Tim here. It’s gonna be a bit weird, because we have a new flavor after Spicy Seiso already in production. These things take a reaaaaally long time, depending on a ton of different things, so it was better safe than sorry to get something in the supply chain to start with. That being said... We want to hear what YOU want as a new flavor, and what you’d like to see from it! Capped sodium? Flavor Unlocked? Plant-Based? Seafood? Dry noodle? Wet ‘n moist?

...

Couldn’t help myself with that last one. Anyway, we want to hear what your preferences are like! As always, once we get a bunch of votes in and not so many submissions anymore, I’ll go ahead and reveal what the votes were like and talk about ‘em. We have a few concepts that are prepped, so vote amongst those, but also feel free to make your own suggestions and what you currently like!

The naming tournament round 1 is OVER! 4 names progress to the semi-finals.

Packthulu and Crumplestilskin’s competition was fierce, magical, and furious.

They traded blow for blow, neither giving the other the edge, flashes of brilliant blue, blinding white, and unspeakable horrors beyond our mortal comprehension filling the arena. Crumplestilskin was clever, slippery, and skilled, but ultimately foolish enough to be consumed by hubris as it seemed to gain the upper hand on Packthulu. But alas, t’was only a ploy to draw it closer, and Packthulu’s enigmatic eldritch entropy enveloped Crumplestilskin, who’s voice echoed out in a thousand lost languages of fear, and then was forever silenced.

In other news, a brand new arena was constructed and the area cordoned off, as hazardous magical energies persisted even after the fight. Experts say there is no telling when it might be safe again, and event staff have reported fleeting, unexplainable visions even after leaving the area.
52.6 - 47.4 to Packthulu!

Crumpty Dumpty came out of the gate swinging hard, ready for the fight of its life, only to discover its opponent was just sitting there. The majority of the fight’s time came from Crumpty Dumpty’s complete and utter confusion, pacing around the arena and exclaiming loudly and repeatedly that it must’ve been in the wrong ring, because no way it was matched up against a piece of bread.
After event organizers confirmed that Crumpty Dumpty was, in fact, facing up against a piece of bread, Crumpty Dumpty shrugged, stomped on Crumpet, and a nice victory was declared.
69.9 - 30.1 to Crumpty Dumpty!

Vendjamin sat in its corner, contemplating the set of choices it’d made over the years. Once upon a time, it had fame. It had glory. It was the shining beacon, the glorious, stalwart machine that dispensed through heat and ice alike, the ineffable champion that all others aspired to be.

How fast the years churn, it thought, how fast the fall had been.

It was a fall of its own machinations, its own arrogance and conceit, with no lessons learned with defeat, after defeat, after defeat. But it knew, now. It had learned from its mistakes. This here, this fight, this arena, this was truly rock bottom from whence it had came.

From the glory days of being put up against other legends, other stars, to this lackluster, empty arena to do nothing but test the mettle of the new up-and-comers. It would prevail again. It rose, googly eyes rocking as it scanned the dimly lit, concrete ring for its opponent, heard the bell to start, felt its body move with the old, familiar tension as the fire rose within its being, years upon years of training and experience swelling within and--

It jolted, felt the impact, and everything went dark. McWrinkler 2000 moved once, and it was over.
70.5 - 29.5 to McWrinkler 2000!

It wasn’t even close. Tim laughed at Gilbert’s clumsy gait and unpracticed movements, easily slipping past every jab, lazily slapping aside every attempted strike. How’d he even get matched up against this buffoon, this absolute imbecile, this ridiculous nincompoop?

Surely they’d give him a better fight next time. But for now, he could play with his food, toy around a bit, show off and display his superiority. His mind began to wander as he moved by reflex, snapping his limbs outwards every so often to deliver a light blow or two where he saw the chance, but never enough to incapacitate his opponent outright. Who was running this tournament? How had they all been chosen? He’d heard rumors that even a skilled competitor like him might struggle later, but if everyone was like Gilbert?

Ha. This would be the easiest tournament he’d ever won.

He’d heard of another Tim, here. Someone high up in the organization, someone who was always watching, and had the connections, experience, and resources to set up this tournament in the first place. It was even rumored that, get far enough, and you might even be able to meet him, or that he was the final fighter to overcome, or even that there was no Tim, but just an idea of a Tim, some kind of abstraction, an entity, something illusory.
He felt his fist smash against a bony structure, and snapped back to reality. Oh. Right. The opponent in front of him was in poor shape, bruised and bloodied, shaking, breath ragged and heavy. One arm hung limp by his side, evidently broken at some point, and his legs seemed barely able to support his weight anymore.

Ah, well. Time to finish this. He stepped forwards with cold, calculated precision, his motions fluid and violent and--

He stopped, and shivered. He felt a presence, and heard... something.
“You will lose.”

It wasn’t a question, or a direction, or a command he heard. It wasn’t spoken, didn’t ring in his head the way he thought telepathy might. It was a simple fact, a statement of truth, a fundamental princple of reality that he felt down to the core of his being.

He would lose.

He shivered at the thought, and tried to move again, but couldn’t. He swallowed hard, and his eyes opened wide, fear beginning to grip every fiber of his being. No, he couldn’t lose, he was Tim, this was his chance, this was his time, it was--

“There can only be one Tim.”

Gilbert opened his eyes, looking for the blow that would never come. His opponent was gone. He didn’t remember if he had ever really fought, or who he had fought, just that he was in pain, felt he was about to lose, and then... didn’t.

He looked up to the scorecard, to see only his name there, as if his opponent had never existed. He frowned, shook his head, and took a ragged, deep breath as he was declared the winner.

Tim was never seen again.

51.5 - 48.5 To Gilbert

TOURNAMENT ROUND 2 BRACKET: