The air was filled with steam and silence—an expectant hush that only great chefs dared to break.
On the pristine white porcelain plate, the Soup-Filled Yellow Croaker sat glistening in the light, its golden skin still sizzling faintly from the searing-hot oil. At first glance, it looked deceptively simple—a perfectly fried fish, curled slightly at the ends, its head raised and tail elegantly arched, as though swimming across a gentle wave.
But to the discerning eye, there was something different.
Something extraordinary.
This was no ordinary dish. It was a resurrection—a legendary, almost mythical Huaiyang recipe that had been lost to time.
And now it had returned, not from a palace kitchen or a generational master, but from Zane, standing quietly behind the dish, his arms folded, gaze focused, awaiting a verdict.
Erina Nakiri could hardly contain herself.
The aroma rising from the fish was intoxicating: deep umami from the broth, subtle sweetness from seafood-infused steam, and the fragrant crispness of the golden skin. There was no trace of unpleasant fishiness—only a mellow, elegant perfume that hinted at both the sea and something sacred.
She reached for her chopsticks.
But just as her fingers touched them—
"Wait," Zane said, his voice calm but commanding.
Erina blinked, surprised. "What is it?"
"You need to do it like this," he said, lifting a standard kitchen knife—no fanfare, no ceremonial blade, just a well-honed tool of the trade.
With deliberate, fluid motion, Zane sliced open the belly of the fish.
And the room seemed to pause.
As the skin parted, pearl-sized meatballs tumbled gently out of the fish, rolling onto the plate. Glowing with broth, they nestled in the pool of red-brown sauce like treasure revealed from a cracked jewel.
A rich fragrance suddenly exploded into the air—far deeper and more layered than before.
Everyone watching felt it, like a bell ringing through the senses.
The scent of legacy.
Even for Erina, who had tasted thousands of dishes in her life, this was beyond expectation.
"Those meatballs… are stuffed inside the fish?" she asked, wide-eyed.
Zane nodded. "Carefully poured in, before sealing it. Not a drop spilled during cooking."
Erina couldn't hold back anymore.
She picked up a piece of the fish—crispy golden skin yielding to perfectly moist, snowy-white flesh beneath—and took her first bite.
"Ah—!"
A delicate moan escaped her lips before she could stop it. Her cheeks flushed a soft pink.
She crossed her legs subconsciously under the table, trying to maintain composure—but the dish overwhelmed her senses. The taste of the soup, released by the heat of her mouth, bathed her tongue in warmth and umami.
Tender. Translucent. Rich. Sweet. Fresh.
Even with her God Tongue, a blessing that often turned into a curse—making her overly critical, almost jaded—this dish broke through. It didn't just satisfy her palate.
It touched her soul.
"Mmm…!"
She gasped softly again. A second moan, more vulnerable than the first.
Around her, everyone held their breath.
Zane said nothing.
He didn't need to.
The Secret Behind the Masterpiece
The Soup-Filled Yellow Croaker was an elusive and temperamental dish.
It required a flawless combination of frying and steaming, executed in perfect harmony. The broth was not served with the fish—it was served inside it.
A miracle of both physics and flavor.
To make it successfully, one had to gut and clean the yellow croaker without tearing its delicate belly, then stuff the broth into the cavity, seal it without leakage, fry it to golden perfection, and finally steam it—ensuring that the skin stayed crisp, the broth stayed sealed, and the fish didn't fall apart.
Any mistake along the way—and it would all unravel.
Erina had never seen anyone succeed before.
But here, before her, Zane had done it.
The fish's golden skin shimmered with broth, each flake of meat a vessel of subtle seafood essence. The pearl meatballs, nestled in the rich soup, brought visual contrast and absorbed the flavors perfectly.
Erina swallowed her next bite and felt her entire being lifted.
This… isn't just delicious.
This is divine.
She wasn't the only one moved.
On the sidelines, Hisako had been watching the entire time, stunned.
"Senpai…" she whispered to Sonoka beside her. "How can something this hard be recreated?"
Sonoka exhaled softly, equally overwhelmed. "I don't know. I didn't think I'd ever see this dish in my lifetime."
Takizaki, standing behind them, chimed in.
"The large yellow croaker is a prized fish, especially in coastal banquets. Abalone and shark fin can be optional—but if you don't serve yellow croaker, it's not a feast."
He paused. "But the real reason this dish disappeared isn't the fish. It's the technique."
"Exactly," Sonoka added. "I used to think the soup-filled yellow croaker vanished because the ingredients were rare or expensive. But now I realize—"
"It's the difficulty. The precision."
Zane overheard their conversation and finally spoke up.
"You're both right," he said. "The ingredients are special. But the key lies in execution."
They turned to him, instantly quiet as he walked over.
"The belly must stay intact. The bones and innards must be removed through a small incision near the gills. No tearing. Then the cleaned fish is gently filled with broth—made from dried scallops, sea cucumber, abalone, fish maw, mushrooms, and bird's nest, all simmered in clear chicken stock."
"The broth has to be clear enough to see through, yet strong enough to flavor the meat."
"Then seal. Fry. Steam."
He looked at the dish as if it were a living thing.
"And when the knife cuts into the belly…"
"The broth flows like ink from a brush, and the meat glows like morning mist."
Everyone was silent.
Even Takizaki—who prided himself on knowledge—could only nod, eyes wide.
Culinary Philosophy
As the admiration settled into respectful awe, Zane's thoughts wandered.
He loved Chinese cuisine.
But he didn't worship it blindly.
Chinese cooking reveres the past too much, he thought. Too many restaurants chase "authenticity" without ever asking if tradition still tastes good.
He'd seen so-called fine dining restaurants stack tiny portions into towers, using dry ice and edible gold to add "drama"—then serve greasy duck or flavorless sea cucumber, claiming it was a return to tradition.
No salt in desserts. No vinegar where it's needed. No contrast, no layering—just old recipes reprinted forever.
Tradition isn't wrong. But if it stands in the way of taste?
Break it.
Zane didn't believe in change for the sake of change.
But he also didn't believe in preserving ruins.
He believed in evolution.
And in that sense, perhaps his Soup-Filled Yellow Croaker wasn't just a revival of the past.
It was a rebirth.
A step forward.
As Erina picked up another piece of the fish, the flavor sent her spiraling again.
She found herself underwater, dreamlike.
A beautiful ocean scene unfolded in her mind—colorful coral reefs glowing under sunlight, and a school of yellow croakers swimming playfully in front of her.
They were golden and lively, darting through the sea like little sprites.
They swam close, brushing her hand. One nibbled her fingertip.
"You naughty fish, licking my fingers…" she murmured dreamily.
Then blinked in surprise.
"Huh? I… I'm still eating?"
She glanced down.
"I haven't even finished yet!"
She eagerly picked up her chopsticks again.
"Fantastic!"
Erina declared at last, eyes sparkling.
"This isn't just cooking. It's… art. A miracle. I can't imagine anyone else making this."
"No, I can't even imagine anyone trying."
Zane, standing nearby, gave her a small smile—but said nothing.
He didn't need to.
The Soup-Filled Yellow Croaker had already spoken for him.
And it had said:
I am timeless.
I am reborn.
I am perfection.