“Time’s out!” The host’s sing-song tone belied the heaviness of the situation that had settled in the air.

  At the words, Luca let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Beside him, his teammates didn’t look any better. He could see the tension in their shoulders and clenched hands—not so different from what he’d expect from a human in the same situation. Except for the faint ruffling of feathers. And the glimpses sharp teeth. And the claws.

  Similar, but not the same, he thought. Glancing at their main competition’s dish, his jaw tightened, and he quickly looked away, turning his focus back to the one they were about to present. Do we really have a chance? Theirs looked quite… especial. The colorful ‘shell’ enveloped a mix of fainter color. It was vivid.

  A puff echoed on the scene as a curtain of smoke arose in front of the throne.

  “And look who has graced us with their presence! Welcome again, you’ve come just in time for the decisive moment of the First Challenge,” the host continued, only marginally more serious, giving an elegant bow toward the curtain of smoke. As it dissipated, it revealed the three judges, their expressions decidedly unimpressed. “A round of applause for our esteemed judges, please!”

  There was no audience, so the request was clearly directed at them.

  Luca joined in the clapping, but this died faster than an ice block melting in a volcano under the judges’ piercing stares. For a brief moment, he wondered if everyone there owed them money or something. Not even Victor’s subordinates had looked at him like that—and he still owed his very beloved boss half a million dollars.

  He didn’t need any inner voice to tell him this was going to be an easy evaluation—to fail. It looked quite rigged to the side of ‘sleeping with the meat-eaters horses’.

  As if that wasn’t enough, the host tilted their head toward them and pressed a finger to their lips, playing up a mysterious act. They were still filled of playfulness even when the judges looked ready to eat them. Host and even Participants.

  “As you can see, our dear members of the judging panel aren’t feeling particularly well at the moment. But there’s no need to worry. You just need to lift their spirits with your delicious dishes,” the shadowy figure said as if sharing some grand secret. Ha. “I have a great deal of faith in you, Participants. Now, which group wishes to go first?”

  There was a moment of silence.

  No one wanted to sacrifice themselves.

  “Ohh, I didn’t know the Participants of this season were so shy.” With a light laugh, the host snapped their fingers, and an orb appeared in the air—identical to the one used earlier to divide them into teams. It had vanished when they started cooking, something Luca only noticed now. “We’ll leave it to Angra’s wishes—let’s see…” The orb cycled through colors so quickly that even a casino slot machine expert would’ve struggled to keep up. Until it stopped abruptly.

  It was red.

  “Perfect! Let’s start with our most fortunate—or unfortunate—group.” The host brought a hand to their chin, as if genuinely contemplating it. “This team collected the most ingredients, but they also suffered a slight mishap. Let’s call it a balance in their favor, since I can see their dish is the most complete of all. What do the judges say?”

  “Bring it over,” Chef Dominatom said with a wave of their hand. “Or do you expect us to come to you?”

  Imuit frowned but said nothing, picking up the dish on the tray and carrying it over to the judges. The demoness tried to send one of the other demons along with him, but Chef Harpira’s voice stopped any further effort.

  “Only one.”

  “Maybe the tray is too heavy,” suggested Chef Tartarus, grinning widely. His front teeth were stained red—as if he’d eaten something ‘juicy’, or as if he’d rubbed a piece of meat against his teeth and forgotten to brush them afterward.

  There were a few quiet chuckles in the air, and Luca caught the flash of irritation in Jackal Head’s eyes. But the guy was nothing if not dignified, striding toward the judges with a grace that many would kill to possess. It was moments like these that made it obvious the gold ornaments weren’t fake nor were simply superfluities but a sign. It was that same dignity that silenced everyone.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  A shadow emerged from the ground, spreading and shaping itself into a table, where Imuit placed the tray.

  [Minotaur Steak with Fried Evil Root and Forbidden Sauce]

  [Steak with Fries and Dragon Fruit Sauce]

  There was no ‘extra label’—no “bad,” no “good.”

