Sushi Riddle

As the sky was faintly brightened by the morning light, the red indicator lamps along the edge of the trial platform went out one by one, marking the official end of the first stage's long-distance running test.

Satotz stood before the protruding elevator platform and rang the command bell hanging from his chest.

"Those who passed, please proceed to the second trial site." His voice was utterly emotionless, yet carried a certain teasing languor.

Ryan stood at the back of the crowd, quietly watching the elevator platform slowly activate ahead. The machinery beneath the massive platform emitted a deep hum as it lifted the entire group along the cliff face, ascending straight toward a stone platform hundreds of meters in the air.

This was the Association's specially constructed aerial kitchen platform, the exclusive venue for the second-stage examination. Ryan knew exactly how everything had unfolded, and he also knew what would happen next.

More than half the applicants had been eliminated in the first stage. Those remaining were mostly people with considerable physical endurance and willpower. Their eyes held both anticipation and caution as they looked toward the sky, yet no one truly understood what they would face in the second stage.

But Ryan knew.

"Menchi, Gourmet Hunter, hot-tempered, with extremely strict standards."

The cold gaze of the pink-haired female examiner from the original story flashed through his mind, along with the question that had eliminated most of the applicants outright.

—Sushi.

For many applicants in the original world who had never encountered Eastern culinary culture, it was a linguistic trap, a blind spot in their knowledge. But to Ryan, it was merely a "logic problem with spoilers."

The elevator platform eventually stopped before a semi-enclosed open kitchen at the center of the platform. Dozens of workstations were neatly arranged behind metal railings, each marked with a number.

"Your examination area." Satotz's tone remained uninterested. "Stand at the position corresponding to your assigned number and listen to the examiners' instructions."

The crowd scattered amid restless murmurs. Ryan took his place at workstation number 187 and glanced over the available equipment—a traditional stove, two pots, a cutting board, several basic seasonings, and a box of warm rice covered with a freshness seal.

He noticed there were no knives in the toolbox, just as Menchi's voice interrupted his inspection.

"Everyone, welcome to the exam you'll least want to remember for the rest of your lives." Menchi stood with her hands on her hips atop the highest point of the platform, her pink hair flying wildly in the wind.

"I am Menchi, an A-rank Gourmet Hunter and one of today's examiners." She paused, sweeping her gaze over the applicants' expressions. "The task for the second stage is simple—prepare a traditional dish: 'sushi.'"

The crowd fell into dead silence.

Someone quietly repeated, "Sushi?"

"What's that?"

"Is it soup? A pastry? Or some kind of grilled meat?"

Menchi curled her lips. "I will not explain what sushi is, nor will I repeat the instructions. Use your own intelligence to understand those two words. You have two hours. Fail to make it, and you're eliminated."

As soon as she finished speaking, an applicant raised his hand and shouted, "But we don't even know what sushi is—isn't this just making things difficult for us?"

"This is called a difference in knowledge." Menchi answered coldly. "Hunters do not make their living through brute force and speed alone."

Buhara was already swallowing beside her, his plump face split by a grin. "Hurry up and begin. I'm ready to start taste-testing."

At that moment, the examination area had already descended into chaos.

"Could it be a dessert?"

"I've heard sushi is some kind of vinegared rice?"

"Could it be... fried?"

Then, from somewhere among the applicants, a voice blurted out, "I heard people in my hometown mention it before. I think sushi is raw fish slices laid on top of rice."

The voice was not loud, but it immediately set off a chain reaction.

The speaker was a dark-skinned, bald young man wearing a headband. Lean and sharp-featured, he was applicant number 255, the ninja-type examinee, Hanzo.

He realized he had said the wrong thing and immediately shut his mouth, but it was already too late. Dozens of people instantly dashed toward the woods on the northern side of the platform, where a stream ran through. Perhaps they really could find fish there.

"There's water over there!"

"If we catch fish first, we can make it first!"

"Thanks, bald bro!"

Hanzo's expression turned sour. He took a step back and gritted his teeth. "Idiots."

Ryan remained where he was, calmly watching the scene with a hint of helplessness hidden in his eyes.

He had originally expected Menchi not to provide any explanation of sushi, and he had indeed not planned to save anyone—but the clue had leaked out earlier than he remembered. That meant the competition ahead would become more complicated. He could not keep watching for much longer.

Good thing I'm not relying on clues to figure it out, he thought. I already know this is a raw-food dish. The key lies in the freshness and preparation of the fish.

He glanced at the toolbox beneath his workstation—there truly were no knives, but the Association had not prohibited applicants from seeking natural materials on their own.

He slowly left the area and headed toward the other side of the forest. It was not in the direction of the water source, but toward a patch of bamboo groves mixed with scattered rocks. That was where he would find what he needed.

Mountain wind swept through the trees, stirring the now half-empty workstations on the platform. Most people had rushed toward the woodland rumored to contain water. Some had not even figured out how to spell "sushi"; they had simply heard the word "fish" and charged off recklessly.

