Chapter 28: Myriad Transformations of the Sea Dragon

No one found it odd that Feng Xue took the first bite; this was not just a matter of testing for poison, but also a gesture of respect toward the chef who prepared the pufferfish—a tradition passed down from ancient times. Even in this era where non-toxic pufferfish are used, the custom endures. The only one even slightly disgruntled was Akira Hayama, as he realized, to his dismay, that he could not discern the exact components of the dish's intoxicating aroma. Beyond the usual spices like cinnamon and star anise, the core fragrance—tinged with a subtle numbing sensation—remained a mystery to him.

“Clay pot snake meat? Your method reminds me of the Dragon and Phoenix Soup I once tasted in the Gourmet Empire’s Demon Capital...” Gourmet Sota Aida, his signature mustache as charming as ever, immediately recognized the dish's ancestry—a testament to his well-traveled palate.

“Snake and pufferfish may both be white meats, yet their maturity and texture differ greatly. Cobra is crisp and best eaten rare, at about thirty to forty percent doneness; too much cooking and it turns tough. Pufferfish, on the other hand, is prized for its delicate texture. If this were sashimi, it would be simple enough, but with a clay pot dish and no prior removal of lactic acid, you must cook it thoroughly. If you just toss these two together, maintaining the perfect doneness is nearly impossible...” Curry Queen Natsume Chiba delivered her customary sharp critique as she picked up a piece of snake meat to taste.

“What’s this?” She suddenly exclaimed in surprise. The entire snake remained intact, yet as she lifted it gently with her chopsticks, it bloomed apart like flower petals; each segment connected by less than two millimeters of flesh, so that a light pinch in the opposite direction separated them effortlessly. In contrast, the pufferfish slices embedded in the snake meat adhered as if glued—impossible to detach without force.

“Art—this is pure artistry!” exclaimed television producer Kankai Makito, clearly enamored by the visual impact. He grasped the tip of the snake’s tail and lifted; the entire snake extended over half a meter, its flesh unfolding like a straw raincoat. Kankai was utterly spellbound.

“But food must, above all, taste good!” Natsume Chiba declared, popping a piece of snake—along with its attendant fish sliver—into her mouth.

A flush spread across her cheeks; her face displayed a rapture bordering on ecstasy. In a world renowned for its expressive reactions, such a look spoke volumes. “The snake’s texture, though seemingly overcooked, bursts with crispness thanks to its thin slicing. Paired with the smooth, delicate pufferfish... this mouthfeel—”

She broke off, immediately reaching for another piece, and then another. “Wait—why does each bite taste different?” she muttered, her voice muffled as she continued to eat, confusion evident on her face.

Spurred by curiosity, the other four judges began tasting as well.

The moment the snake meat entered their mouths, a vision seemed to flicker in their minds: a carp leaping over the Dragon Gate, transforming instantly into a soaring dragon, twisting and changing, unpredictable and majestic.

Sota Aida, who had lived for a time in the Gourmet Empire, recalled an ancient text: “The dragon can be great or small; rise or hide. When great, it calls forth clouds and mist; when small, it conceals its form. When rising, it soars through the universe; when hiding, it lurks in the waves.”

“Fish and dragon—ever-changing, truly worthy of its name.” Sota Aida nodded in approval, savoring the depths of the dish.

“The bitterness comes from snake gall, perhaps? And this silkiness... that must be the snake liver. As for the unifying flavor—could it be snake venom?”

“No, that can’t be; though snake venom proteins break down at high temperatures to create intoxicating umami, that alone wouldn’t harmonize so many flavors. The secret must lie in the spices!” He glanced at Natsume Chiba, the acknowledged authority on spices.

“Cinnamon, star anise, fennel... all common spices. How could... wait, there’s no Sichuan pepper or prickly ash?” Natsume Chiba voiced her realization, and the judges’ faces reflected their shock.

“No Sichuan pepper? Then what’s causing this numbing sensation?”

They tasted again, searching their memories for a matching spice, but none came to mind.

“What is this spice?” Natsume Chiba suddenly stood, face inches from Feng Xue, glaring intensely.

“It’s pufferfish,” a voice interjected—this time not Feng Xue’s, but the previously silent TV producer, Kankai Makito. “Once, I tasted wild pufferfish. Unlike today’s non-toxic varieties, that faint numbing effect is unforgettable. Of course, I ended up in the hospital for two months afterward…” He laughed wryly, picking up a slice of fish. “But that dreamlike anesthesia came from residual toxins. Your dish is different; it’s like the principles of traditional herbal medicine: the numbing sensation from the pufferfish toxin is the chief, the interplay of snake and fish the deputy, the spices the assistants, and the umami from the snake venom the envoy—together, composing a harmonious symphony of flavor.”

