CHAPTER 183: CHAPTER 183: THE FIRST COURSE OF EMPIRE

Appetizer — "Symphonie des Meeres."

A porcelain plate, round and pristine, settled before him like a stage awaiting its first act.

At its center lay a single seared scallop — edges kissed golden, the flesh glistening beneath the soft amber light. A crown of black caviar rested on top, haloed by a faint shimmer of lemon foam. Around it, droplets of emerald basil oil gleamed like jewels scattered across fresh snow.

The aroma reached him before the taste — bright, oceanic, alive.

One bite, and the world slowed. The scallop melted like silk against his tongue, the caviar bursting with salt and sea, the citrus cutting through with perfect sharpness.

It wasn’t just flavor. It was balance.

Soft and strong. Calm and wild.

The kind of dish that didn’t fill the stomach — it awakened it.

The first note of a symphony yet to come.

Julian glanced up.

Across the table, Sabrina Weiss tasted her own with quiet grace — movements precise, deliberate. She chewed like someone who knew that elegance was an instrument of control. Even the tilt of her wrist, the pause between bites, carried intent.

David, in contrast, was simply enjoying himself, sighing in quiet awe.

Julian leaned back slightly, letting the flavors fade, a small smile touching his lips.

"Not bad," he murmured.

Sabrina’s gaze lifted — calm, sharp, measuring.

"Perfection," she said, "is never loud. It just... leaves no room for error."

Julian met her eyes, a spark of challenge in his calm.

"Then I guess we’ll get along."

Inwardly, Julian watched the exchange like a duel of tempo. She attacked with poise — a soft remark masking command.

He parried with ease, keeping rhythm, never overcommitting. Every sentence, every breath at this table carried the weight of unspoken authority.

It wasn’t a conversation. It was reconnaissance — two empires mapping each other’s boundaries beneath candlelight and wine.

...

The lights dimmed as the next dish arrived. The Main Course — "Morgenrot" (Velvet Dawn) — a slow-braised Wagyu short rib resting atop a bed of parsnip purée so smooth it caught the light like porcelain cloud.

The waiter moved with the choreography of a stage performer — silent steps, fluid hands. A faint trail of rosemary smoke followed him, twisting through the air before fading into perfume and rain.

The plates landed without sound, only the soft hum of violin from hidden speakers breaking the stillness.

The meat shimmered beneath a glaze of red wine reduction, dark as burgundy velvet. Around it, wild chanterelles and porcini mushrooms framed the plate like forest relics — their aroma rich, earthy, almost nostalgic.

Julian watched the steam curl upward, soft and ghostlike. Then he pressed his fork down — the meat yielded instantly, collapsing into tenderness.

One bite.

Smoke. Sweetness. A quiet hum of thyme.

The flavor deepened with every chew — layers unfolding like history. The bitterness of the wine met the caramel of the sear, grounded by root vegetables that whispered of soil and patience. It tasted of craft and stillness — of chefs who believed that mastery meant restraint, not excess.

Flavors layered like notes in a sonata — patient, deliberate, deeply human. It tasted of craftsmanship, of discipline, of the slow poetry of German kitchens passed down through hands that understood restraint.

Each mouthful melted into warmth, a calm defiance against the cool night pressing at the glass.

It wasn’t food anymore.

It was memory — comfort refined into art.

Sabrina set her fork down lightly, eyes never leaving Julian.

"You know," she said, voice low, "this is what separates amateurs from professionals. Time. The willingness to wait for perfection."

Julian smirked faintly. "Funny. That’s what separates talent from legacy."

Their eyes locked again — two different empires meeting at the same border. Hers was built on power, networks, negotiation.

His was raw potential shaped by battlefields — the green pitch, the sweat, the roar.

But beneath that silence, something else stirred — admiration, curiosity, and the faint recognition between predators who spoke the same language of hunger.

Both understood one thing: perfection was never free. It demanded sacrifice.

For a heartbeat, the table fell silent — only the quiet hum of violins playing through the restaurant’s speakers.

Julian felt it then — the quiet pressure behind her smile. Sabrina Weiss wasn’t just testing him for a deal; she was gauging his philosophy. How he handled subtlety. Whether he bent, or endured.

And so he sat straighter, voice soft but deliberate, letting the same aura he carried on the field sharpen around him — silent dominance.

...

When dessert arrived, the entire restaurant seemed to quiet — as if everyone instinctively understood that something sacred had entered the room.

Dessert — "Garten der Finsternis" (Eclipse Garden)

A sleek obsidian plate.