Meanwhile, Ryan descended the slope on the other side of the platform and entered the bamboo grove. To him, ingredients had never been the difficult part. The key was how to "answer correctly" in an examination distorted by cultural misunderstanding.

Inside a stone hollow concealed by fallen leaves, he found a broken bamboo branch about the length of an arm, hollow and sturdy. He picked up several pieces of sandstone nearby and repeatedly ground one end of the bamboo into a slanted point, then carefully used a sharp stone shard to carve out barbs.

He had brought no weapons, but relying on his understanding of structural mechanics and wilderness survival, he could temporarily make a barely usable "single-pronged bamboo spear."

Not far away, a narrow stream wound past the foot of the mountain below the platform. He made his way down the gravelly slope, quietly approaching without disturbing the water's surface.

He studied the curve of the current, the reflections, and the distribution of fish shadows. In the end, he chose a shallow, slow-moving bend thick with vegetation, crouched down, and waited patiently.

Thirty seconds passed. A gray-scaled stream fish barely twenty centimeters long slowly swam into view. He did not move until the shadow turned—then he struck, the bamboo spear piercing cleanly through the fish's belly.

First fish acquired.

He did not linger. Over the next ten minutes, he caught three stream fish using the same method. Though they varied in size, their flesh was firm and their fishy odor mild. They were already the best raw ingredients available in these waters.

By the time he returned to the platform, most people were still rushing about. Some had simply grabbed random aquatic creatures; there were even people stuffing crabs and frogs into pots. As Ryan passed by, he saw one applicant toss a gray-skinned loach into a pan of hot oil, saying with complete confidence, "Sushi needs something fragrant, doesn't it?"

...Genius, he assessed internally.

Back at his workstation, Ryan took a sharp stone shard from the communal tool area to replace the unavailable metal knife. He began preparing the fish, moving carefully yet efficiently—scaling them first, then gutting and washing them, before slicing thin, even pieces of fish on a stone slab.

He did not attempt to shape traditional sushi. Instead, he flattened the rice with his palm, preserving its warmth and springiness, then gently laid the fish slices on top and wrapped them in bamboo leaves, making three portions of "raw fish-over-rice sushi."

The Association had prepared a sour seasoning. Ryan judged it to be a plant-fermented liquid, similar to fruit vinegar, so he mixed a small amount into the rice. This both imitated the flavor of vinegared rice and avoided ruining the original balance of the ingredients.

He knew he had no culinary experience. He did not understand decorative knife work, nor did he know how to design a presentation. But he understood that the scoring standard for this question would never be "beauty," but "understanding."

From beginning to end, what Menchi was testing was one thing: whether you knew what sushi was.

Just as he covered the last piece of fish and placed the entire dish into a bamboo serving container, preparing to present it, a burst of shouting rose from the far edge of the platform.

"Cough, cough... Is this fish rotten?"

"I just ate the one I made, and my stomach suddenly started churning..."

"Who said it was fish?! Yours is stir-fried insects with rice!"

The applicants accused one another, and some had even begun retching. Buhara held a list and marked eliminations one after another.

"Number 97, eliminated."

"Number 144, suspected improper ingredient use. Under temporary observation."

"Number 203, flavor standards failed to meet the minimum. Eliminated."

Menchi stood before the tasting table, her expression already blank. She had sampled seven dishes, and without exception, every single one had fallen below the baseline. Some had stuffed cooked fish into rice, some had wrapped mountain fruit in raw rice paste, and some had even smeared chili peppers over fish skin as sauce—she was beginning to question her life choices.

"If the next one is unqualified too, I quit," she said coldly.

The next applicant walked forward nervously and presented something resembling "grilled fish rice." Menchi took one bite, immediately spat it out, and smashed her chopsticks down without the slightest courtesy.

"Get lost."

When it was Ryan's turn, the area became strangely quiet. He did not stride forward as though walking a red carpet. He merely lowered his head and placed the bamboo-leaf container before the tasting table.

Menchi raised a brow as she looked at it. The fish slices were crudely cut, but neatly arranged; the rice had been properly mixed and was the right color; most importantly—she smelled the faint aroma of raw fish blended with vinegared rice. That was right. This was sushi.

She picked up a piece and placed it in her mouth. After chewing for a moment, her brows rose slightly.

"Your name?"

"Number 199, Ryan."

Menchi did not reply. She merely wrote a line: "Basic understanding meets the standard. Flavor is acceptable, though not beyond expectations. Passed."

Buhara tried a piece and said with a smile, "The texture's pretty smooth. The cuts aren't very pretty, but it's far better than those random stews."

Ryan nodded without saying much, then turned and returned to the crowd. His name did not cause any commotion, and no one paid attention to how much information analysis and risk avoidance lay behind that seemingly plain sushi.

He stood at the edge of the crowd and looked toward the sky.

This was the beginning of the second stage, and also the first time he had truly "left an impression" on the examiners. But he knew the real battle still lay ahead.