“Toxins...” The judges’ expressions grew complicated, though none protested—after all, Feng Xue had followed the tradition of tasting first. Of course, if they knew he was immune to pufferfish toxin, their reactions might have been quite different.

“To my knowledge, pufferfish toxin takes four to eight hours to break down even in boiling water. How did you control it to a safe level?” Natsume Chiba pressed, her gaze unwavering. “If it’s a trade secret, you don’t have to answer.”

“It’s nothing so dramatic. I was born with an almost inhuman level of control—‘meticulous’ doesn’t do it justice. No matter the ingredient, even if it’s my first encounter, I can handle it perfectly. Each cut I make is precise to the gram, and with the right tools, even to the milligram. If I wished, I could debone every single pin bone from a carp.” Feng Xue smiled as he explained, though the judges felt a chill. What did a milligram mean? A thousandth of a gram; even neurosurgery operates at this scale. With such talent, why become a chef instead of a brain surgeon?

Feng Xue, oblivious to their inner turmoil, continued unabashed, “With this talent, I can control any toxin to a safe level. I can even use toxins as the base for new spices. For example, today’s spice was made from pufferfish blood simmered with scorpion venom; the weak alkalinity of the scorpion venom partially neutralizes the pufferfish toxin. Reduced over high heat, the result is numbing but not astringent—perfect as a curry base.”

At these words, Akira Hayama, waiting nearby, shuddered. He and Jun were merely researching spices, but this man was creating them.

“He said he uses scorpion venom to neutralize pufferfish toxin! Is that even a thing? Why hasn’t scorpion venom been used as an antidote for pufferfish poisoning before?”

“Idiot—it’s neutralization, not suppression or cure. Scorpion venom is alkaline and can break down pufferfish toxin to a degree. Medications like strychnine have been injected to treat pufferfish poisoning before, but scorpion venom, being an alkaloid, is metabolized before it can finish neutralizing the toxin in the body.”

“Even if talent allows you to control the dosage, how can you be sure there’s no residual toxin left with an untested method? What if it still harms people?”

“How many times did this guy poison himself to perfect this spice?”

The audience’s whispered debates reached Feng Xue’s ears, but he ignored them. Using deadly toxins as ingredients wasn’t impossible, especially since he possessed the cheat-like Gourmet Cell. Even in the original Gourmet Hunter, top chefs could use puffer whale toxin sacs as ingredients—the toxicity of those sacs, compressed by deep-sea pressure, is at least ten times that of ordinary pufferfish, the most lethal kind!

With his journey set across countless worlds and realms, Feng Xue would not content himself with merely mastering the humble pufferfish toxin. He always remembered that culinary arts were but an aid on his path to divinity, not his ultimate pursuit.

“Ninety-five points! Contestant Feng Xue has conquered the judges’ palates with his absolute command over toxins!” the announcer declared in a near-roar, but Feng Xue was already turning to leave.

At the revelation of his score, Feng Xue had no intention of staying.

As for whether Subaru Mimasaka would fail to advance to the top eight and miss his redemption, or whether Takumi would be unable to rise from defeat without a Shokugeki, or even whether the chefs deprived of their knives by Subaru might never reclaim their treasures…

What did any of that have to do with Feng Xue?

This was the root of the aloofness Feng Xue had deliberately maintained since entering this world.

He was neither the sort to sever all bonds with a single stroke nor one who would sacrifice his kin for enlightenment. For a transmigrator, “familiarity breeds hesitation” was no joke; many a traveler had had their plans derailed or ideals altered after spending too much time with a world’s inhabitants. In the Naruto universe alone, countless transmigrators had abandoned their world-ending schemes thanks to Naruto’s infamous “Talk-no-Jutsu.”

While reading manga or the stories of transmigrator predecessors, such things might seem ludicrous, but faced with the real thing, it was another matter entirely—the protagonist, blessed by the world itself, often wielded a charisma that could sway hearts with ease.

Human emotions can be a driving force, but more often than not, they are shackles.

Feng Xue was not unfeeling; all he could do was avoid forming deep attachments, preserving the detachment vital for a transmigrator.

He always remembered: his path was not that of the heavens, but of humanity.

PS: Though I doubt anyone would be so reckless, let me state clearly—every recipe in this story is pure fiction. Unless you are immune to all poisons, do not attempt any of this.