Multiverse Gourmet Hunter

Dojima Gin studied everyone’s expressions, then glanced at Jōichirō with mild surprise.

He had originally been worried that the Elite Ten might let their status go to their heads and fail to take the training seriously. But after Jōichirō’s little speech, their competitive instincts had clearly been stirred up.

That saved Dojima the trouble of having to motivate them himself.

He opened the file in his hands.

Inside was a detailed profile on every participant, including their entrance exam results, Food War records, specialties, technical strengths, and even their personalities.

”All right. I’ll divide you into teams based on your individual strengths and circumstances.”

Dojima’s expression turned serious.

”The first group will be—”

”Hold on!”

Before he could finish, Jōichirō suddenly interrupted.

”If we’re dividing into teams, why don’t we just draw lots?”

”That’ll be more fun, and it’s the fairest way to do it!”

As he spoke, Jōichirō pulled a handful of folded paper slips from his pocket as though he had prepared them long ago and waved them in the air.

”Hey! Jōichirō! What the hell are you doing?!”

Dojima’s brows immediately drew together.

”The team assignments directly affect everyone’s training results! We need to balance them properly based on their strengths and weaknesses. How can you decide something this important by drawing lots?”

He had spent a great deal of time carefully working out the group combinations.

”Oh, come on. Don’t be so rigid.”

Jōichirō waved dismissively.

”Cooking itself is full of surprises.”

”Not knowing who your teammates or opponents will be—that uncertainty creates possibilities you’d never get from carefully planning everything in advance.”

”You—”

A vein bulged on Dojima’s forehead.

His fists clenched so tightly that he looked one step away from punching Jōichirō in the face.

Back when they had attended Totsuki together, Jōichirō had been notorious for refusing to follow conventional logic and doing whatever struck his fancy.

Apparently, nothing had changed.

Jōichirō completely ignored Dojima’s mounting anger and continued addressing the others.

”And since this is a competition, shouldn’t there be some kind of penalty? Otherwise, where’s the fun?”

He grinned.

”So what should the losing team have to do?”

Dojima inhaled deeply, attempting to suppress his irritation.

It did not work.

Memories from their school days flooded back all at once.

”You were always like this back at Totsuki!”

”We agreed to prepare for the Moon Festival together, and then you suddenly disappeared to Hokkaido!”

”And every time you had a Food War, you’d make some bizarre dish nobody could understand!”

His voice grew louder with every sentence.

”Even during those years when nobody knew where you were, you were exactly the same!”

Dojima’s fists cracked audibly.

”Every time you called, you’d ramble about whatever you felt like talking about and hang up before I could even finish! Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?!”

”...”

The smile on Jōichirō’s face faded slightly beneath Dojima’s fury.

He scratched his head awkwardly.

”Sorry, sorry. I figured you were doing fine.”

Listening to Dojima tear into Jōichirō, Erina felt the image of her idol cracking apart before her eyes.

She had never imagined Jōichirō had this side to him.

Then again, when she thought about it, she had never truly known him personally in the first place.

After finally calming Dojima down, Jōichirō turned back toward everyone with a mischievous grin.

”All right, all right. That was just a little detour.”

He clapped his hands, drawing everyone’s attention back to him.

”Let’s get back to what we were discussing—the punishment for losing the team battles.”

”The losing team will all have to taste my latest ’creative dish’!”

Most of the people present looked confused.

Aside from Haruto, Megumi, and a few others who already knew what Jōichirō meant by ”creative dishes,” everyone else had the same thought.

How was eating Jōichirō’s cooking supposed to be a punishment?

That sounded like a reward.

They had just learned that Jōichirō had once been regarded as the number-one chef in the world. Getting to eat a dish he personally prepared for them hardly sounded like something to fear.

Erina in particular was practically looking forward to it.

Dojima’s rant had certainly revealed an unexpectedly unreliable side of Jōichirō, but it had done nothing to shake her faith in his culinary skills.

”If the punishment is just eating something, I don’t think that contributes much to the training.”

Haruto suddenly spoke, drawing everyone’s attention.

Under their curious and puzzled gazes, he broke into an exceptionally bright smile.

