The servant returned within minutes, followed by two men. One, a yellow-skinned man dressed in pristine whites with his black hair pulled back in a tight knot. The other a broad man with a waxed mustache in black slacks.

  "Lord Thornwald." Jiro bowed slightly. "You requested our presence?"

  "Master Jiro, Master Robuchon," Lord Thornwald stood. "This is Clive Weston, the artist who cured my wife. He wishes to learn cooking."

  Master Jiro's dark eyes fixed on Clive as though examining him. He said nothing.

  Master Robuchon stepped forward with a flourish. "Ah, monsieur wishes to learn ze culinary arts? Magnifique! My refined techniques are yours, unless you prefer ze simplistic preparations of ze East?"

  Master Jiro's jaw tightened. "Simple?" His voice carried the weight of controlled irritation. "Robuchon-san, your sauces cannot hide poor knife work."

  "Poor knife work?" Robuchon's mustache bristled. "I 've been perfecting my slices since before you could 'old chopsticks properly."

  "Your slices look like it was cut by a drunk apprentice."

  "And your mother sauces taste like dishwater with delusions of grandeur."

  Lord Thornwald cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, please. We have a guest."

  "But of course, milord. My apologies," Robuchon straightened his jacket and shot a final glare at Jiro.

  Master Jiro simply inclined his head toward Clive, his expression unreadable.

  "Master Jiro is from the Eastern continent and specializes in raw preparations," Lord Thornwald explained. "The sushi you enjoyed tonight was his work. Master Robuchon hails from Ironhaven and handles our cooked dishes—the lamb, the abalone, the custard."

  "Two masters, two philosophies," Robuchon said, his accent thick with pride. "Fire transforms ingredients into art. Raw fish..." He shrugged. "It is what it is."

  "What it is," Jiro replied quietly, "is honest. No sauce to mask mistakes. No heat to soften poor cuts. Each slice reveals the chef's skill."

  "Or lack thereof," Robuchon muttered.

  Lucia leaned forward in her chair. "They've been having this argument for over a year now."

  "One years, two months, sixteen days," Jiro corrected. "Since Robuchon claimed my tuna was 'adequate.'"

  "It was adequate! Good tuna, yes, where is ze skill? Ze technique lacked sophistication."

  "Sophistication." Jiro's tone suggested he found the word distasteful. "You mean unnecessary garnish."

  Lord Thornwald raised his hands before another clash could begin. "Perhaps we should show Master Clive the kitchen? He can decide which techniques interest him most."

  "Would you like a tour of the kitchen, Master Clive?" Robuchon asked, emphasizing the title with obvious deference to Clive's newfound status.

  The kitchen was tucked away behind a maze of corridors. Two massive hearths dominated opposite walls. Between them, copper pots hung from iron hooks, and knife racks displayed blades that gleamed like surgical instruments.

  "Voilà!" Robuchon swept his arm toward the western side of the kitchen. "Ze heart of Ironhaven’s cuisine."

  Three cooks in white aprons worked at a long marble counter, their hands moving in practiced rhythm. One stirred a copper pot with a wooden spoon, tasting and adjusting. Another rolled pastry dough while the third cleaned vegetables.

  "Pierre, show monsieur ze mother sauces," Robuchon commanded.

  The cook at the stove lifted five small copper pans. "Béchamel, velouté, espagnole, hollandaise, and tomato," he recited. "Ze foundation of all Western cooking."

  Robuchon beamed. "From zese five, we create 'undreds of variations. Mornay from béchamel, chasseur from espagnole..." He kissed his fingertips. "Infinite possibility through technique."

  Master Jiro had remained silent during this display. Then, he gestured toward the eastern side of the kitchen, where a different scene unfolded. His workspace centered around a massive wooden cutting board. Behind it, shallow tanks held live fish swimming in clear water.

  "No sauces," Jiro said simply. "No transformation. Only revelation."

  A young assistant moved between the tanks with a net, selecting a particularly lively fish. Another worked at a smaller cutting board, his knife reducing a yellowtail to rectangles of flesh.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "Kenji," Jiro addressed the assistant with the knife. "Show the timing."

  The young man's blade moved faster, each cut identical to the last. Thirty seconds later, he had transformed an entire fish into sashimi-ready portions.

  "Temperature matters," Jiro explained to Clive. "Fish must be at exactly fifteen degrees. Knife must be clean between each cut." He picked up his own knife, a single piece of folded steel with a handle wrapped in silk cord. "This blade was forged by my grandfather. It knows fish the way a painter knows color."

  Robuchon snorted. "Pretty knife work, yes. But it is nothing more than sliced fish. Where is ze creativity? Ze innovation?"

  "Innovation?" Jiro's voice carried an edge. "Yesterday you served lamb with seventeen different garnishes. The meat was overcooked."

  "Ze garnishes elevated ze dish beyond mere sustenance!"

  "The garnishes hid your mistakes."

  "They are both impressive," Clive interrupted their argument. "I very much enjoyed both your dishes tonight."

  The two chiefs stopped their bickering to look at Clive.

  “Then we shall leave it to Master Clive to decide. Who would you like to learn from?" Master Jiro asked.

