Morning struck Emberglow Enclave like a hammer.
Vendors shouted, flags fluttered, and somewhere, a very aggressive bell insisted that today was Important.
The plaza had been transformed overnight — long rows of tables gleaming under the sun, each equipped with fresh ingredients, shiny utensils, and nervous competitors who looked one missed step away from fainting.
It was time: the Emberglow Master Cook Competition.
At Table 17, Ash stood stiff as a board, like a man about to defuse a bomb...
Because beside him, Poffin was vibrating with the barely restrained energy of a sugar-addicted raccoon at a picnic.
The rest of the party had taken their seats in the bleachers — Velvet, Seren, Lyra, Vix, and Kale waving lazily at them from a distance like proud, worried parents sending their son into a spelling bee... where the letters were on fire.
Ash took a deep breath. He looked at Poffin.
"Alright, buddy. We just gotta stay calm, follow the recipe, and—"
SNAP.
Ash turned just in time to see Poffin, cheeks already suspiciously puffed up, chewing something very much not supposed to be chewed.
"Spit that out!" Ash hissed, practically lunging.
Poffin leaned back, stubbornly chewing faster like a dog who just stole the Thanksgiving turkey.
The competition had not even started, and they were already speedrunning a loss.
Ash grabbed a napkin, waved it frantically. "We need those tomatoes intact, genius!"
Poffin rolled his eyes, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like they deserved a taste test — and he was the designated quality control — but he spat the half-eaten tomato into Ash's hand with a look of pure betrayal.
Across the plaza, a voice boomed over the loudspeakers.
"Competitors! Prepare your stations! The Emberglow Master Cook Competition... begins now!"
Cheers erupted. Flags waved. Somewhere in the distance, someone released a dove dramatically into the sky.
Ash wiped his hand on his apron, slapped a cutting board onto the table, and pointed two fingers at Poffin's eyes, then at himself.
"I'm watching you," he growled.
Poffin — still chewing something else sneakily — gave a lazy salute.
Today would either be the birth of legends...
Or a cooking show blooper reel for the ages.
The competition kicked off smoothly enough.
Poffin was relatively focused (by Poffin standards) — carefully seasoning steaks while Ash tried to pretend he wasn't on the verge of a cardiac event every time Poffin "taste-tested" the ingredients with zero remorse.
The plaza bustled with sizzling pans, clinking utensils, and the intense, quiet dignity of serious culinary artists.
For a fleeting moment, it almost felt...normal.
And then it happened.
"Attention competitors!" blared the cutesy female announcer over the enchanted megaphones, voice chipper enough to qualify as evil. "The Special Event is now... ACTIVE. Now go and annihilate each other!"
Ash blinked.
Poffin blinked.
Velvet, from her seat up in the stands, leaned forward with a very bad feeling in her gut.
There was a beat of silence.
Then, all hell broke loose.
Competitors suddenly vaulted over their tables like deranged Olympic athletes. One apron-wearing dwarf straight-up tackled a group of elves trying to flambé. Someone in the back hurled a baguette like a javelin. Spices flew like tear gas.
A pastry batter bomb detonated somewhere near the soufflés.
Poffin and Ash just stood there, mid-whisk, watching the apocalypse unfold around them like two men who had gone to a nice restaurant and suddenly found themselves in Mad Max: Kitchen Edition.
A flour explosion mushroomed to their left. A lobster, claw snapping wildly, scuttled across the plaza battlefield.
Poffin slowly turned his head to Ash, opened his mouth, and let out a noise that could only be described as: "..Shit...."
Velvet, observing from her seat, slowly crossed her arms with a grim expression.
"...Oh, so that was what that guy meant..." she muttered to herself as a pie flew overhead like a kamikaze pilot.
Meanwhile, back at Table 17, Ash did what any sane man would do:
He snatched a ladle, thrust it into Poffin's paw, and barked, "DEFEND THE STEAK."
Chaos had evolved into a living, breathing entity at this point.
If it had a name, it would be Ramsey's Worst Fever Dream.
Table 6 was holding firm — or trying to, anyway. Holt and Maelgra, who somehow still qualified, were locked in fierce combat to defend their mountain of cupcakes. Holt, armed with a rolling pin like a gladiator, swung at anyone daring to approach, while Maelgra — still somehow tiny and yappy — clung to the tray of cupcakes like a gremlin warding off trespassers.
Across the plaza, someone's soup pot exploded, raining noodles like confetti.
