Magical Engineering

Rabyn

Several men walked over to Rabyn as he was looking over the table he had been led to. While he only recognized one of them, and that was from reputation alone, their outfits told him exactly who they were. These were the judges of the competition. All of them here, daring to think they had any right to inspect his creations.

Frankly, he considered Jordan Hamsy a fool. The man's books were nothing but pompous works of nonsense aimed at the type of person who had never actually cooked anything in their life. But for the sake of the others, he would put on his best smile and win these men over.

“So, looking over your entry into this competition. Are you the Rabyn, the lost prince?” one of them, some sort of Troll, asked.

“I don't know that I would consider myself lost. I am right here after all, ready to cook in front of a crowd,” he replied, keeping the smile up. In truth, he didn't even have to fake it at the moment. He knew the fact that he'd revealed himself like this to the watching crowd would annoy some of the many, many enemies he had made in his life, not to mention the ones he had inherited.

His great-grandfather had betrayed their long-held pacifism and made sure that forever their line would be remembered. Rabyn knew that at least that man would understand what his life had become, even if no one else in the family would. He hoped, though, that some day, when he met them all again in the afterlife, they would enjoy the artist underneath the violence.

“Well, I can tell you with complete honesty that is something our audience did not expect. To see the last heir of a forgotten Orcish dynasty appear before us as a humble chef competing for an up-and-coming faction while his greatest enemies sit in the audience. Are you not afraid that the Plutorian Empire will use this opportunity to finish you off?” the Troll continued.

“The only thing I fear is disappointing those who taste my creations. And as that is something that is yet to happen to me, I think today will again be a resounding success for all of my skills. May those who watch me with other considerations in mind remember that my true class is that of War Chef. I follow the path of the Battle Gourmet. And today, everyone will see just what that means,” Rabyn replied, pulling out one of his cleavers for a quick flourish, proud of how well he had phrased that little speech.

“Interesting cleaver work you have there. Where did you pick up the path for the Battle Gourmet? It's not a common classpath, even for the War Chef, as far as I know,” A different voice, belonging to a tall Pachydresti, asked.

“Ah, yes. You wouldn't see that very often. My War Chef class is something I put together from various other things I learned during my enslavement. Specifically, my cleaver skills were taught to me by an old chef I spent some time with in passing in an encampment. The Singing Blades became determined that I should learn better cooking skills because they thought it was funny for me to be their servant.”

Rabyn suspected he knew what the judge was getting at, but he wasn't willing to out who his teacher was there. There were few people in all of the spiral capable of doing what he could with a cleaver. Tony Dainour was just too much of a legendary figure in the world of cooking for Rabyn to admit that he was one of his first masters. It would lead to a whole new level of chaos that they didn't need right now.

The fact that he ran into the man at all at such a low point in his life was somewhat of a mystery to the Orc. He had his suspicions. And all of them pointed at Floor Master. Though why the spider would never have confessed any of those things to him in their many meetings, he wasn't sure. That was the only thing that made him doubt his oldest friend, who was behind the serendipitous meeting.

“Still, it's a rather unique form of cleaver use. Perhaps after the competition, you and I could talk for a little while,” the Pachydresti judge continued.

“I believe that can be arranged once we win. I will let Dave know that you wish to speak to the faction,” Rabyn replied, letting his ego shine through. He knew that wasn't exactly what the judges meant, but it was best to keep him off guard.

“Alright, everyone, I think that's been a good enough interview for the war chef, Rabyn, and it's time for him to get cooking. Since you'll be doing this alone, you will receive full points, but your time will not change. You have fifteen minutes to prepare your dish,” Jordan Hamsy said.

That was less time than Rabyn had expected. Not that it really bothered him, he'd been expecting shenanigans from the start. If anything, it focused him. He knew exactly what he needed to do.

For the first step, he pulled all of his ingredients from his storage space, feeling the magic of the juices, scanning each one as it appeared. Not even checking if anyone cried foul, he continued with his plan. There was no time to wait for their judgments yet.

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He chopped the onions, the eggplant, and the potatoes at lightning speed. Each one was carefully tossed into a different pan, pulled from the storage space exactly as it was needed. He didn't want to waste time on the equipment provided. No stove was going to be as fast as his own cooking abilities. So instead, the moment the pan had exactly what it needed, he tossed it on top of a phantom cooktop, letting it begin to simmer.

Rabyn had a strong feeling that upon hearing the time limit, most of the chefs would immediately change up what dish they had in mind for making. He had no such intention and had assumed that he'd be running on his own schedule from the second this all started. Sure, he had made this plan with the intention of having a few helping hands, but he wasn't worried.

He had specifically unlocked a branch of his class just for this potential problem.