"Bonjour, my young apprentices."
The voice was deep and formal. I turned my attention to the man standing confidently at the front of the kitchen.
"Most of you already know me, but for our two transfer students... my name is Roland Chapelle, and I am an instructor for French cuisine here."
His introduction stirred a low murmur from the other students. I noticed their faces twist—some grimaced, others lowered their heads like they were recalling a particularly painful memory.
So... Chapelle, huh?
I repeated his words internally, my mind already picking apart the tone, posture, and the subtle tension his presence brought.
"French cuisine, huh?" I mused quietly.
He stepped forward, hands behind his back, continuing with a stern air.
"From the moment you set foot in the kitchen, you have a responsibility to create deliciousness. Your rank, your background, your experience—none of it matters."
He swept his sharp gaze across the room. When it landed on me, it lingered... but only for a second.
"In my class," he said, voice intensifying, "any dish that is unworthy of an 'A' is given an 'E'. Remember that."
The atmosphere thickened. More than a few students stiffened under his stare.
The girl beside me visibly flinched. Her legs trembled, and she had to grip the counter just to stay standing. Her eyes were wide with panic. She looked one step away from a full collapse.
"Today's dish will be Boeuf Bourguignon," Chapelle announced, turning to the whiteboard. "A staple of French cuisine. I shall write the recipe here for reference."
He wrote the ingredients quickly, his voice firm.
"You have two hours. When your dish is finished, report directly to me."
He was about to send us off when I raised my hand—not high, just enough to be noticed. My movement wasn't dramatic, but it cut through the room like a blade. The reaction was immediate.
But Chapelle's eyes locked onto mine, and for the briefest moment, his stern expression shifted—an intrigued flicker crossing his gaze.
"Yes, Ayanokoji?"
Even more heads turned. I could feel the heat from their irritation, the weight of their barely concealed hostility pressing in. If looks could kill, I'd be buried already.
Still, I asked evenly, "We're three people in our group. Is that fine?"
He paused. Thought for a moment. Then gave a curt nod.
"Yes. That will be fine. Our numbers in today's class are uneven."
Just as the students began to murmur complaints—likely ready to scream unfair—he held up a hand, cutting them off before the words formed.
"However," he said sharply, "your group will have thirty minutes less time than the others."
Some looked pleased at that. Others smirked at the added pressure. I nodded without protest.
Chapelle clapped his hands once.
"Well then... let us begin."
His voice rang out through the hall with finality:
"Commencez à cuire!"
As the words echoed through the room, the students scattered like unleashed hounds, bolting toward the ingredient counter in a frenzy. Dozens jostled and elbowed for position, trying to hoard the best cuts of meat and freshest ingredients as if their culinary lives depended on it.
I remained where I was, unmoving.
There was no rush.
I had already surveyed the counter beforehand. Tōtsuki was ruthless, but not disorganized—there were enough ingredients stocked to accommodate twice the number of students here. Desperation was unwarranted. Panic was inefficient.
My gaze shifted to the trembling girl beside me.
She looked as though she were on the verge of passing out, her hands hovering in midair, like she couldn't decide whether to clutch her head or fall to her knees. Her face was pale, sweat beading across her brow. The dread in her eyes spoke volumes. And she wasn't even looking at the ingredient counter.
No—her horror was directed squarely at Yukihira.
"Boofbergin—what now?" Yukihira murmured, squinting at the whiteboard.
The girl gasped. "W-What?! You've never made this recipe before?!"
Panic spiked again, and she quickly scribbled the kanji for "person" on her palm with her finger, then "swallowed" it—a superstitious act meant to calm nerves.
Yukihira raised an eyebrow at her and tilted his head. "Nope. Never even heard of it. But it's just some kinda pot roast, right? Shouldn't be too hard."
That answer nearly shattered her.
Her soul visibly left her body for a moment.
I decided to step in.
"Boeuf Bourguignon, also known as Beef Burgundy, is a French stew," I began evenly, my voice calm. "It's made by braising beef in red wine—usually Burgundy—and beef stock, typically flavored with carrots, onions, garlic, and a bouquet garni. The stew is garnished with pearl onions and mushrooms. It's often served with boiled or mashed potatoes, or pasta."
The girl's mouth slowly fell open in awe, while Yukihira turned to me, blinking.
A beat passed.
Then he barked out a laugh. "Man! You've got all that memorized?! Every second I spend with you, you surprise me more and more!"