And in the middle of it all...
There was Poffin.
Running.
Poffin darted between tables with all the tactical precision of a headless chicken, a mixing bowl clutched protectively against his chest. His little whisk spun wildly inside the dough as he somehow kept stirring even while sprinting, yelling something unintelligible but deeply passionate at the top of his lungs.
Ash, chasing after him, only caught snippets:
"—NEVER AGREED TO THIS! I WAS PROMISED JAM, NOT COMBAT SPORTS!"
"Poffin, the dough! The dough!" Ash shouted, dodging a hurled ham.
"I'M SAVING IT, YOU FOOL!" Poffin screamed back, narrowly vaulting over an overturned table with the grace of a sugar-fueled cat.
Meanwhile, Velvet leaned back in her seat, pinching the bridge of her nose while a croissant whizzed past her head like a missile.
"I don't know why I'm surprised," she sighed.
:"WHERE'S THE JAM SAUCE??"
"DODGE LEFT, DODGE LEFT!"
"THERE ARE NO LEFTS MORON!"
"YOU'RE HOLDING THE BOWL UPSIDE DOWN, POFFIN!"
"I AM HOLDING THE LINE, YOU COWARD!"
Ash and Poffin screamed back and forth, their voices barely audible over the culinary carnage unfolding around them. Ash was practically bodychecking rogue chefs out of the way, shielding Poffin like a weary knight defending a very confused, very angry goblin king.
In the distance, a full roast chicken soared through the air like a javelin. Poffin ducked instinctively, stirring the batter faster.
"I SWEAR IF THIS BATTER CURDLES I'M CURDLING THE UNIVERSE WITH IT!"
Ash just grunted, tackling a suspicious-looking competitor lunging for their prep station.
"LESS TALKING, MORE MIXING!"
And so the two warriors charged on, a flurry of flour, broken dreams, and increasingly deranged battle cries.
Around them, chaos had ascended to an art form.
Food-themed weaponry rained from every angle — sharpened breadsticks, bludgeoning turkey legs, even a catapult of sticky toffee pudding flying like cannonballs through the air.
One competitor actually rolled a cheese wheel straight into another's legs, sending them crashing into a cake tower with the kind of grace usually reserved for slow-motion tragedies.
Velvet, sitting pristinely above the madness in the bleachers with the rest of the party, pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled slowly.
"What the hell...Is this even remotely fair?" she muttered, staring down at the culinary battlefield where dignity had long since evaporated.
Next to her, the old baker — the same one who had warned her the day before — chuckled like a man who had seen this circus a hundred times over.
"Fair? Hah! Child, this is tradition."
He leaned on his cane and gestured broadly at the gastronomical warfare.
"Any fool can whip up a meal in peace. Emberglow's pride comes from crafting brilliance through adversity. Through sabotage, distraction, war... It's how we boosted our morale and persevered against the Demon King's army centuries ago." He grinned, missing a few teeth.
"...Because if your cake can survive a flying ham assault and still taste divine, you deserve to be called Master Cook."
Velvet blinked once. Twice.
"...You people are unhinged," she said flatly.
The baker just laughed harder.
Meanwhile, down below, Ash was shielding their station with his entire body while Poffin yelled something completely incomprehensible, steaks in both hands, like a tiny, angry general defending the last bastion of flavor.
"YOU'LL HAVE TO PRY THIS SIZZLE FROM MY COLD, CRISPY FINGERS!!"
Time slowed.
No — time died.
Poffin's paw lost its grip.
The steak — once so proud, so full of promise — slipped from his tiny hands.
It tumbled.
In horrifying slow motion, it tumbled.
Down... down... into the cursed embrace of the dirty, cracked concrete floor.
The world faded into grayscale.
The deafening roars of culinary warfare muted to a low, sorrowful hum, like a funeral dirge played on sad bagpipes.
Poffin dropped to his knees.
His tiny hands trembled as he cradled the fallen steak, now sullied beyond salvation. His lips quivered as he let out a trembling, soul-wrenching wail — a sound that could shatter a thousand Michelin stars into dust.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO—!"
Above him, the clouds (which had no right to be there on a sunny day) parted dramatically. A single beam of light fell upon him, illuminating the furry warrior and his fallen comrade.
It was a tragic masterpiece. Somewhere, a violin spontaneously caught fire from the sheer raw emotion.
Ash, still ducking and dodging flying pastries, shouted, "POFFIN, SNAP OUT OF IT!"
