The dust of war barely settled, a grim hush fell over the ruined kitchen grounds.
Flour floated like ghostly snow. The smell of scorched batter, burned pride, and unbending culinary dreams filled the air.
And then—
With the solemnity of executioners at a royal trial, the Judges emerged.
A trio of figures, each somehow looking far too clean for having walked into what could only be described as "Culinary Chernobyl."
The first was a plump man in crimson robes, holding a fork like a scepter.
The second, a sharp-eyed woman whose apron was stitched with battle medals.
The third, a skeletal elder with a nose so keen he could probably detect a seasoning imbalance at forty paces.
Their polished shoes crunched against the battlefield of broken dreams and soggy croissants.
They moved in silence, scanning each table with the chilling precision of predators sniffing for weakness.
One unfortunate table — Table 5 — they did not even approach.
A single glance at the fur-coated, partially smoking pie was enough to make the elder judge raise two fingers in the ancient, silent symbol of "Nope."
The judges approached another table where a frightened contestant shakily presented his dish — a towering cake with delicate sugarwork.
The first judge took a bite.
Paused.
Sighed heavily.
Without a word, the entire cake collapsed as if realizing it had disappointed its creator.
The judges moved on.
Closer.
Closer still.
And then they stood before Poffin and Ash's table.
The charred steak and their... interestingly textured dessert waited, trembling under the scrutiny.
Poffin stood at full attention, his fur still slightly frizzled from grenade aftermath, sweat dripping down his forehead like he was facing a firing squad.
Ash managed to hold a formal stance but couldn't quite hide the terror in his eyes.
The elder judge leaned in first.
He sniffed.
He paused.
His eyebrow twitched — but not entirely in disgust.
Was that... intrigue?
The woman judge plucked a fork from thin air with the deftness of a swordsman drawing a blade.
She sliced a piece of steak with clinical precision, observing how the juices ran.
The moment of truth.
She lifted the bite to her lips.
Silence stretched tight across the entire competition floor.
Even the sentient soufflé in the corner dared not breathe.
And then...
She chewed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
And gave a tiny nod.
Not a large nod.
Not an enthusiastic one.
But a nod nonetheless — the kind given by a queen to a peasant who just barely didn't mess up the flower presentation.
Poffin clutched his chest, staggering like he had been shot — with relief.
The plump judge followed.
His reaction was a thoughtful hum... and then a surprising second bite.
Ash almost fainted.
The skeletal elder, however, only gave a cryptic murmur. "Promising. Very promising... under duress."
They scribbled notes on their golden scorecards, faces unreadable.
Then, without a word, they moved on, leaving Poffin and Ash standing amidst their exhausted masterpiece, looking as if they had both fought off invading armies — and maybe a few kitchen spirits too.
Velvet, watching from the stands, exhaled slowly.
"You did good, boys," she whispered.
And somewhere, a lone pudding flopped over in defeat.
The bell rang.
The judges convened at the front podium, exchanging hushed, dramatic whispers like conspirators in a royal court.
Tension gripped the audience tighter than an overcooked bread roll.
One by one, names were called.
Second Place.
Third Place.
Honorable Mentions.
No sign of Poffin and Ash.
They were already mentally preparing for defeat — Ash practically half-conscious, drooping like a marionette with cut strings, and Poffin gnawing on his apron in nervousness.
And then—
"First Place..."
The crowd collectively leaned in.
"...Poffin and Ash, Table Eleven!"
The entire party froze.
Velvet blinked.
Vix dropped her jam-stained pretzel.
Kale let out an involuntary "Huh?" loud enough that two people turned to look.
Ash, meanwhile, just stood there, staring blankly at the judges like they had announced he was to be executed by pancake guillotine.
Poffin, on the other hand, let out the most guttural screech of triumph known to beastkind — a noise so primal and chaotic that it actually startled a pigeon into falling off a roof nearby.
He immediately threw his arms around Ash, bouncing him up and down while shouting something absolutely incomprehensible but definitely enthusiastic.
Ash, who by this point had become spiritually weightless, allowed himself to be hoisted around like a sack of potatoes. His soul had already left for vacation hours ago.
"I...I just wanted to make steak," Ash mumbled to no one in particular.
Velvet laughed so hard she almost fell off her seat, clapping wildly as the two stumbled toward the podium to collect their trophy — a glittering, oversized spoon engraved with the words,
"Emberglow Master Cook Champion — War Forged, Flame Tempered."
The baker from before, standing somewhere in the crowd, gave Velvet a smug look as if to say: Told you it was war.
Meanwhile, the other contestants mourned their destroyed dishes, and Holt dramatically cradled Maelgra (now covered in three types of custard) whispering, "We fought well, brother."
And thus, with flour in their hair, jam on their sleeves, and confusion in their hearts, Poffin and Ash became Emberglow Champions.
A title they earned not by perfect flavor...
Not by flawless technique...
But simply because theirs was the least... ruined.
And sometimes, that's all it takes to be a legend.
Ash barely managed to lift the trophy before Poffin immediately snatched it and hoisted it up like he had just won the final boss battle of the century.