He slapped his hand on the counter, still chuckling. "And you even said that name like a pro. How'd you pronounce it so fluently?"
He made a few, though doomed, attempts.
"Buef—Bäef—Bea—Nah, forget it." He grinned and broke into another laugh.
Meanwhile, the girl looked at the two of us like she had just been paired with an alien duo—one too calm, the other too chaotic.
Poor girl.
Her nightmare was only beginning.
Yukihira's expression shifted slightly, as if something had clicked in his mind.
"Ah, by the way," he said, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, "we haven't even introduced ourselves yet, have we?"
He started with a casual grin.
"My name's Yukihira Sōma. You two can just call me Sōma if you want."
I gave a small nod. "Ayanokoji Kiyotaka. Feel free to call me Kiyotaka."
With both our introductions out of the way, our attention naturally turned to the girl, who was beginning to regain some color in her cheeks.
She hesitated for a second, then straightened up, pressing her palms together nervously.
"Ah... Oh! My name is Tadokoro Megumi!" she stammered, forcing a small smile. "Y-you can call me Megumi! Please... please take care of me!"
She bowed slightly, her voice polite but still laced with anxiety.
For now, our trio was formed.
And despite her nerves, Megumi had managed to take the first step.
Looking around, I noticed the last of the students leaving the ingredient station, their arms filled with produce and cuts of meat. The clatter of knives and the roar of stoves echoed through the kitchen space—it had officially begun.
"Alright," I said calmly, stepping forward, "everyone's started cooking. Let's begin too."
Both of them looked to me instinctively, and without hesitation, as I was the one most knowledgeable about the dish, I began issuing directions.
"I'll handle the vegetables. Megumi, could you grab the red wine and start preparing the chicken stock?"
She gave a small nod, eyes wide with focus. "Y-Yes! Right away!"
"Sōma," I continued, shifting my gaze to him, "you take care of the beef. Trim it and cut it into equal chunks for braising."
He cracked his knuckles and gave a confident smirk. "Got it, boss man."
Just like that, our roles were assigned.
I walked toward the ingredient counter, retrieving everything I needed in one go—onions, carrots, garlic, pearl onions, small mushrooms, parsley, thyme, and two bay leaves, knowing I'd need those later to flavor the stew.
Sōma had already made his way to the meat section, grabbing the necessary cut of beef, while Megumi collected the wine and base ingredients for the stock. We worked like clockwork, each of us moving quickly, no one needing to ask where or what.
Back at our station, Sōma tugged on his apron while I reached into my bag and retrieved a black one of my own. It matched my clothes perfectly. Once I had it tied around my waist, I got to work.
I set the vegetables out in front of me and began peeling and chopping them in clean, fluid motions. My hands moved with purpose—faster and more refined than they had ever been during the transfer exam.
"Sōma," I called, not looking up as I diced the onion, "add a bit of oil to the Dutch oven and sear the beef evenly on both sides. No need to cook it through—just a proper browning."
As I spoke, the onion in front of me disappeared under my knife, the pieces small, uniform, and precise. My blade barely made a sound as it sliced through, and I swept the pieces into a bowl as I moved onto the carrots with equal rhythm.
"...Wow," Megumi whispered beside me, eyes wide, as if I'd just revealed some secret technique only passed down through generations.
Sōma looked up from his cutting board, raising a brow. "Again? Your knife work just... leveled up out of nowhere. How?"
I gave a simple shrug. "I practiced at home."
He gave a chuckle and turned back to the meat.
I shifted my attention to Megumi. "You already know the dish, right? So go ahead and get the chicken stock ready—heat it up and keep it at a simmer."
Still a bit stunned, she gave a quick nod, clutching her ladle like it was the last anchor to reality. "R-right! I'll get started!"
I finished the last of the vegetables—the carrots were sliced into uniform rings, the pearl onions peeled cleanly, and the parsley and thyme finely chopped. I gathered the ingredients and set them aside for later use
With that, my prep work was complete.
Soon, Sōma just pulled the seared beef from the Dutch oven, each piece perfectly browned. I stepped in, eyeing the thin layer of rendered fat left behind. No need for extra oil.
I tossed in the onions and carrots, letting them sizzle and caramelize, the heat drawing out their natural sweetness. Once they began to color, I pressed a clove of garlic and added it to the pot, the sharp aroma immediately layering into the existing base. The savory fragrance deepened, rich and mouthwatering.