”Using Jōichirō-san’s cooking as a punishment doesn’t have enough deterrent value, and it won’t really train anyone.”

”Fortunately, I prepared some specialized training equipment in advance. I originally planned to bring it out after everyone had completed a certain amount of basic training, but it’ll work perfectly as a penalty instead.”

”Give me a moment. I’ll go get it.”

Before anyone could respond, Haruto turned and left the kitchen.

Everyone exchanged uncertain looks.

”Training equipment?”

Soma scratched his head and turned toward Isshiki.

”Has Haruto been preparing something lately?”

Isshiki shook his head.

He had not noticed Haruto making anything.

They did not have to wait long.

Haruto soon returned carrying a large pile of strange objects.

Everyone immediately crowded closer, only becoming more confused by what they saw.

Part of the pile consisted of rolled-up strips that looked like leaves from some unusual plant. They were green, smooth, and glossy, with a faint, refreshing vegetal fragrance.

The rest consisted of bizarre components connected by silver-white springs.

There were ring-shaped guards, curved pads, long broad straps, and all sorts of oddly shaped fittings.

”What are these?”

Megumi murmured softly.

She could not begin to guess what they were supposed to do.

Everyone else examined the pieces with equally baffled expressions.

Jōichirō eventually stepped closer, picked up one complete set, and weighed it in his hands.

It was surprisingly heavy.

He turned it over several times before flicking one of the springs with a finger.

”This... is something you wear, right?”

Jōichirō slid one of the ring-shaped guards over his wrist, then positioned a connected curved pad against his shoulder.

”These springs would restrain movement from every direction. Every motion would require you to overcome constant resistance.”

He looked thoughtful.

”So this is a physical training device.”

Haruto nodded, still wearing that brilliant smile.

For some reason, Soma and the others found that smile increasingly unsettling.

”Exactly. Jōichirō-san got it right.”

Haruto gestured toward the equipment.

”I call it the Spring-Resistance Training Suit. I based it on a chef-training method I encountered before.”

”My original plan was to wait until everyone had thoroughly mastered the fundamentals, then have you wear these for advanced training.”

”But bringing them out early as punishment for losing the team competition works even better.”

”The losing team will have to put these on and practice basic skills like knife work and wok tossing.”

The design was based on a training method used by the Dark Cooking Society.

And Haruto had no doubt it would be extremely effective.

The Dark Cooking Society from the Cooking Master Boy world might have been ridiculous in plenty of ways, but some of its methods for training chefs genuinely had merit.

At the very least, the chefs it produced tended to possess excellent technical ability.

As for the occasional ”attrition” involved in their original training methods, that was hardly a concern with Haruto supervising everyone.

His explanation was perfectly calm.

To Soma and the others, however, every word sounded like a thunderclap.

They already understood the principle behind the suit.

Once someone put it on, even the simplest movement would become painfully difficult.

Basic actions they normally performed without thinking—chopping ingredients, tossing a wok, turning the wrist—would suddenly require several times as much muscular effort against the tension of the springs.

And the resistance came from every direction.

If their posture or movement deviated even slightly, the springs would drag them off balance.

Forget precision knife work.

Simply keeping hold of the knife would become a challenge.

This was not training equipment.

It was a torture device.

Jōichirō pictured the scene in his mind: someone wrapped from head to toe in springs, arms and legs constantly being pulled in different directions while they shakily tried to chop vegetables. One mistake in force or angle, and the knife would immediately veer off course.

He sucked in a breath and looked at Haruto with newfound ”admiration.”

”Wow. That’s brutal. Way worse than my cooking.”

Jōichirō clicked his tongue appreciatively.

”But I have to admit, it would definitely improve their technique.”

”Under constant resistance, a chef would have to control every muscle and every movement with incredible precision just to perform the most basic kitchen tasks.”

”Once they adapt to that and take the suit off, their movements should become much cleaner and more accurate. Their cooking skills would naturally improve as well.”

Dojima, Shinomiya Kojirō, and Inui Hinako quickly reached the same conclusion.

The more they examined the Spring-Resistance Training Suit, the more intrigued their expressions became.

Haruto’s ridiculous-looking contraption might actually be an extremely effective training tool.