Cook Off for Peace, the Most Renowned Treasure of this World!

Sharlotte was surprisingly good at cooking, which was infuriating, since she only stirred pots when she got bored with stirring bath-bomb clouds and playing with her stone collection. Rin, meanwhile, wielded her cooking utensils like her ledger pen, exact, merciless, and somehow clumsy. Even our Spa’s background staff turned out to have the essential culinary know-how nailed down. Apparently, in a world without fast-food chains or vending machines, survival demanded that everyone at least learn to fry an egg.

But good wasn’t enough in this case. Good didn’t pay off debts. Good wouldn’t impress the Demon Lord, King Gremy, or any interspecies royal. We were after the best!

By sunrise, the Spa courtyard looked like a festival possessed. Carts rattled in, every species of chef under the sun spilling through our gates: Human street vendors balancing skewers like spears, Monster butchers flashing cleavers the size of harpoons, and Demon-kin gourmands with wine cellars on wheels.

Borkas trampled in with a wagon of ingredients that looked more like loot from a dungeon raid. He hauled entire boars, stacks of crustaceans, a mountain of turnips, leeks, and spices so large it could crush our lobby. Chika and the shadow-eyed Kitsune kunoichi started hurling slabs at trembling rookie cooks like a lady handing night coupons and ninja throwing kunai, respectively.

At the registration desk, Rin sat prim and deadly. Her sundress swished, her apron was spotless, and her pen swished over the parchment. “Name. Debt history. Prior food poisoning complaints. And if you’ve ever feasted on your own species, write it down in bold.” She didn’t blink as a Beastfolk Rat stopped writing mid-signature. “Out.”

“It was only pizza toppings! Pizza toppings!” The Goblin bouncers dragged him away, kicking. Rin tapped her pen against the wood, eyes narrow and declaration syrup-thick with expert practice. “Next.”

Behind her, I shimmered smugly in my altar stand. “Perfect! The ledger keeps order, the greedy core keeps the prize money, and the sloth angel,” Any other day, I would’ve expected to find Sharlotte napping in a mixing bowl, snoring, drooling, halo tilted into the flour. It was all we could do to make this a success. Flying high above and commanding the construction, I smiled as even she understood the massive risks of this event and the challenge issued to us by the Demon Lord, our First Labor, the success of this Cook Off!

In the courtyard, the contest stage rose plank by plank, courtesy of my ever-obliging swirling waters. Humans and Golems hoisted entire beams onto his mossy shoulders with grunts like thunder. Harpies, Sharlotte, and the Siren Star Idol Group trio who arrived today tied everything into place from the skies above.

The preliminary rounds were fantastic and messy.

By early afternoon, the stage of finalists was roaring.

Rin checked and prepared the kitchen islands for the final round.

Six chefs. Six battered chopping blocks. One long row of fire pits built from onsen stones and mismatched cauldrons. We were nearing the critical juncture.

The line-up:

- A Demon-kin Dragon-Man, all smooth crimson scales and two sharp horns peeking through messy black hair. He was the contestant selected from the Demon Lord’s group. His grin showed every tooth he owned, his fire charring meats to perfection. He boasted he once spiced a curry so hot that it boiled in the Underwater Palace, sending the Mer-Mayor straight to chugging milk and asking for seconds while steaming.

- A tiny Harpy girl, feathers puffed so big she looked twice her size. She hugged a bundle of fresh greens and root vegetables tight under one wing, a squeaky ladle peeking out like a secret weapon. Her apron said ‘MOM’S SOUP’ in faded letters, and whispered apologies to vegetables while dicing them, like she was confessing murder.

- A Golem Stone-Baker, half-carved from warm volcanic rock, runes glowing orange in his broad chest. With a mouth that said nothing, eyes to wink, and two granite hands that cradled a single cast-iron stew pot like a holy relic, the love for his special stew was clear.

- Sargo the Six-Armed Oni, broad, bronzed, shirt always halfway off from the heat rolling off his six restless arms. Each wrist jingled with spice pouches and tiny fire-charms. He boasted he could juggle ten dishes at once while still feeding every guest in our Spa.

- A Beastfolk Wolf butcher, a buddy of Borkas, broad as a barrel, tail flicking steadily behind his belt. Two heavy cleavers rested against his back like loyal guard dogs. He bragged he could trim any cut so clean he could make bone-only broth.

- A Red Slime Chef. Literally just a giant culinary slime wearing a chef’s hat and a tiny bowtie, bubbling softly inside a clear pot. His sign said “NO BONES, LOTS OF FLAVOR.”

Rin rose to the front of the talent judging panel.

