Chương 139: Welcome to the Group of Death

Paris. Charles de Gaulle Airport. When Chris, Ethan, and Kira wheeled their suitcases out of the arrivals hall, an air utterly unlike New York's came at them head-on. Coffee, butter, and the scent of baking bread hung in the air; the buildings along the streets were old and elegant; French — incomprehensible but romantic in its cadence — filled his ears. This was Paris, the center of the culinary world. The League's venue was an enormous building converted from a nineteenth-century iron market hall.

Beneath the soaring glass dome stood the independent kitchen zones of sixteen national teams, ringing a vast central judging platform. The second and third floors were wraparound spectator galleries that could hold a thousand people. The scale and professionalism of the whole venue far exceeded any TV show Chris had been part of. Standing here, he could feel with clarity a pressure rushing at him — the pressure of a world-class competitive stage. The American kitchen zone was on the west side.

Adjacent to them were the Japanese and Brazilian kitchens. As they set down their bags and began to get familiar with the equipment, the teams from other nations arrived one after another. Chris saw the Italian team — three handsome, dashing chefs carrying a Mediterranean warmth and confidence. He saw the Spanish team too, whose leader was said to be a rising star of the molecular-cuisine world. Just then, a stir came from the entrance. The host nation, France, had arrived.

Chris looked up on reflex, his gaze cutting through the crowd to lock precisely onto the man at the head. Early thirties, short brown hair with a slight curl, dressed in a well-tailored set of white chef's whites. His face always wore a faint, elusive smile, but those deep eyes were sharp as a hawk's — sharp enough to see through a man's heart. He was Raphaël Durand. As if he'd sensed Chris's gaze, Raphaël's eyes came over too. Their lines of sight met in the air for a fraction of a second.

Raphaël gave Chris the smallest of nods, that smile on his face never changing, then moved his eyes away. No provocation, no scorn, not even a trace of curiosity — as if he'd merely seen an inconsequential passerby. But it was exactly that bland glance that made Chris's heart sink hard. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. At the same moment, his system sounded an urgent alarm. [Warning! Ultra-high-density flavor information source detected!] [Target: Raphaël Durand] [Culinary Rating: A+ (95/100)] [System advisory: Assess with caution. Avoid direct confrontation.] The impact of seeing the man in the flesh was far more violent than seeing a number on a data panel. Chris could feel it — the aura radiating off that man was one of absolute, unquestionable strength. The strength of someone who had lived through countless victories and carved his confidence into his very bones.

"That's Raphaël?" Ethan's voice sounded beside Chris, a heaviness in his tone. Clearly, he'd felt the man's pressure too. Kira only watched in silence, an odd light flickering through her eyes — like a chess player who'd spotted an opponent worth everything she had. That afternoon, all the teams gathered in the central hall for the opening ceremony. The League president, a white-haired titan of the French culinary world, stepped onto the judging platform and announced the format in a resounding voice.

"Ladies and gentlemen — welcome to Paris! For the next two weeks, you will fight here for the highest honor in the culinary arts!"

"The format is as follows: sixteen national teams will be split by draw into four groups — A, B, C, and D. Four teams to a group, playing a three-round group round-robin."

"Each round has a designated theme. Your three-person team must, within the set time, cooperate on a three-course menu that fits the theme, to be scored by our international judging panel out of a hundred points."

"After three rounds, the top two teams by points in each group advance to the round of eight. From the round of eight onward, it's brutal single-elimination — until we crown the final champion!" The format was clear and merciless, with team cooperation the core running through all of it. The president finished the rules, and the most thrilling part began — the draw. On the big screen, the names of sixteen nations scrolled at high speed.

"Group A, first team — Italy!"

"Group B, first team — Spain!"

"Group C, first team — Denmark!"

"Group D, first team — Germany!" The traditional powers were split, in turn, into different groups. Soon it was the American team's turn.

"Group A, second team — USA!" Chris's heart jumped. Grouped with Italy — not a great draw, but not a bad one either. But the next result of the draw changed every face in the hall.

"Group A, third team — Japan!" A collective sharp intake of breath ran through the hall. USA, Italy, Japan — three teams of formidable strength — dropped into the same group. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the last seat in Group A to be revealed. The name on the big screen locked at last.

"Group A, fourth team… France!" When the word "FRANCE" appeared on the screen, the whole hall first fell dead silent, then erupted into an enormous uproar. France, USA, Japan, Italy. The members of the four national teams stared at one another, bitter, helpless looks on every face. This wasn't a group of death anymore. This was a group straight out of hell. Of sixteen teams, the four widely acknowledged as the strongest had, somehow, all landed together in the very first round of group play.

Which meant that of their four teams, at least two wouldn't even make the round of eight. Chris felt a cold sweat break out across his back in an instant. He looked at the still-smiling Raphaël in the ranks of the French team not far off, and for the first time felt that this trip to Paris might be a hundred times harder than he'd imagined.