  Clive looked between the two kitchens. Both masters had created extraordinary food, but the real question was practicality. He thought about his past journeys, days of travel through uncertain terrain. Robuchon's elaborate creations required sitting down, proper utensils, time to savor each component. His dishes were beautiful, but impractical when you might need to eat quickly before a fight or while moving through dangerous territory.

  Jiro's sushi offered something different. Compact, complete nutrition in a form he could eat with one hand. No sauce to spill, no delicate garnishes to scatter. Each piece was self-contained, designed to be consumed in a single bite. Perfect field rations that could provide the same stat bonuses as an elaborate feast.

  "Master Jiro," Clive said finally. "I would be honored to learn from you."

  Robuchon's mustache drooped slightly, though he maintained his composure. "Ah, ze young artist prefers simplicity. Perhaps when you tire of raw fish, you will appreciate ze art of proper cooking, non?"

  Jiro bowed to Clive in acknowledgement. "When do you wish to begin?"

  "Tomorrow morning, if you'll have me."

  "Dawn. You must understand each component before you can understand the whole."

  Clive returned to the kitchen the next morning. Most of Robuchon's staff hadn't arrived yet, but Jiro's section hummed with quiet activity.

  Jiro stood at his cutting board, running a whetstone along his knife blade. He didn't look up when Clive entered.

  "You came."

  "I said I would."

  Jiro set down the whetstone and turned. His gaze shifted to Clive, studying him with the same intensity Clive used when analyzing a subject for drawing. "So, you want to learn cooking."

  "Yes."

  "Show me your hands."

  Clive extended both hands, palms up. Jiro took them, turning them over to examine the calluses from sword training and the faint graphite stains embedded under his fingernails.

  "Working hands. Good." Jiro released them. "Most nobles who ask for cooking lessons want to play chef for a week, then return to having others prepare their meals. They think cooking is a performance."

  "I'm not a noble."

  Jiro studied him for another moment, then nodded slowly. "Then your first lesson begins with rice. Everything else is decoration."

  Jiro passed him a bucket of uncooked rice. "Prepare this."

  Clive was confident. Rice was a basic dish, something he had made countless times in his apartment. Minute Rice from a box, Uncle Ben's from a pouch, sometimes the fancy jasmine rice when he felt ambitious. He'd even made risotto once for a dinner with Jill.

  But as he looked around the kitchen, he realized the first problem. No rice cooker. Not even a microwave. Just the massive hearth with its iron grates and the smaller cooking fires along the wall.

  He selected a medium pot, filled it with water, and set it over one of the flames. The rice went in, and he stirred it occasionally while it bubbled. The grains turned from translucent to white, absorbing the water. When the liquid had mostly evaporated, he pulled it from the heat.

  Perfect. Just like he'd made a hundred times before.

  Jiro approached, lifted the lid, and glanced at the contents. Without a word, he carried the entire pot to the waste bin and dumped it out.

  "Again."

  Clive stared at the empty pot. "What was wrong with it?"

  "Everything."

  Clive scooped some of the rice clinging to the pot's edge and tasted it. The grains were soft, fully cooked, maybe a touch bland but perfectly edible. "It tastes fine. You didn't even try it."

  "There was no need. It looked wrong."

  "Looked wrong how?"

  Jiro gestured toward the waste bin where Clive's rice sat in a soggy heap. "You didn’t wash the rice, so the starch fragments remained and created glue. No structure. Steam escaped during cooking because you lifted the lid three times. Your water ratio was incorrect. Too much liquid makes paste, not rice."

  "But it's edible. People eat rice like this all the time."

  “Disgraceful!” Jiro raised his voice, causing several of his assistants to glance over from their prep work. “Rice is the most fundamental Eastern cuisine. This dish we call sushi—do you know what it means?”

  Clive shook his head.

  "Vinegared rice. Not fish. Not seaweed. Rice. The fish is mere garnish. The rice is the heart and soul of sushi. Every grain must be perfect."

  He pointed sharply at the waste bin. "What you made insults every master who spent years learning to cook rice properly. In my homeland, apprentices spend years doing nothing but rice. Because the moment we accept mediocre as good enough is the moment we lose all pride in our craft."

  The kitchen went quiet. The kitchen staff paused their preparation to witness the commotion.

  Jiro's voice dropped back to its normal level, but the steel remained. "A painter would not accept a canvas covered in smudges and call it art. Why should a chef accept poorly cooked rice and call it cuisine?"

  He handed Clive a fresh bucket. "Now do it again."

  Day 3,847 since beginning my apprenticeship at the Yamamoto house. Master finally allowed me to touch fish today, only to clean the scales from yesterday's cutting board, but still. My hands shook as I held the cloth.

  Ten years. Ten years of washing floors and scrubbing toilets. Ten years of cooking rice while others learned knife work. "Rice first," Master always said when I begged to advance. "Perfect the foundation before you dream of the roof."

  I understand now. Every grain I cooked incorrectly taught me respect. Every pot I ruined reminded me that mastery demands sacrifice. Today, when I finally cooked rice that made Master nod his approval, I wept.

  The fish can wait another day. Tonight, I celebrate rice.

  —From the training journal of Jiro Saito, age 26, recorded at the Yamamoto Culinary House, Higakuni