Taste and Marketing.
Two pillars. Two forces. Inseparable.
Like the left and right hand of a master chef—no hierarchy, only harmony.
Good taste is the cornerstone of a restaurant's existence. But without proper marketing? Even the most divine flavor vanishes into obscurity.
A great dish draws a customer once.
A great brand draws them for life.
So if someone dares to discuss marketing before ensuring flavor? It's as foolish as building a castle on sand.
After all, no matter how fancy the name, how dazzling the poster, or how viral the social media campaign—if the food is bad?
The crowd disperses like mist at dawn.
That's why, in Eizan's view, the true challenge of the restaurant industry wasn't just serving good food. It was serving food so distinct, so memorable, that it left a brand on the tongue, an imprint on the soul.
Most restaurants out there?
Mediocre.
Decent enough to survive. Rarely good enough to be unforgettable.
So how do you build something legendary?
That was the question.
Eizan looked at the sheet of paper in his hand.
"A Solitary Drink Beneath the Moon."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "What a beautiful name. It has the elegance of a Tang dynasty poem."
The poetic weight of it lingered on his tongue.
Elegant. Haunting. Timeless.
He smiled wryly.
Japan—home to some of the world's finest cuisine and the highest number of WGO-recognized three-star restaurants.
And yet… not a single Japanese food brand had truly gone global like McDonald's, KFC, or Starbucks.
Why?
The answer wasn't in the taste. It was in the structure.
Japanese food had long been about precision and artistry. It emphasized individual experience:
A bowl of ramen, a delicate piece of sushi, a single glass of sake in a smoky tavern.
But scalable?
Accessible to the masses?
That was another matter entirely.
"It's all single-item specialty stores," Eizan murmured to himself. "Sushi bars. Ramen counters. Themed taverns. Late-night diners. Each exquisite, each limited."
His fingers tapped against the counter.
For someone like him—an ambitious entrepreneur—the goal wasn't just to cook. It was to dominate.
His dream?
To create a food enterprise with the soul of Japanese cuisine but the scale of a global empire. A chain so powerful it would stand side by side with KFC on every street corner from Tokyo to New York.
But reality had always gotten in the way.
"Sushi has been rising globally since 2004," Eizan muttered as he glanced at Zane across the counter. "In fact, it's even surpassed hamburgers in some areas…"
"But?"
Zane arched an eyebrow.
"But no sushi chain has come close to KFC in reach."
"Because it's not just about taste," Zane replied coolly. "It's about positioning."
Eizan blinked.
Zane leaned back. "Sushi is a luxurious food—balanced, clean, and ideal for the fast-paced modern era. But its portion sizes are small. The price-to-satiety ratio is terrible. You need a stack of plates to feel full, and if you add wagyu or lobster? Forget it—most people can't afford it."
Eizan's eyes gleamed. That… made sense.
"The more accessible it is, the more mainstream it becomes," he muttered.
Zane nodded. "Restaurants are trending in two opposite directions. One toward hyper-specialization. The other toward integration—multi-category, multi-brand chains. Sushi won't dominate globally unless it's restructured for mass appeal."
Eizan fell into deep thought.
What Zane said wasn't just insightful—it was prophetic.
The man before him wasn't just a chef. He was a visionary.
As Eizan stepped out of the tavern, he couldn't help but turn back and stare at the modest wooden sign that read:
A Solitary Drink Beneath the Moon.
That name… haunted him. It was elegant. Pure. Poetic.
No other tavern in Tokyo had such quiet charm.
Initially, Eizan had considered proposing a partnership with Zane. But now?
No need.
Because from their conversation alone, he could tell—
Zane wasn't just strong. He was untouchable.
That very night, upon returning to Totsuki, Eizan made a shocking decision.
He would shut down all five of his restaurants on that food street.
Liquidate them.
Walk away.
Because after one evening with Zane's food and vision, he realized something painful:
He'd been playing checkers.
Zane was playing Go.
Meanwhile, inside the tavern—
The rush hour buzzed with life.
Customers laughed, clinked glasses, and enjoyed their meals, while Zane, Sonoka, and Takumi danced their well-rehearsed kitchen choreography.
And from the moment she walked in, Mana Nakiri saw it all.
Zane moved effortlessly in the narrow kitchen, his presence powerful but calming.
The clang of pots, the aroma of wine, the hiss of stir-fry—all of it framed him like a spotlight on stage.
Mana leaned against the wall, mesmerized.
Every flick of his wrist, every precise motion—it was storytelling without words.
And when Zane finally noticed her, he simply nodded and said, "Takumi, table 12 gets the stir-fried beef. Table 7 gets a bottle of peach wine."
"On it!" Takumi replied, darting off.
Mana chuckled softly and approached.
"You've hired new staff, I see?"
"Had to," Zane said. "We're growing."
He motioned for her to sit, and she did—tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. Even with fatigue clinging to her pale face, her elegance and maturity still shone through.
"How's Erina?" she asked, lowering her voice.
"She's back at Totsuki," Zane replied. "Fall Selection's coming up. She's got responsibilities."
"She seems to trust you more than she does me," Mana whispered. "I… don't know her likes or dislikes anymore. I don't even know her friends."
Zane looked at her gently.
"She doesn't resent you," he said. "Some things just… take time."
For a brief moment, silence filled the tavern's corner.
And then Mana asked, with a soft voice that still held a touch of command:
"Zane, make me the Fiery Ice Sea Bream Mountain."
Zane nodded. "Coming right up."
He pulled out a pristine sea bream, its scales shimmering like a frozen jewel.
He placed it carefully on the cutting board and brushed his fingers along its spine—feeling its tension, its density, the rhythm of its structure.
Then he reached for the blade.
Not just any knife.
The Unbreakable Northern Star Wolf Blade.
The second he drew it, a chill swept through the kitchen.
Even Mana's eyes widened.
"This knife… it's different from before…"
Zane said nothing.
He simply raised the blade.
And then—
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh!
The sound of silk being sliced echoed through the kitchen.
Time seemed to stop.
Zane became one with the motion. His wrists flowed. His fingers danced. His breath aligned with each precise cut.
Annie covered her mouth in shock.
Mana sat frozen, goosebumps rippling down her arms.
He wasn't just cutting a fish.
He was transcending the boundary between chef and steel.
He was flowing.
And within seconds, it was done.
The Fiery Ice Sea Bream Mountain was complete.
A crystalline sculpture of sashimi glimmered atop the crushed ice—thin enough to see through, arranged like petals in a frozen garden.
It wasn't just beautiful.
It was mythical.
"Why?" Mana whispered, breathless. "Why do I feel… a blade aura?"
Was this… the fabled unity of man and knife?
In the ancient texts, it was said that the best chefs reached a state where the knife became an extension of their will. Where instinct and motion fused into one.
In pre-Qin China, Butcher Ding could dissect a cow without damaging a single tendon—his blade flowing like water through gaps in muscle and bone.
Zane… had become that legend.
He surpassed himself.
And perhaps now, even the world's best chefs would fall silent in his presence.