Chương 53: I Choose Hell Mode

When Chris said the words "Beef Wellington," the entire kitchen fell into an eerie silence. Everyone froze. Down on the floor, the contestants traded glances, disbelief written across every face.

"What? He picked Wellington?" Owen's mouth hung open wide enough to swallow an egg. He dropped his voice and leaned toward Jack.

"Has he lost his mind? Why wouldn't he go after Ethan with a soufflé? That's the safe play, isn't it?"

"I... I don't get it either." Jack was just as lost. He couldn't follow Chris's logic at all. As a cook who prided himself on his way with meat, he knew exactly how hard a Beef Wellington was—and that was precisely why he understood what the dish meant for Ethan.

"Wellington's tough, sure, but Ethan's meat work is A-minus. This isn't his weakness. Hell, it might be one of his strengths! Chris just threw away his biggest advantage and handed Ethan the most comfortable seat in the house!" Sarah frowned too. She looked up at the man sitting unnervingly calm on the floor above, and confusion churned in her chest. She knew Chris wasn't impulsive; every decision he made was backed by airtight logic. But this time, she genuinely couldn't read him.

This choice looked merciful to the point of stupidity. What was it for? But no one was more stunned than Ethan himself. The instant Chris made his call, the challenge and the fighting spirit on Ethan's face froze solid, replaced by pure bewilderment. He had braced himself for a brutal fight. He'd guessed Chris would pick a soufflé—he'd already started running the soufflé's steps in his head, every detail that could go wrong.

He'd been ready to wash away the humiliation of the mystery-box round with a flawless technical victory. What he had never imagined was that Chris would walk away from the optimal play. He chose Beef Wellington. A complex, classic French centerpiece built around the handling of meat. This wasn't an attack on Ethan's weakness. This was a challenge thrown down on his home turf. This guy... what was he thinking? Was he genuinely a fool, or was he confident to the point of arrogance?

Ethan stared at Chris, trying to read something off his face. But Chris's expression stayed level. He simply sat there on his "throne," serene, like an observer with no stake in any of it. At the judges' table, Nina and Hale were caught off guard by the choice too.

"Interesting." Hale stroked his chin.

"He didn't take the simplest, bluntest path. He picked the dish that best showcases all-around skill. It'll make for better television—but for him personally, it doesn't maximize his odds."

"Maybe what he wants isn't simply to win," Nina said, watching Chris, thoughtful. And Gareth Vane—the foul-mouthed British chef whose tantrums had turned the show into a ratings machine—froze for a beat when he heard Chris's choice. Then a grin spread across his face, brighter and more delighted than when he'd first tasted "loneliness" on a plate. He laughed like a child who'd finally found his favorite toy.

"Hahaha! Yes! What a beautiful Beef Wellington!" Vane's voice rang with admiration.

"I love this choice! This is what Burning Kitchen is supposed to look like! No cheap tricks, no coward's tactics! Just a head-on clash of raw skill!" He looked up at Chris, his eyes shining with respect.

"Chris, you've made a very... very ballsy decision. You gave up the chance to weaken your biggest rival, and instead you picked the hardest bone in the room to gnaw on. I respect that." You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Then he turned to the contestants still reeling below.

"All right, you heard him! Elimination challenge—Beef Wellington!" His voice snapped hard.

"You've got two hours to finish this hell-tier dish. The ingredients are ready for you. One mistake—duxelles too wet, pastry underbaked, beef cooked wrong—and you can get the hell out!"

