The competition of wolves

I didn’t sleep that night.

Not because I was excited.

Because I was terrified.

The moment I saw my name already typed, something inside me whispered: You’re stepping into a cage full of predators.

I sat on my bed—if you could call a thin mattress on a broken wooden frame a bed—staring at the papers under the faint light of a cheap candle.

The rules were simple, almost too simple.

Wan Yark Young Culinary Selection

• Age: 10–16

• Entry: invitation only

• Prize: fully funded culinary training + placement apprenticeship

• Location: Topoliev Foundation Hall

Topoliev.

Of course.

My hands shook.

-So this is his game…

I wanted to tear the papers, throw them into the stove, and pretend none of this existed.

But then I imagined my mother’s tired eyes.

I imagined the loaf of hard bread.

I imagined the exchange student’s voice: “You stink, bitch.”

And suddenly, my fear turned into something else.

A quiet rage.

-If they want me to stay in the mud forever… then I’ll climb out with my own hands.

The next morning, I went to the café earlier than usual. Mister Varn was already there, sharpening knives.

He didn’t look up.

-You’re early.

-I need to ask you something.

That made him glance at me.

I held out the invitation papers.

He took them, scanned quickly, then raised one eyebrow.

-Topoliev Foundation?

-Yes.

-I see.

His voice had a strange edge.

-Do you know what this is?

-A competition.

-Not just a competition. It’s a market. They select a few talented kids, polish them, and later those kids either become famous… or become owned.

-Owned?

He tossed the papers back to me.

-You’re poor, Savanna. That means if you win, everyone will claim they “discovered” you. If you lose, everyone will say it’s because you were destined to lose.

I swallowed.

-Should I not go?

Mister Varn wiped his hands on his apron.

-If you don’t go, you’ll regret it. If you go, you’ll suffer. Welcome to life.

His bluntness almost made me laugh.

-I’ll go.

He stared at me for a long second, then walked to a shelf and pulled out a small jar.

-What is this?

He placed it in my hands like it was sacred.

-Black pepper. Real one. Not the cheap dust. Use it wisely.

My eyes widened.

-But this must be expensive…

-Exactly. It’s an investment. Don’t make me regret it.

For the first time, I saw something in his expression that looked like pride, even if he tried to hide it.

That day, after school, after work, I practiced like I was possessed.

I had no fancy ingredients. No clean kitchen. No time.

But I had focus.

I worked on a simple dish because I knew something: rich people hide behind complexity. They love things that look expensive. They praise dishes that confuse the tongue.

But deep down, the human body recognizes truth.

Truth is warmth.

Truth is balance.

Truth is the taste of a home you never had.

So I decided my dish would be humble but perfect: a broth, handmade noodles, and a topping that would transform it.

I practiced making noodles until my arms burned.

I practiced broth until the smell filled my small house like a dream.

When competition day arrived, the Foundation Hall looked like another world.

Marble floors.

Bright lights.

Clean uniforms.

Children with expensive shoes and smug eyes.

They looked at me and immediately wrinkled their noses.

-What is she doing here?

-She’s probably a cleaner.

I held my head high, but inside my stomach twisted.

Then I saw Radansen Topoliev standing on the stage, speaking calmly to the crowd like he owned the air itself.

His gaze passed over the room… and stopped on me.

Not surprised.

Not curious.

Like he had expected me.

The competition started. Each participant got a station and a limited basket of ingredients.

Limited for them.

For me, it was a feast.

I took one breath and began.

Hands steady.

Knife precise.

Fire controlled.

I didn’t look left or right.

I didn’t care about their laughter.

Because in my head, I could hear my mother’s voice.

“Don’t worry, one day I’m sure your dream will come true.”

Two hours passed like a war.

When time was called, plates were placed on a long table for judges: chefs, sponsors, foundation representatives.

I placed mine down gently.

A rich boy next to me smirked.

-That looks like poor people soup.

I looked at him.

-Yes.

He laughed.

-Then you lost.

I didn’t answer.

Because my dish wasn’t “poor people soup.”

It was survival.

It was love.

It was pain turned into warmth.

The judges began tasting.

One judge tried mine, paused, then took another sip.

His eyes narrowed.

A second judge leaned in and tasted, then sat back slowly.

A third judge—an older woman with sharp eyes—looked at me directly.

-Who taught you to balance the broth like this?

I swallowed.

-Life did.

Her gaze didn’t soften, but her voice changed.

-This is not luck. This is hunger refined into skill.

Around me, whispers started.

The rich boy’s face stiffened.

And then Radansen Topoliev stood.

He raised his hand slightly, and the hall became silent.

-Participant number 17… Savanna Greensky.

My heart almost stopped.

He looked down at me from the stage.

-You will come forward.

I stepped forward, legs shaking.

Radansen’s voice was calm, but his words hit like thunder.

-Your dish was the only one that made the judges stop speaking.

A ripple of shock went through the crowd.

I could barely breathe.

Then he added, loud enough for everyone to hear:

-But the next step is not about taste.

It is about whether you can survive the world that comes after success.

And that world… is much crueler than poverty.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***