  Chef Dominatom left their seat in one fluid motion, slithering toward the table without breaking eye contact with him. Standing in front of it, he adjusted their jacket, rolled down his sleeves, and just then picked up a fork and knife to cut a small piece of the steak.

  He ate without any expression on their face, and when he finished chewing, he placed both utensils back on the plate before turning around and returning to his throne without a single-word.

  Great theatrics, Luca thought, unimpressed. That’s when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning slightly, he noticed it was Claw. The demon gestured with his eyes toward where Imuit stood and then toward their own dish. It took Luca a moment to understand. He raised an eyebrow and glanced at the others. But none of them looked his way—they were all focused on the evaluation.

  Claw squeezed his shoulder lightly, transmitting a second message with just his eyes.

  In the end, Luca gave him the slightest of nods before returning his attention forward. Claw released his shoulder, and his sigh of relief wasn’t as quiet as he thought. Luca almost snorted and had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes too. Really. What would be their faces if they knew they were sending the human to do the job of a demon?

  Hunger, probably, he mused. He didn’t forget they were a whole different species that eat his.

  “Curious,” said Chef Harpira, her voice echoing through the room. In the silence, it felt like an arrow had been fired. But she didn’t add anything more before returning to her throne.

  Chef Tartarus was the last. As he approached the table, the difference in size between him and the table created a somewhat comical image—at least in Luca’s opinion. But perhaps the funniest part was watching those massive hands hold the utensils with deceptive delicacy. The judge cut half the steak and tossed it into his mouth, chewing with his eyes closed. When he opened them, he fixed his gaze on Imuit.

  “So, did you cook this?” Chef Tartarus asked, pulling a tiny purple handkerchief from his pocket—a detail that oddly clashed with his image—and dabbing his mouth.

  “I handled the steak,” the demon admitted, with a polite nod.

  “Eh.” After such answer, the chef pushed the fries—Fried Evil Roots—toward the sauce, which Luca doubted was exactly the same as his despite being the same ingredient, and tried it as well. He was the only one who did. Then he gave Jackal Head a single glance, patting his lips, before heading back to his seat.

  A moment of silence fell over the area as Imuit returned to his team. The tray, along with its contents, sank into the shadows and disappeared.

  “The judges are being quite mysterious today,” the host murmured with a crimson smile. “Let’s see if we get something clearer with our next contestant—” The orb blinked again, this time cycling through only two colors. Three seconds later, it finally stopped on one. “Oh, we have our second group, and they’re the perfect opposite of the first. They started with nothing, turned things around with cunning, and—no, no, don’t make that face, jury, I know it’s not my place to say the result.” With a wave of their hand, the host signaled for the representative of the second group to step forward.

  The Imp carried the tray with his chin held high, almost daring the world to say something.

  Bravery or stupidity? Luca mused. Maybe both.

  Chef Dominatom leapt from his throne, agile as a cat despite his massive horns, and strode toward the table. Anyone would think he was eager to taste this dish. But there was the smallest hint of smoke coming out from his head.

  When Luca saw the label above it—or rather, the lack of one—he noted there were no extra words again. Even so, it was impressive what they’d managed to pull off in twenty minutes: fried cheese and sausage buns. If anyone looked at them with hunger, they would say they had a nice rustic charm.

  The first judge picked one of the buns and tore it in half. The strands of cheese stretched out, and combined with the golden crust of the bun, it looked appetizing. Perhaps Luca had more hunger he believed first. However, the taste was the most important part—and they received no comment from any of the three judges about it.

  Was this a guessing game competition?

  “Let’s keep the mystery going,” the host sighed, shaking their head. “And now, let’s move on to our final team, who had a bit more luck than the previous case. Or was it simply a matter of common sense? The audience will decide! For now, let’s see—no, let’s try to uncover the judges’ opinions on the outcome.”

  Luca felt the hand on his shoulder again, this time more insistently. He stifled a snort, and picked up the tray. Silence stretched, so stiff as bowstring as he approached the table.

  There you go, he thought, and then he stepped back just one step.

  Chef Dominatom, once again, was the first to step forward.

  How to explain this?

  It felt like being turned into a rat, watched for a hungry snake.