Food addiction—
It was a condition not so different from substance dependence.
Just like narcotics, exquisite food could stimulate the brain to release dopamine—the chemical that floods the mind with pleasure. The richer the taste, the stronger the reaction. That instant gratification, the euphoric high—people chased it, again and again.
Under normal circumstances, the feeling of fullness would signal satisfaction. But when a dish went beyond simple satiety—when it transcended the notion of hunger—people would keep eating just to experience that rush one more time.
If a gambler couldn't resist the allure of cards and dice, then someone with a binge-eating compulsion couldn't suppress their craving for flavor.
And Mana Nakiri?
The woman who once loathed cooking with every fiber of her being…
Was now hopelessly addicted to it.
Or more specifically—
Addicted to his cooking.
"Am I… addicted to your food?" Mana asked softly, her lips trembling.
Zane looked at her, brows furrowed.
The tavern was already closed, and most of the ingredients had been packed away. The stock was low—definitely not enough to recreate the Comet Fried Rice that had once shattered the curse of the God Tongue, even temporarily.
He sighed.
"Right now, I don't think I have enough to make that dish again."
The moment the words left his mouth, despair settled in Mana's eyes. A cold, consuming fear wrapped around her chest like a vice. Her breathing quickened.
She'd reached her limit.
One more hour without tasting his food—one more minute—and she felt she might completely break down.
"Please…"
Her voice cracked as she clutched the edge of the counter with trembling hands.
"I've suffered most of my life."
"Now that I've finally found the flavor that can ease this curse—Zane, please… make something. Anything. I just want to feel that again. Just once more…"
Her gaze shimmered—starved, desperate, filled with longing. The unmistakable glow of obsession sparkled in her eyes.
Anne, standing beside her, was stunned.
"Wait… is this really food addiction?"
As the chief executive of WGO, she had a vast breadth of culinary knowledge. She'd seen addiction in many forms—but this? This was something else entirely.
She knew that different people had different genetic predispositions. Some were more likely to be addicted to sugar, salt, or fat. But this level of dependency on refined cuisine—especially from someone who once despised food—was unprecedented.
Mana Nakiri, once the ultimate food critic, was now begging—humbling herself—for another taste.
And all because of one man's cooking.
Zane looked at her for a long moment, then glanced down at his calloused hands.
Normally, to extract the full potential of a dish like Comet Fried Rice, he would use the Heavenly North Star Wolf—an elite-grade cooking tool that amplified the essence of ingredients.
But this time, he didn't have the time. Nor the gear.
Just a set of basic knives and the will to help someone who had nowhere else to turn.
"…Fine," he said at last.
"I'll make something. I can't promise it'll have the same effect—but I'll try."
Then he turned and walked toward the kitchen.
Anne's heart skipped a beat. Her eyes lit up.
This man—this mysterious tavern owner—was about to cook again.
And if the past was anything to go by…
It was going to be unforgettable.
BANG!
A massive red snapper landed on the cutting board, its scales glistening like rubies under the light.
Without wasting a second, Zane pulled out the Peacock's Charm knife set.
Clang.
He selected a thin, razor-sharp slicing knife—and began.
Swish! Swish! Swish!
The sound of blade against flesh was sharp, rhythmic, and hypnotic.
In a blur of motion, the red snapper was filleted, sliced, and transformed—each stroke landing with surgical precision. The slices of fish were cut so thin they looked like translucent silk, fluttering in the air as they gently landed atop a mountain of ice.
Anne's breath caught in her throat.
"What… what is this?"
She had seen Zane's knife work before. The Wensi Tofu had amazed her. The Comet Fried Rice had blown her away.
But this…
This was different.
His movements looked chaotic, almost reckless—but each cut landed on the perfect angle of muscle, the perfect gradient of flesh.
In a matter of seconds, the entire snapper was broken down.
The slices of sashimi danced in mid-air, suspended, as if weightless.
Anne realized—Zane's slicing speed was so fast, it generated a light current of air around the blade. The gust gently kept the thin slices floating, slowing their descent like leaves in the wind.
One after another, the sashimi settled softly onto the ice.
The red snapper had become a cascade of shimmering petals, layered beautifully on crystal-clear ice like a koi pond frozen in time.
She stared, wide-eyed.
"It's like… falling snow."
"So thin… they're practically weightless."
Was this a new dish?
Or was this art?
Each slice looked like it belonged in a museum—not a kitchen.
Zane finally stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow.
"There," he said quietly. "Try this."
Mana, still swaying with weakness, was helped to the table. Her trembling fingers picked up a pair of chopsticks, and with slow, reverent movements, she placed a single slice of sashimi in her mouth.
And then—
She stopped breathing.
Her body tensed. Her fingers clenched.
Tears welled in her eyes.
A soft, breathless whisper escaped her lips:
"Delicious…"