Chapter 8
Chapter 8
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Meylin's Charred Potato Miracle
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30 minutes passed, and the bell that had signaled the start rang out once more.
Ding-!
"Stop! All participants, cease your hands immediately!"
My brother's voice cut through the competition hall with unyielding authority.
"Ah, no! Salt! I haven't salted it yet!"
"Just a moment! I just need to plate it! 10 seconds!"
Screams mixed with pleas erupted from here and there.
But my brother, Lucius BlackStone, had not a shred of flexibility.
He was a rigid man through and through.
"Rules are not subject to compromise. Any participant who touches their dish after time is called will be disqualified."
At his cold command, the staff rushed in and mercilessly dragged out the cheaters.
"I've finished cooking! I just need to plate it!"
"No exceptions."
The wails of the dragged participants echoed through the hall.
In an instant, a tense, murderous atmosphere settled over the venue.
But thanks to that, the murmuring crowd focused even more on the competition.
It firmly imprinted that this was a battlefield where survival was at stake.
'Good, perfect tension built.'
I watched the scene through the scrying orb with satisfaction.
And soon, judging time arrived.
**
After a brief commotion,
Two judges stepped into the competition hall, where the savory aroma of potatoes hung thick in the air.
Sir James and Marquis Frederick.
The appearance of the Grand Chef and the kingdom's top gourmet sent a suffocating tension rippling through the participants.
If Princess Yuria had come too, the vibe would have been downright brutal.
Fortunately, Her Highness was too valuable to appear from the preliminaries, so she was joining from the main round.
And with that, the first judging began.
"Participant 1. Peter's dish."
Sir James took a spoonful of the mashed potatoes the participant offered, then spat it into a napkin before even chewing.
"Undercooked. Eliminated."
"Gasp…!"
His judgments continued mercilessly.
Super-speed reviews, not a second over 10 per person!
"Potato skins not peeled properly. Texture's rough. Eliminated."
"Slices are uneven in thickness. Proof of sloppy knife work. Eliminated."
"Dumped in the salt? My tongue's going numb. Eliminated."
Marquis Frederick beside him was no slouch either.
"Hmm… This potato is quite excellent."
"Really? Passed?"
"No. Plant it in the field, and it'll grow splendidly. Strong sprouts. You seem more suited to farming than cooking."
Fancy, aristocratic burns.
The participants' faces paled under the bone-chilling fact violence.
Thus, not a single one of the first 10 survived.
The atmosphere was so deadly even the spectators held their breath.
Breaking that heavy air was participant 12, Dave.
"Pomme Soufflé…"
A golden potato puffed up like a balloon.
The moment Marquis Frederick took a bite, a crisp crunch! rang out, revealing the beautifully hollow interior.
"Oh… Perfect. Cleanly fried, crispy without a trace of grease. Maximizes the potato's savoriness, and that light, crumbling texture is exquisite. Feels like my tongue's waltzing with the dish."
Sir James nodded too.
"Oil temperature perfectly controlled. One slip, and it wouldn't puff or it'd burst. Passed."
Dave elegantly bowed his thanks.
With the first pass announced, the frozen atmosphere began to thaw bit by bit.
Plenty of eliminations followed, but occasional passes heated up the event.
Especially number 58, Samuel's 'Aligot'—it was a showstopper.
Cheese and potato fused, stretching endlessly in that fantastical visual!
"Rock-solid basics. Nothing to nitpick."
"Ah, soft as a woman's lips, warm as a mother's embrace. But… better if eaten hot. Such a shame!"
At the duo's rave reviews, Samuel silently bowed and withdrew.
Hmm.
Dave with his flair, Samuel with his fundamentals.
Pitting these two as rivals would make for great drama.
As several standouts shone and the first group's judging neared its end,
It finally arrived.
"Participant 99. Meylin's dish."
At those words, Meylin hopped up to the judges' table like a bunny.
But on her plate… sat a lone lump of charred black.
Murmurs rose.
"Is that the cooking?"
"Totally burned. Tsk tsk… Obvious elimination."
Spectators sneered.
Marquis Frederick even frowned and turned away at the sight, as if he couldn't bear to look at the abomination.
Only Sir James stared at the plate, arms crossed, and asked.
"What is this?"
"Potato!"
So innocently confident.
Caught off guard by her brazenness, Sir James was speechless for a moment, then let out an incredulous chuckle.
"…I can see that. What I mean is, you're presenting this as your cooked dish? Skins unpeeled, whole thing baked till it's charred…"
"Aw, Grandpa! You can't judge by the outside! Try it first—you'll be shocked!"
"…!!"
In that instant, the hall fell silent as if doused in ice water.