“Alright, contestants! The rules are simple!” She announced, crisp enough to hush even the rowdy rookie adventurers gathering to gawk. “You will prepare one full-course meal – a starter, main, and dessert – using any of the raw ingredients provided and any rare ingredients you managed to fit in your bag! As per usual, judging will be based on taste, presentation, …cost-efficiency?” She side-eyed me hard, “and whether or not your signature dish bankrupts our entire Spa in a single bite!”

One of the rookie adventurers in the crowd bellowed louder than the rest. “Let me taste-test!”

“Only the winning dish.”

“Contestants!” I puffed up, levitating in glee. “May your knives be sharp, your spices potent, and your pans properly seasoned! If you need help, just yell–”

“Don’t yell for him,” Rin cut in. “If you see him near your cutting boards, shove him away. He’s not allowed to touch anything edible.”

“I’m very sanitary!”

“Dummy. Don’t ruin this. Not when we might actually pull it off.”

The crowd roared. Borkas hoisted the opening gong. Sharlotte struck it once – BONG! And the clang of pots hit like the starting pistol. Multiple knives flashed. Spices hit cast iron. Steam rose in sweet, savory clouds.

As a judge, paying attention to these competitors, there was no way these chefs were operating on mere chance. Every action, every touch of the pan to the flames, had an equal or opposite reaction toward the stewing of the so-called perfect set meal.

In gacha games, the result of a summon is determined as soon as the button is clicked. All the flashy sequences that come afterward are for show. But these were very real people, with very real dreams, all operating in their element in front of this massive crowd. They were all virtuoso chefs.

Yes! No matter how bad my gacha luck was, we’d find the head chef among them, worthy of topping the Capital’s snobby restaurants and impressing the Demon Lord’s and King Gremy’s banquets!

I kept the supply of the best mineral water, Holy Geyser on tap to each contestant’s station as they displayed their mastery of techniques, creativity in flavor combinations, and their ability to transform ingredients into masterful and harmonious experiences!

The Demon-kin Dragon-Man didn’t even pretend to play nice. He threw handfuls of chili powder straight into the fire, cackling as bright green flames whooshed skyward. When Rin shot him a stop that glare, he blew her a mocking kiss. Spells were allowed.

Next table over, the tiny Harpy girl trembled and whispered to her root vegetables, cooing apologies every time her paring knife squeaked through a turnip’s tough hide. Her stock pot bubbled with a gentle herbal broth that actually made my rim tingle. It smelled oddly wholesome.

The Golem Stone-Baker just stood. He hovered his massive granite hands over his cast-iron pot, runes pulsing deep in his chest cavity. Every few minutes, steam puffed out of his stew like a tea kettle, steady and unbothered.

Sargo the Six-Armed Oni’s spells and knives flickered like a hungry wind, shredding roots, filleting strips of delicate meats and river fish, tossing bones and scraps over many shoulders. He was a famous cook in the Monster and Demon-kin world who traveled all the way from his village, and smells were not deceiving!

The Beastfolk butcher answered with amazing showmanship. He cleaved a full slab in half, tossed both blades up, and caught them on every downstroke as he cooked.

The Slime Chef… Well, the Slime Chef had accidentally absorbed three onions, a chunk of raw pork, and half a spice rack. Every time he burped, the entire left wing smelled like garlic. But he was determined to produce a final dish that deserved all the lost ingredients!

There was epic sabotage, spells, eruptions, flying food, dishes, and Spa clients. Sharlotte mumbled a prayer that we didn’t accidentally summon a Health Inspector from the Capital.

The final push! Spices flew, utensils clashed, steam howled up!

KABOOOOM!

The gate blasted open. My soul nearly leaked out of my gem.

Through the smoke coiled Mizuchi, the Lamia jewel magnate herself, fan snapping open with a hiss. Scales shimmering blue-green, rings glittering in her ears, perfume heavy enough to choke every throat on a Hydra. The Goblin bouncers and gyaru-oh Wizard attempted to mediate the situation from afar, but the wealthy serpent didn’t stop barging through.

Rin muttered, pale. “…Oh no.”

Our poor entrance… “Damn, I know, it’s the second time. Don’t worry, we’ll have her pay for it.”

“It’s not that!”

Sharlotte stirred, blinking drowsily from her scoring board. “Is it… bath time?” Then fainted face-first into the judging panel again.

Mizuchi slithered forward, smile cutting. “My private suite sits cold. My diamond towels are neglected. And here you are playing up a street food festival.”

“It’s not street food!” I defended. “It’s an interspecies peace summit disguised as a debt-destroying gourmet contest disguised as a great labor for the heroes who will attract the Demon Lord!”

“I didn’t understand a single thing you said, but I don’t like it. A world that doesn’t revolve around me? Like I’d ever accept that! Rin, mind interpreting?”

