Chương 150: Before the Final, One Last Warning

The news that the American team had reached the Global Culinary Champion League final was like a heavyweight bomb, detonating the whole world's culinary scene in an instant. The headlines of every major food site, the trending searches on social media — all of it was seized by this incredible result.

"Three young people's stories beat five hundred years of French history" — that intensely dramatic headline spread to every corner. In a corner of the gallery, Sarah watched the three of them weeping in one another's arms, and had long since been crying herself. She'd always believed Chris could make a miracle — but she hadn't imagined the miracle would come so stunningly. She took out her phone and excitedly wrote up her on-site report; she'd let the whole world know just how extraordinary this American team was.

Far away in New York, at Le Château, the back of house broke into cheers too. Chef Vincent looked at the news on his phone and let a barely detectable smile show. He picked up his phone and sent Chris a text. It held a single word: "Good." And in Los Angeles, Gareth Vane, in the middle of recording a new season of his show, saw the scene through a livestream. He stopped the recording and, to the camera, said in a tone of pride and feeling like nothing before: "Chris White — he was once my champion.

But from today, he's no longer only mine. He belongs to the stage of the world." On the floor, the clamor slowly faded. The members of the French team quietly packed their things, preparing to leave. There wasn't much dejection on their faces — more a peace at having simply been outdone. Raphaël, alone, walked over to Chris. He showed no anger, no resentment — only looked at Chris calmly, his eyes complicated.

"You won." He spoke first, his voice a little hoarse.

"Not because your dishes were better than mine," he paused, as if arranging his words, "but because your dishes were more honest than mine." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. He'd finally admitted it: on that subtle crack, he had lost to Chris. He had chosen the grand, the safe "cultural roots," while Chris had bravely chosen the fragile, risk-laden "personal roots."

"Thank you." Chris didn't know what to say, and could only answer simply.

"Your opponent in the final is England." Raphaël's expression suddenly turned grave.

"Their captain, Arthur Campbell, is my junior. We both studied under the same legendary chef."

"Be careful of him." Raphaël's tone was full of weight.

"He's not like me. What I chase is 'essence,' so there's always my own thought and feeling in my dishes. But Arthur — what he chases is pure 'victory.' He's like the most precise machine: no excess emotion, no weakness that can be exploited."

"He's harder to deal with than I am." That said, Raphaël put out his hand to Chris.

"Good luck in the final. Next time we meet, I won't lose again." Chris took his hand and nodded hard.

"Count on it." Two opponents who admired each other ended their first clash with a simple handshake — and opened the prelude to their next duel. Back in the athletes' dormitory, Chris felt as if he'd run a marathon, body and spirit worn to the utter limit. Out of habit he opened the system panel. [Name: Chris White] [Culinary Rating: A (90/100)] [Arena Points: 157] [Current status: Extreme fatigue. Rest recommended.] His Culinary Rating had, at last, broken the barrier of 90, formally stepping him into the ranks of A-grade chefs. Before he could look it over carefully, a brand-new task box suddenly popped up on the system panel, glimmering with golden light. [Final Battle: Global Culinary Champion League · Paris · Final] [Objective: Win the League championship] [Opponent: England] [Reward:???] The final battle. Those words set Chris's heart racing again. He walked to the window and pushed it open.

The night view of Paris spread out before his eyes. The Eiffel Tower flickered with a gentle light in the distance, and the Seine flowed quietly on, bearing witness to this city's glory and dreams across a thousand years. From his pocket he took the brass tasting spoon Philip had given him, twenty years in use. Under the moonlight, the spoon threw off a warm sheen. He could almost feel the warmth still lingering on it, from the kitchen of Le Château — and the hopes of all the elders who'd come before.

From an eliminated TV-show contestant, to a finalist chef standing at the summit of the world. This road — he'd walked it so long, and walked it so far. Now he was only one last step from the dream that had once seemed forever out of reach. Tomorrow was the final. He would lead his team, and toward the supreme honor of being "the finest young chefs in the world," launch the last, and fiercest, charge.