You got your marriage certificate and then abandoned me? I'll feed the richest woman in the wor

A cacophony of laughter echoed beneath the panoramic glass dome on the top deck of the cruise ship.

The noise was mixed with the jeers and jeers of several foreign chefs watching the spectacle.

Watanabe crossed his arms and raised his chin almost parallel to the ceiling.

His apprentices behind him exaggeratedly clutched their stomachs, laughing so hard they almost fell over.

It's as if Chen Yuan is standing here.

This is itself a desecration of this top-level underground culinary competition in Asia.

Chen Yuan did not refute.

His deep eyes merely swept indifferently over the arrogant face on the other side of the river.

It's like watching a clown jumping around.

He didn't even bother to utter a single unnecessary word.

He looked away and his gaze fell on his bare cutting board.

"clang--!"

A deep, resonant gong sounded in the center of the arena.

The air itself seemed to tremble from the shock.

"The match has officially begun, with a time limit of 120 minutes!"

The host's voice was amplified throughout the venue via a high-end sound system.

The famous chefs who were originally mocking Chen Yuan.

It instantly felt like a machine that had been wound up tightly.

They returned to their respective stoves, their eyes becoming fervent and focused.

The prizes for this competition are too tempting.

The kitchen knife "Dragon Scale" was forged from the core of a meteorite.

It represents the highest honor in the culinary world.

Whoever manages to obtain it will immediately reach the pinnacle of the global catering industry.

Click, click.

The sound of the constant-temperature combination lock being opened one after another rose and fell.

The central air conditioning on the cruise ship was running at full blast.

However, the temperature inside the arena rose rapidly as the fire in the furnace blazed.

A series of luxurious and domineering fragrances began to intertwine and collide in the air.

On Watanabe's stove.

The top-quality bluefin tuna that was airlifted in was gutted.

The snow-white fat texture gleamed alluringly under the light.

The scalpel in his hand moved so fast it was almost a blur.

Thin slices of fish, as thin as cicada wings, were neatly arranged on icy crushed ice.

Next to it, a pot of secret-recipe broth made with century-old kelp was simmering.

The fresh, sweet taste of seafood hits your nose.

The French chef on the left front is carefully cutting open a black truffle.

The unique earthy aroma blends with the rich flavor of butter.

It sizzled in the frying pan.

The Italian chef on the right lit an entire glass of vintage cognac.

Blue flames soared into the sky.

The M12 Wagyu beef in the pot was wrapped inside, releasing a strong, caramelized aroma of fat.

The entire arena was like a battleground for top-tier ingredients.

All sorts of culinary masters, like the Eight Immortals crossing the sea, each displayed their unique talents.

The aroma was so rich it almost solidified, wafting straight into the noses of the gourmets in the stands.

It made many people swallow hard.

And at stove number 99, which is located at the very edge of the field.

It was as quiet as a forgotten desert.

Chen Yuan did not open any of the food boxes.

He didn't even touch the high-end kitchenware provided by the organizing committee.

He simply turned around.

From the unassuming insulated bag I brought.

He took out an ordinary white porcelain bowl.

In the bowl, there was a bowl of leftover rice that was still slightly dry and hard, with each grain distinct.

There were also two unremarkable farm eggs covered in mud.

He placed the two items on the polished marble countertop.

His movements were so casual, it was as if he were preparing to cook a quick meal at a night market stall in an urban village.

This is a ridiculous scene.

It fell directly into the eyes of the judges in the very center of the stands.

Seated in the center position is Herman, the president of the Asian Culinary Association.

An old man who is almost obsessively picky about ingredients.

He put down the binoculars he was holding.

His gray eyebrows were twisted into a tight knot.

The veins on his forehead throbbed.

"Nonsense! Absolutely nonsense!"

Hermann slammed his hand on the solid wood table in front of him, causing the water in his teacup to splash out.

"What is that? Leftovers? A few cents' worth of free-range eggs?"

"He brought this kind of food, which is only eaten by the lowest of men, into our sacred arena!"

Several judges nearby also frowned.

His face was filled with undisguised disgust.

"How did the organizing committee select the list? How did someone like this get in?"

"Look at him, he's not even turning on the stove, just standing there waiting for that bowl of cold rice to cook on its own?"

"This is so shameful; it's an insult to the chef profession."

The audience in the stands also noticed Chen Yuan in the corner.

Boos and jeers came crashing down like waves.

"Get off the building! Stop making a fool of yourself!"

"Trying to fight over 'dragon scales' with a bowl of leftover rice? Are you still asleep or have you lost your mind?"

The overwhelming ridicule did not change Chen Yuan's expression in the slightest.

He had one hand in his trouser pocket.

His other hand rested on the edge of the cutting board.

With eyes closed.

It was as if the surrounding noise and insults were nothing more than the insignificant chirping of insects.

He is waiting.

Wait until the moisture in that bowl of leftover rice reaches its perfect evaporation point under the cold air from the air conditioner.

Time passed by, second by second.

An hour has passed.

The dishes on the other stoves have gradually entered the final plating stage.

The luxurious aroma reached its peak.

Watanabe held the plate of tuna sashimi, which looked like a work of art.

When passing by Chen Yuan's stove.

He deliberately stopped walking.

He glanced at the bowl of cold rice on the cutting board, which hadn't even been moved.

The sneer at the corners of his mouth stretched all the way to his ears.

"Hey Chinese kid, if you just want to come here and enjoy some free air conditioning..."

"You can get out now."

"This sword is destined to belong to our Great Japanese Empire."

Chen Yuan did not open his eyes.

He didn't even give him the slightest reaction.

Watanabe snorted coldly, picked up the plate, and walked arrogantly toward the judges' table.

At this point, only five minutes remained in the game.

Almost all the chefs had finished their dishes and were standing in front of the stove waiting for their scores.

Only Chen Yuan.

Finally, he slowly opened his eyes.

A sharp, cold light flashed in his deep black eyes.

The moisture level is just right.

He ignored the stares from those around him, as if they were looking at a dead man.

He reached out and turned on the gas stove.

A dark blue flame suddenly shot up.

He licked the bottom of that ordinary black iron pot.

Just as he was about to pour the oil...

Chief judge Herman could no longer contain his anger.

He suddenly stood up.

He strode over to stove number 99.

His old face flushed red with anger.

He pointed to the bowl of cold rice on the cutting board.

The head judge, looking impatiently at the meager bowl of cold rice in front of Chen Yuan, tapped the table: "Contestant, are you trying to insult our judges' palates with this leftover rice?"