Rin, sweating, leapt in before I could say more. “Honored Mizuchi! You are, of course, our… esteemed judge. As you can see, we are broadening our offerings.”

She arched a brow. “Broadening? My private suite sits cold and abandoned while you throw meat around like peasants. Closed spa. Open kitchen. Who exactly do you intend to feed?”

“Mysel–”

“Master! Her, obviously. Our guest of honor.”

Mizuchi’s fan snapped shut. She coiled around our pedestal, her tail brushing Rin’s ankle deliberately. Rin squeaked in fear.

“Therefore, the heiress of the Gilded Coil shall taste soup brewed by Harpies, meat flung by Oni, and a Slime’s digestive slop? Why shouldn’t I constrict you all into gems and pawn your Core at the Gold district’s auction?”

“You bitch. You threaten my–” A compass hit my Core forehead. “OW??”

“Sorry, I still need my pen!” Rin collected herself, putting on a strong face for Mizuchi. “Because if you hate it, you’ll bankrupt us twice. Once for disappointing your high taste, and again for not using your connections to sell the best luxury food to the Capital. You like bankrupting us, right?”

“True. We’re very bankruptable,” I feigned lament.

The Lamia’s eyes narrowed, wicked pleasantry dancing across her scales. She liked it. She loved it. The thought of making us squirm and profiting at the same time was worth more than all our Spa’s hot stones combined.

“Fine,” she hissed a tiny laugh, “Bring me your plates. Each and every dish. If my tongue so much as recoils, I will have the loan shark action your Spa piece by piece until you personally polish my tail scales for a century.”

I pulsed hot with relief, even as I understood this was a significant risk. “Deal!”

Thing is, before opening our izakaya ‘Dangerous Concoctions’ and still in this debt crisis, Mizuchi introduced us to a loan shark friend of hers. This loan shark was interested in overtaking our resort, but as a mediator, she was happy to take the side of whoever could bring the best profits and provide her the best resort experience.

Mizuchi’s jewelry business made her extremely wealthy, earning her preferential treatment everywhere. Likely for this reason, our Spa’s focus on equality fascinated her.

Even I had a clue. I didn’t immediately kick her out.

Sargo bellowed with delighted fire, flames puffing from his nostrils as he slammed a fresh pan down. “Perfect! The Lady of Gems shall savor my sixfold pleasure cuisine!”

The Dragon-Man cackled behind his hand, flicking a pinch of something suspicious into his sauce.

The Harpy girl squeaked an apology to her veggies, fluffing her wings so big she nearly flipped her stock pot.

The Golem rumbled proud clanks, steam rising steadily from his eternal stew.

The Beastfolk Wolf was overly concentrated on cutting perfectly symmetrical fugu.

And the Slime Chef… well, he burped a sparkle of onion mist at Mizuchi’s ankles. She didn’t flinch. She flicked her fan, and the poor blob quivered in apology.

Rin didn’t bother hiding her worry this time. “Congratulations, Master. You found a food critic who can ruin you in international currencies if we mess this up.”

“Doesn’t it excite you?” I beamed, “I'll introduce the disgusting freak of nature called NFTs before that happens.”

Mizuchi took the judge’s panel. “Then feed me. I expect pleasure.”

“Hm… mmm? Mi-Mi-Mi-Mizuchi?!” Sharlotte stirred wide awake in terror. Yesterday at the Demon Lord's castle, our lovable Angel felt apprehension that she wouldn't live to reach her favorite resting spot again. Now she was sweating bullets at the idea that her perfect forever getaway would be seized and foreclosed.

“Stay wide awake, Sharlotte. These are our final seconds.”

One minute remained. The crowd erupted. Cheering, whistling, stomping the ground so hard the stage boards rattled.

The courtyard was a madhouse. Spice smoke, steam, sizzling pans, and a crowd of half-drunk adventurers roaring like they’d bet their lives on the cook-off. Mizuchi sat at the judge’s table with her fan fluttering, Sharlotte alternated between slumming to doze and fully awake, and Rin, poor Rin, trying to keep her clipboard straight while our whole spa turned into a festival.

Broken, drenched, trembling, slumped forward over her papers, she looked back at me with tear-bright eyes, lips quivering as she gasped out one last, furious, shameless cry, “Dummy–!”

“Well? Am I to taste food, or shall I declare your receptionist the main course?”

The crowd exploded in laughter. Rin groaned into her papers, muffled: “K-Kill me… kill me now…”

“Not yet,” I hummed, tugging her blouse back into place just enough that she could at least pretend to be composed. She whined through her teeth, cheeks blazing red as she straightened, still trembling, but her pen hand already twitching back to her clipboard like a broken wind-up toy. “Contestants!” she barked, voice wobbling but still sharp, “Y-Your final dishes! Present them to Mizuchi for judging!”