At its center, a dark chocolate sphere brushed with gold dust — fragile, luminous, mysterious. Crimson trails of raspberry coulis streaked the surface like falling comets, surrounded by scattered fragments of candied hazelnut that caught the light like amber.

The smell of warm cocoa and burnt sugar drifted upward, blending with faint jasmine from a vase nearby. Every motion slowed; even the waiter’s hand trembled slightly under the soft glow.

The waiter approached with a small copper pot, tilting it with precision. A thin stream of warm caramel cascaded down the curve of the sphere. It cracked open slowly — like dawn tearing through midnight — revealing a heart of molten mousse and pale vanilla cream.

The first bite silenced thought.

Bitter chocolate unfolded into warmth, the caramel blooming into sweetness, the faintest edge of coffee grounding it all in quiet gravity. A violet petal rested along the rim — delicate, fleeting, an echo of something beautiful that never lasts.

It wasn’t dessert.

It was closure — the final verse of a symphony that faded, but never ended.

Julian set his spoon down. The sweetness lingered, heavy with meaning.

Sabrina watched him, expression unreadable, fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass.

"You understand now, don’t you?" she said softly.

Julian looked up. "About what?"

She smiled — that same knowing, deliberate curve of lips.

"That everything worth building," she said, "must end beautifully."

He understood. It wasn’t about food. It was about rhythm — about control. Every course tonight mirrored her ideology. Art as order. Power as grace. The entire evening had been her performance, and this line — her thesis.

...

The meal was done. The plates cleared, the wine glasses half-drained — but the real course was just beginning.

Sabrina leaned back slightly, her gaze sharpening, the faintest glint of mischief flickering in her catlike eyes.

"So," she said smoothly, "let’s get to the main dish."

Julian met her stare head-on. Unflinching.

"I wasn’t expecting to see you again this soon," Sabrina continued, voice edged with intrigue. "I gave you until the end of the season for that quest. And yet... here we are."

Julian tilted his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "What can I say? Guess I work fast."

Her laughter came soft but genuine. "I like that," she said. "Confidence with bite."

Across the table, David stayed silent — watching the two of them like someone witnessing the collision of two storms.

Then, with a single clap of Sabrina’s hands — knock, knock.

A gentle knock sounded on the door.

"Excuse me," a woman entered, holding a dark leather folder in both hands. She approached with quiet precision, placed it on the table, and bowed slightly before exiting the room.

Sabrina didn’t look away from Julian as she drew the folder closer.

She flipped it open — parchment and ink, embossed with the Weiss Agency seal.

"Read it first," she said, sliding it toward him.

Her voice lowered, velvety and deliberate.

"This," she added, her lips curving into a knowing smile, "is the beginning of your empire."

Julian lowered his gaze to the contract. He read quickly — a habit honed from years of dissecting systems and reading battlefields. It was all there: clauses about revenue percentages, brand representation, social media management, sponsor outreach, image rights, and press coordination.

A promise wrapped in ink.

A future written in margins.

He didn’t sign right away. Instead, he slid the document toward David.

"You’re the agent," Julian said quietly. "Make sure it aligns with what I want."

David nodded, already scanning through the pages. The soft rustle of paper filled the room while Sabrina watched the exchange, amusement flickering in her eyes.

She turned slightly toward Julian.

"So," she said, tone shifting from business to curiosity. "Tell me — the city, the country, the match. What do you think of it all?"

Julian leaned back, gaze drifting toward the window. The reflection of Hamburg’s skyline shimmered against the glass — a thousand lights, a thousand ambitions.

"It’s amazing," he said simply. Then, with that quiet weight that always followed his words, he added, "I like it here."

The air shifted.

He didn’t speak like a newcomer. He spoke like a conqueror already mapping his next territory.

Sabrina noticed it — that unshakable aura of command, the same energy she’d seen only in the greats.

This boy, she thought. He doesn’t follow waves. He makes them.

David looked up, closing the folder with a small, satisfied nod.

"It’s all good, Julian. Everything checks out. You can sign."

Without hesitation, Julian reached for the pen. The weight of it felt natural in his hand — like another weapon, another promise.

He signed cleanly, decisively.

He slid the folder back across the table. "Let’s hope for the best... for both our futures."

Sabrina took it, her smile sharp and bright as glass.

The faintest pause lingered between them — an unspoken truce forged in respect and rivalry. Two minds that understood creation through struggle.

"Welcome aboard," she said softly. "Now, let’s make you a legend."