"Now—start your journey through hell!" At Vane's command, the eleven contestants snapped out of their daze and rushed for the ingredient station. The kitchen plunged back into tense, frantic motion. Chris sat above it all, watching coolly. In his mind, the system panel was refreshing. [Competitor has voluntarily selected a high-difficulty confrontation path, forgoing the optimal elimination strategy.] [System assessment: behavior consistent with the "Conqueror's Mindset" model.] [Hidden quest triggered: The King's Declaration.] [Objective: In this elimination challenge, the eventual winner of the dish you selected (Beef Wellington) must achieve a Culinary Rating of A- or higher.] [Reward: Arena Points +100, special item "Chef's Intuition" ×1.] [Failure penalty: none.] Chris looked at the new quest, and the corner of his mouth lifted. He'd bet right again. Picking the Wellington hadn't been impulse, and it hadn't been chivalry. It was a decision he'd reached after careful thought.

First, he needed a strong opponent. An Ethan he'd cornered with the rules wasn't the opponent he wanted. He wanted the Ethan at his peak, the one who could go toe-to-toe with him. Only by beating an opponent like that would his victory mean anything—and only then would his own cooking truly grow. Second, he needed this moment to send a clear signal to everyone, and to Vane above all: he hadn't come here to play games with tactics. He'd come to conquer this kitchen with nothing but absolute skill.

He didn't want a small win. He wanted total war. And now the curtain on that war had been raised by his own hand. He sat up high, like a director, looking down on the stage he'd arranged. Data Eye, activate. Target: Ethan Cole. Chris murmured it inwardly. He had three uses today, and he'd decided to spend the first at the opening, to confirm his opponent's condition.

[Target: Ethan Cole] [State: Focused] [Heart rate: 68 bpm (stable)] [Stress level: 12% (within controllable range)] [Operational precision: 96% (dynamic fluctuation under 2%)] [Overall assessment: Target has fully recovered from the fatigue of the prior penalty round. Mental focus is highly concentrated. Currently at competitive peak.] Just as he'd thought. Chris took in the string of data and understood. The man who'd crawled back out of hell hadn't been weakened—he'd come back stronger.

There wasn't a trace of hesitation in his movements, as if every cut, every step, had been rehearsed a thousand times in his mind. At Ethan's station, a top-grade filet had already been trussed and shaped with twine, the excess fat and silverskin stripped away with a small boning knife in a motion that was almost elegant. The beef in his hands was a piece of art being polished. Then came the mushroom duxelles.

He pulsed button mushrooms, onion, and thyme in a processor, chopping them to exactly the right texture—fine, but still holding a faint grain. When it hit the pan he didn't add butter right away. First he dry-fried the mushrooms to drive off every drop of moisture, until the kitchen filled with a deep, earthy aroma, and only then did he fold in the butter and seasoning. That detail alone showed how deeply he understood his ingredients.

Every motion was a silent declaration of war aimed up at Chris on the second floor: You picked my home turf. Let me show you what real domination looks like. Chris pulled his gaze off Ethan and swept it across the others. Sarah's station was spotless as always. She didn't rush the beef. First she pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote down every step of the Wellington in clean order, then began her prep by the numbers. Her pace wasn't fast, but every step was rock-steady. Jack looked a little too keyed up.

The moment he got his filet, he launched into bold, sweeping trim work—and the knife work was genuinely beautiful, enough that the nearby camera lingered on him a few extra beats. But once he'd finished the beef, when he looked at the flour and butter for the pastry, a flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes, almost too quick to catch. Chris's contestant analysis had flagged it: Jack's strength was grilled meat, but he was relatively short on experience with the fine work of French pastry.

Over on the other side, Jessica looked tense. Her hands trembled slightly as she sliced mushrooms, leaving the pieces uneven, and when she sweated the duxelles she kept the flame too low for fear of scorching—so the pan quickly pooled with water. Chris watched and had already reached his verdict. If the duxelles held too much moisture, it would turn the base of the pastry soft and soggy during baking—one of the most fatal failures a Wellington could suffer.

The whole human comedy of the kitchen laid itself out before him. Chris was looking forward to what kind of show these "actors" downstairs would put on. Especially you, Ethan. His gaze landed once more on the man handling his filet with near-flawless knife work. Don't you dare disappoint me.