Did that ragtag girl just call the royal Grand Chef Grandpa?
Participants, staff, even Marquis Frederick—eyes bulged all around.
'Whoa, look at Sir James's face. Those eyes could kill.'
But Meylin wasn't fazed.
She snatched the fork in front of Sir James and lightly tapped the black potato.
Magic happened.
Crack.
With a light, crisp pop, the charred skin split perfectly in half like a lie, revealing the golden potato flesh inside.
At the same time, hot steam and aroma burst forth from within the shell.
Savory potato scent.
Mingled with a subtle smokiness that pierced the nose, drawing gasps from the crowd.
"Look at that!"
"Not burned?"
"Whoa… How? No clue."
Amid the whispers, Meylin smugly lifted her chin and grinned.
"Smells amazing, right?"
Sir James's gaze shifted as he eyed the perfect potato.
He carefully speared a piece of steaming flesh and brought it to his mouth.
Then slowly began to chew.
Marquis Frederick, drawn by the aroma, sneakily took a bite too.
The two judges fell silent for a while.
Just closing their eyes, savoring the flavor in their mouths.
After a long silence, Sir James spoke first.
"…Skin and flesh completely separated. Even with direct flame. How does a potato skin split so cleanly?"
Meylin grinned as if she'd been waiting.
"Score faint cuts on the skin and brine heavily in salt! Draws out all the moisture, see? Bake it like that, and the skin shrinks and crisps. Learned from my grandma!"
Marquis Frederick, listening beside her, nodded in admiration.
"Ah… So the salt naturally seeped in. But with fire control that precise, you could've done fancier dishes. Was this form intentional?"
"Yes! Exactly!"
Meylin nodded, eyes sparkling.
"I'm 99, so judging would be late. Potatoes taste bad cold! Made it like this so you'd eat it warm!"
At that answer…
Sir James's stern face visibly softened, a clear smile blooming.
Deep understanding of the dish.
Perfect control of ingredients.
And consideration for the eater.
Nothing lacking.
"…Perfect. Passed."
"Nothing more to say. Looks like plain baked potato, but first time seeing one so flawlessly charred outside without a single burn. Passed!"
Unanimous pass from both judges.
"Woo! Thank you!!"
Meylin hopped in joy.
Seeing her pure delight, the other participants began clapping one by one.
Everyone marveled at the twist of the "charcoal" potato.
"Yes! This is it!!"
I shot up from my seat, fists clenched.
"This scene alone will have people dying for the next episode!"
Dopamine spun wildly in my head.
This'll work.
Definitely.
Meylin, I'll make you a star no matter what!
**
Thus, the first group's preliminaries ended.
The second and third groups followed, continuing until the sun dipped low.
The judges, eating just one bite per dish, still looked stuffed and weary by the end.
Thankfully, over half were total flops—unfinished or basic prep fails—so they scraped through.
With the last judgment done, brother Lucius took the stage again, booming the results.
"After fierce competition, 100 participants advance to the main round! Next match in one week, right here! We'll return with even more thrilling battles!"
Woooah-!!!
Amid survivors' cheers and losers' sighs, the legendary preliminaries curtain fell.
But I had no time to rest.
The real war started now.
**
"Ah, my head…"
Back home, I holed up in my room and wrestled with the scrying orbs.
10 hours of footage shot with Lucia.
Air it raw, and it'd bore everyone away.
Extract highlights, cut the drags ruthlessly.
"Cut, cut… Ah, Meylin singing. Gotta keep this."
I dredged up fuzzy variety show memories, endlessly splicing clips.
Shrink dull cooking processes.
Cross-cut panicked participant with flaming pot and furious James for tension.
Slow-mo on Meylin's potato split!
After two sleepless nights, 10 hours compressed to a 4-hour banger.
"Whew… No BGM's a shame."
Epic tracks or SFX would perfect it.
That needs an orchestra recording.
Way beyond my budget…
"Eh, upgrade later when money rolls in."
Sun already high outside.
Exhausted to death, but can't sleep now.
Made the product—time to sell.
I rubbed my bloodshot eyes, packed the finished magic orb, and straightened my rumpled clothes.
Last, grinned at the mirror.
Dark circles from all-nighter, but my eyes still sparkled.
Of course. Time to rake in cash with claws out.
"Alright, off to do business."
Bag with orb slung over, I headed to Ispellia's bustling streets.
Already scouted the capital's top taverns, appointments set with owners.
'Come on, bosses. Pass up this goldmine? We'll see.'
Perfect sales pitch ready in my head.
This footage triples your beer sales.
For a fat broadcasting fee, of course.
Just wait.
Capitalism's monster, Producer Leban, sales mode activated.