Apocalypse Rebirth: Making Billions With My Fortune-Telling Skill

April and Emily walked back into the private judging suite, the quiet luxury of the soundproof sanctuary welcoming them after the brief interlude.

Down on the floor, the vast arena had been transformed.

Where dozens of bustling stations once stood, only twelve immaculate cooking stations remained under the bright glare of the studio lights. The atmosphere among the finalists was charged with palpable tension—each chef knew they were no longer just competing for survival, but for a shot at the ten-million-dollar purse and a place on the master leaderboard.

”They look far more focused now,” Emily observed, leaning against the cool one-way glass as she watched the remaining chefs prepare their workstations.

Over at station thirty-two, Renzo stood with rigid posture, his golden-trimmed coat spotless, his eyes cold and calm as he inspected his array of specialized knives. At station twenty-four, Philippe was taking a steadying breath, wiping down his prep block with meticulous care, utterly unbothered by the prestigious names surrounding him.

April sat down on the sofa, crossing her legs as Samuel stepped forward to pour a fresh cup of jasmine tea.

”The final challenge for today requires each chef to present their single, definitive signature course,” Samuel briefed, standing at attention beside her console. ”The countdown has officially begun.”

Emily turned from the glass, tilting her head in confusion. ”Wait, signature course? Isn’t that the same thing as the master dishes they cooked in the first round?”

”Not quite, Miss Emily,” Samuel explained smoothly, adjusting his glasses. ”The first dish was their entry masterwork—a showcase of their technical proficiency to survive elimination. This final course requires them to prepare their personal signature dish under a strict, unified constraint: it must serve as the absolute, harmonious climax to a full meal after tasting their earlier savory and sweet courses.”

”It tests their pacing and versatility,” April added, taking a slow sip of tea. ”A true master knows how to deliver a grand finale without overwhelming the palate.” she turned to Emily, ”I hope there’s still space in your belly, Emily, ’cause were about to see how they play.”

Emily patted her stomach, giving April a sheepish, bright-eyed smile. ”There’s always room for good food, April! Besides, after tasting that heavy tartlet earlier, I need something satisfying to cleanse my palate.”

”That’s the spirit,” April replied, a faint, amused curve touching her lips as she leaned back against the plush velvet cushions. ”Let’s see who is taking home that ten million.”

Down below, a loud horn blasted through the hall, and the twelve finalists exploded into controlled, precise action. Heavy copper pots clattered against iron burners, high-pressure flame jets roared to life, and the rich scents of roasting spices, aged stocks, and aromatic glazes began wafting into the venue’s master ventilation system.

It wasn’t long before the automated service lift gave its first melodic chime of the afternoon.

The stainless steel tray ascended, revealing an exquisite course beneath the polished dome. Samuel raised the cover to display a rack of milk-fed veal crusted with crushed pistachios, resting on a bed of truffle-infused polenta.

April and Emily stepped up to the counter. April picked up her fork, cutting a small piece of the pink, tender meat and tasting it alongside the rich polenta.

”The truffle is a bit overwhelming,” Emily noted, chewing thoughtfully. ”It drowns out the flavor of the veal.”

”An eight-point-two,” April declared, tapping the screen before making a swift gesture. The remaining three-quarters of the roast vanished instantly into her spatial dimension, taking its place alongside her growing collection of high-end meat courses.

Plate after plate ascended in rapid succession. A braised abalone dish scored an 8.5; a roasted squab with berry reduction earned an 8.1. Each dish was tasted, scored on the live arena board, and immediately stored in timeless stasis within April’s private realm.

Then, the lift chimed for station thirty-two.

When Samuel lifted the dome, the presentation alone made Emily gasp. Renzo had prepared a whole steamed red snapper, perfectly deboned and reassembled, bathed in an amber, glass-clear dashi broth infused with matsutake mushrooms and rare sea botanicals.

April took a spoon of the broth and a flake of the fish. The snapper was impossibly tender, melting on her tongue while the delicate umami of the mushrooms deepened every bite without heavy oils or overpowering salt.

”Incredible,” Emily whispered, savoring her bite. ”It feels so clean.”

”Flawless harmony,” April agreed, her dark eyes glinting with genuine appreciation. ”A nine-point-eight.”

Down on the floor, the master board flashed: STATION 32: 9.8.

Renzo merely bowed his head slightly, his expression remaining completely unreadable, though a subtle aura of supreme confidence radiated from his station. With a cumulative total standing near the top, he had put immense pressure on the rest of the floor.

This made a heavy, suffocating weight settle over the remaining stations.

Whispers erupted among the chefs like a sudden tide of anxiety.

”A nine-point-eight... How are we supposed to compete with that?”

”Renzo’s cumulative score is practically untouchable now. First the seafood, then the mousse, and now this? He’s taking the ten million today, no question.”

”The gap between him and the rest of us is just ridiculous...”

Over at station twenty-four, Philippe felt the crushing weight of the room press down on his shoulders. He stared across the brightly lit hall at the Japanese master, watching the quiet, unshakeable poise radiating from Renzo’s tall frame.

For a second, a flicker of doubt crept into Philippe’s chest, making his throat feel tight.

He closed his eyes, gripping the edge of his stainless-steel counter. He took a long, deep breath, filling his lungs before letting it out in a slow, steadying exhale. His grip loosened, a quiet resolve settling back into his grey eyes.

Even if I don’t win the ten million today, Philippe thought to himself, adjusting his apron strings, there’s still tomorrow. I just need to make sure my dish today is something I’m proud of.

With a calm, focused mind, he turned back to his stove to plate his final entry.

Finally, the lift gave its last chime for the day, elevating the dish from station twenty-four.