But the Flufferbeast had already crossed the threshold.
Grimly, he stood.
Resolved.
Dead-eyed.
Without hesitation, Poffin's fur began glowing — plucking the tufts like a man pulling pins from grenades.
He rolled them expertly into tight little hairballs...
Deadly.
Inescapable.
The natural predator of all food hygiene. The Ultimate culinary saboteur next to plastic roaches.
"If my dreams must perish," he muttered darkly, "then so must theirs."
One by one, he began hurling the fur grenades across the battlefield.
Into soups.
Onto pastries.
Into the batter of a particularly smug competitor who had dared to throw a pie at Ash earlier.
In the war for culinary dominance, hair contamination was a weapon even the bravest chefs could not endure.
"No prisoners," Poffin whispered, fire reflecting in his beady little eyes.
Above, Velvet slowly leaned over to Seren.
"...Are we the bad guys?"
Seren just sipped her juice box solemnly.
With wild eyes and fur grenades in both paws, he launched himself into the fray like a furious cannonball.
Each arc of his tiny arms sent another meticulously rolled hairball grenade sailing through the air, each landing with an explosive boom, decimating pots, batters, and bowls of ambitious soufflés.
Meanwhile at their station, Ash had his own crisis.
A trio of bard competitors — each armed with baguettes wielded like both flutes and swords — charged towards their precious oven.
Their battle music was chaotic, somewhere between a sea shanty and a kazoo orchestra, as they performed an aggressive, synchronized march of doom.
Ash narrowed his eyes.
"Over my dead body," he growled, gripping a nearby rolling pin like a knight would a longsword.
The bards lunged, baguettes swinging.
Ash parried — flour exploding into the air like magical smoke bombs at every strike.
A particularly bold bard tried to flute-blast hot air into his face — Ash retaliated by dropkicking a sack of sugar into him, sending the poor soul tumbling backwards like a defeated pastry ghost.
Overhead, Poffin wall-jumped off a tent pole, screaming something unintelligible but deeply insulting as he hurled a double hairball barrage onto a stew competition that was starting to look too promising.
"I AM THE JUDGE, THE JURY, AND THE GARNISH!" he bellowed.
Spectators were losing their minds — half were cheering, the other half calling for security, but nobody dared intervene.
The baker from before just stood off to the side, arms crossed, looking grim and muttering, "And thus... another Emberglow War claims its heroes."
Back at the oven, Ash managed to beat back the last bard, standing triumphant.
The oven — the heart of their operation — remained untouched, sizzling safely with their steak and jam concoctions.
Eventually, as all wars must, the chaos began to die down.
The arena looked like a battlefield abandoned by gods and sanity alike: flour clouds hung in the air like mist, spaghetti strands littered the ground like fallen vines, and somewhere in the distance, a lone baguette lay stabbed upright into a pudding, like a flag claiming conquered territory.
Miraculously, somehow, somehow... people still cooked.
Poffin and Ash, battered but unbowed, crawled back to their station, where the oven — protected heroically by Ash's flour-dusted martial arts — was still functioning.
Poffin, with the grim determination of a man who had seen too much, threw himself into salvaging what they had left.
A steak, slightly extra seasoned from its journey across the battlefield.
Some jam donuts that somehow looked edible.
The others in the competition were in varying states of tragedy:
Table 3's soufflé had achieved sentience... and declared independence.
Table 7's roast had been so thoroughly sabotaged that the judges later mistook it for abstract art.
And poor Holt and Maelgra's cupcakes were now riddled with fur shrapnel, looking more like experimental bio-weapons than dessert.
A cluck echoed throughout the area, no one could tell if what just passed was a feral phoenix hatchling or just a chicken on fire.
Velvet and the others watched from the stands in a stunned silence, the realization dawning on them that this was what the competition expected.
There were no second chances. No pity. No do-overs.
Only the strong — and the slightly insane — survived in the Emberglow Master Cook competition.
Poffin, chest heaving with effort, slammed the final steak onto the plate.
Ash barely managed to drizzle a semi-respectable sauce without collapsing.
They looked at their dish.
It was, frankly, decent.
And yet... it had heart.
And a suspicious but strangely appetizing aroma.
"It'll do," Ash said hoarsely.
Poffin gave a tired salute with his whisk.
The jam-glazed steak gleamed like a medal of honor under the half-shattered kitchen lights.
They had survived the War of Whisks.
Now came the Judgment.