He screeched again — a noise somewhere between "victory" and "rabid seagull."
The party rushed down from the stands.
Velvet was the first to get to them, grinning like she had personally trained a warhorse to do synchronized swimming.
"You did it!" she said, ruffling Poffin's already catastrophic fur.
"Barely," Vix added, half-laughing, half-incredulous. "You know there were literal fireballs flying at some point, right?"
"And baguette assaults," Seren muttered, holding up a half-snapped loaf like it was evidence in a criminal trial.
Kale, who looked like he had genuinely been crying from laughing too hard earlier, clapped Ash heavily on the back — so heavily that Ash nearly folded in half.
"You did good, soldier," Kale said solemnly, as if awarding him a medal of honor.
Ash just stared at him with the hollow eyes of a man who had seen flour-based horrors beyond human comprehension.
Meanwhile, Poffin was still parading around with the trophy, accidentally knocking over a display table and stepping into a pie without a shred of guilt.
The crowd around them was still buzzing — cheers, laughter, a few competitors grumbling about how life was unfair and that clearly their soufflés had been sabotaged by mysterious hairy projectiles.
Velvet finally waved them all in close, throwing her arms around them like a general gathering their most deranged battalion.
"Tonight," she said, "we celebrate. Tomorrow..."
She glanced over to the sealed archive room at the far end of the plaza, shimmering like some forbidden vault of untold knowledge.
"Tomorrow, we claim our real prize."
Poffin nodded sagely at her.
Or maybe he just had jam in his eyes and was blindly nodding at everything.
Either way — tonight was for laughter, for food, and for remembering that sometimes the best victories came not from perfection...
but from out-chaosing the competition.
And by gods, they had out-chaosed everyone.
---
The tavern they picked for their celebration was cozy — lively, filled with clinking glasses, the smell of roasted meats, and for some unknowable reason...
an ancient magical Karaoke artifact.
It stood proudly in the corner like some lost relic of doom: a battered crystal orb connected to an enchanted stand.
Over it, a floating magical script read: "Sing, Ye Brave (and Foolish) Souls."
Of course, it was Velvet who spotted it first.
"Oh no," Kale said immediately, seeing the dangerous glint in her eye.
"Oh yes," Velvet grinned, already dragging Seren toward it.
"It's tradition!"
Before anyone could properly object (or flee), a booming tavern voice called,
"A song for every champion tonight!"
— because, naturally, word had already spread about the absolute war crimes they had committed in the cooking competition.
And so, the magical orb flared to life, locking them into fate worse than death: public performance.
First up: Seren.
The moment Seren touched the orb, the tavern fell silent.
And when she sang
it was heavenly.
A soft, soul-stirring voice that made even the most battle-hardened adventurers misty-eyed.
Tough dwarves wept openly into their mugs.
A hardened mercenary quietly took a break from his brooding in the corner.
Even Velvet blinked.
"What the— since when could you sing like a literal angel!?"
Seren only shrugged shyly, cheeks pink.
"I practice...sometimes."
Then came Kale.
"My turn. It's been a long since I sang."
Unbeknownst to them, there's a reason why that's exactly the case.
He puffed up proudly, grabbed the orb like he was born for this, and —
— unleashed a sound so awful it felt like reality briefly cracked.
Windows rattled.
Mugs shattered.
Someone's chicken bolted out the tavern door, screaming.
Velvet clutched her ears, hissing,
"WHY IS IT WET, KALE!?"
Ash had folded over a table, possibly unconscious.
Seren looked genuinely concerned someone might summon a demon at this rate.
Poffin who had the unfortunate fate of having the largest ears among them, rolled and squirmed on the floor like a plush toy having a stroke, a seizure, or maybe both. Foaming out of his mouth as he muttered something about wanting 5 seconds of his life back.
And yet.
Amidst the devastation — there was Vix.
Eyes sparkling.
Hands clutched dramatically over her chest.
Bleeding lightly from one ear — and absolutely lovestruck.
"He's so dreamy," Vix sighed, as Kale cracked a glass with his high note.
Velvet gawked at her like she had just said she wanted to marry a feral turnip.
"Vix," she hissed. "Your ears are LITERALLY bleeding. Your eardrum is waving a white flag."
Vix just smiled dazedly, dreamily "a tactical choice."
Eventually — mercifully — Kale finished his performance.
He struck a heroic pose.
The silence that followed was less 'awed admiration' and more 'collective trauma.'
Still, the tavern gave a slow, stunned clap, like witnesses at a minor trainwreck.
Kale bowed proudly.
Vix cheered alone, eyes twinkling, deaf to the whimpering around her. Both figuratively, and literally.
And so the night raged on — music, laughter, magical karaoke crimes committed against the fabric of space and time itself —
until finally, they all collapsed into chairs, grinning and exhausted.
Tomorrow would be the serious business of unearthing forbidden archives, hidden pasts, and the long-lost history of Flufferbeasts.
But tonight?
Tonight, they were just a bunch of chaotic fools — victorious, full-bellied, and for once, blissfully happy.