluses on your hands — much thicker than they used to be." His gaze had fallen on Chris's hands, covered in calluses and fine scars from the long months of gripping a knife and handling ingredients at Le Château. Chris looked at him too and answered calmly, "You've changed as well."

"Oh?"

"Something's gone from your eyes," Chris said. Ethan's eyebrow lifted slightly.

"That fear of having to win," Chris said, one word at a time.

"The old you was afraid to lose. But now, you don't seem afraid anymore." At that, Ethan froze. A few seconds passed, and then he suddenly laughed. Not the polite, distant smile from before, but a laugh from the heart, carrying a thread of release.

"You're right." He held out his hand.

"After I lost to you, I thought about it for a long time. I realized I was too fixated on those two words — 'perfect' and 'victory' — and I'd forgotten that cooking itself is a joyful thing." Chris put out his hand and took it.

"Now, I simply — want to win," Ethan said, and in his smile there was a powerful confidence.

"Because I want to go to Paris and see what that stage really is. And I want to beat you again, fair and square."

"Same to you." Chris gripped his hand hard. The brief exchange caught the surrounding chefs — braced for a spectacle — off guard. The drawn-sword tension they'd imagined never came. In its place was the tacit mutual regard of masters. But they'd all understood, too. These two already saw each other as the final opponent. Right then, a woman in a professional suit came out from the other side of the hall. Marcella Duval.

"Welcome, all of you, to the US Regional Selection." Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly across the whole hall.

"I am the director of this Selection, Marcella Duval."

"Over the next three days, you will undergo three grueling assessments here. No assistants, no team. The only thing you can rely on is yourselves." She paused, her gaze sweeping the eight chefs present.

"The rules are simple."

"Day one: Classic Reproduction. You will perfectly reproduce a signature dish created by a past champion of the Global Culinary Champion League. This tests your understanding of tradition and the solidity of your fundamentals."

"Day two: Extreme Creativity. You will each receive a mystery ingredient box, and from the limited ingredients inside, under extreme time constraints, create a dish of your own. This tests your knowledge and your ability to adapt on the spot."

"Day three, the last day: Pressure Service. You will split into two teams and complete a full dinner service for fifty real guests. This tests your all-around ability, your teamwork, and your steadiness under high pressure."

"Your performance across the three days will be scored comprehensively by me and two other judges. In the end, only the top three will receive tickets to Paris." When Marcella finished laying out the rules, the whole hall fell into dead silence. Everyone was digesting the information, gravity written on every face. Chris's heart tightened too. These three assessments left almost no room for tricks — every one was a head-on contest of raw skill.

"Now, please follow me to get familiar with your kitchens." Marcella turned and led the eight candidates toward the door — the one that opened onto the battlefield. The fight was about to begin.