Without wasting time, I returned the beef to the Dutch oven, placing it evenly on top of the vegetables. I seasoned everything with a light dusting of salt and pepper, then sprinkled it with flour. As it cooked, the flour would act as a thickener, turning the eventual sauce into a thick sauce. I stirred everything carefully, allowing the flour to coat the beef and vegetables evenly.
Then next I added pearl onions—scattered in gently, sinking slightly into the mixture.
"Megumi," I called over without raising my voice. "Red wine, chicken stock, and a bit of tomato paste."
"Y-yes!" she replied, hurrying over with the ingredients clutched carefully in her arms.
I took the wine first, eyeing the pour and letting a generous amount cascade into the Dutch oven. A bold, fruity fragrance immediately surged upward as it deglazed the pot, pulling every bit of flavor from the bottom. The entire station was filled with the intoxicating scent of red wine meeting seared beef.
Despite starting last, we had pulled ahead—our dish already simmering while other teams were still fumbling over their searing.
Next came the chicken stock, poured in to balance the acidity of the wine with depth and richness. I added a spoonful of tomato paste, a bouillon cube for that extra hit of umami, and finally sprinkled in the fresh parsley and thyme I had prepared earlier.
I gave the pot one final, thorough stir before gently laying the bay leaves on top like a seal.
Then I reached for the lid and covered the Dutch oven.
"Now we let it cook," I said, adjusting the flame beneath the pot. "It'll need about forty-five minutes. Just before it's done, we'll sauté the mushrooms in butter and garlic and finish them with salt and pepper."
Megumi, who had been quietly watching the whole process, gave a soft gasp. Her wide eyes shimmered with a mix of awe and something else—guilt, perhaps.
"Wow... you did all that without wasting a second," she said, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Even though we started late, we're already ahead of everyone else... and I barely did anything."
There was a pause before Sōma spoke up. "And you didn't just follow the board recipe," he added, pointing toward the whiteboard where the standard instructions had been scribbled. "You tweaked it. Just enough to make it better."
He gave a small whistle, then grinned. "Man... with you around, these three years are going to be anything but boring." He chuckled aloud, the sound drawing every head in the room—including Chapelle-sensei's—toward us.
And just like that, the room's atmosphere shifted.
Glares returned. Whispers bloomed in the air like smoke from a slow burn.
"Three years? Please. Let's see if they last even one month without getting expelled," someone muttered under their breath.
"Hah. Cocky transfer students... One's a clown, and the other thinks he's a savant," another voice sneered.
It was amusing how easily people lied to themselves. Anyone with open eyes could see how far ahead we were already—but willful ignorance was more comforting than truth for most.
Sōma didn't seem to mind.
Minutes slipped by, and the stew was nearing its final stages—its deep, rich aroma hanging in the air like a promise. We were only a few minutes away from the point where the mushrooms would be sautéed and folded in.
Meanwhile, Sōma had drifted away from the station, casually strolling between the shelves with his hands laced behind his head. A grin tugged at his lips as something caught his eye.
"Hey, Megumi, Kiyotaka," he called out, excitement evident. "Check out this spice rack!"
I followed his gaze and saw an impressive spread of spices—every major profile you could want, organized and shining like culinary jewels.
Megumi, who until then had been laser-focused on watching the pot, finally looked up, her attention captured. A small realization sparked in her eyes, and she muttered, "Ah! I still need to get the serving plate!" before scurrying off.
That left me alone at our station.
I glanced around and caught sight of a student watching me. He didn't notice that I'd seen him, but the look in his eyes was unmistakable: contempt laced with anticipation, the kind of face that wanted to see someone fail.
I see.
How interesting.
I scanned the nearby shelf again, and my gaze locked on a certain ingredient.
Perfect, that would work.
Let's test two things: how capable is Yukihira Sōma, and how serious is this school when it comes to sabotage?
Without hesitation, I stepped away from our station, casually making my way over to where Sōma stood browsing the spice rack, as if answering his call.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed it—the same student, abandoning his own cooking station. He glanced around briefly before approaching ours. Then, with his back conveniently turned toward Chapelle-sensei, he moved.
As the student neared our station, he glanced over his shoulder once, then twice, ensuring Chapelle-sensei's gaze was elsewhere. Then, with his left hand, he lifted the lid of our Dutch oven, and with the right, he tilted the small container he had brought with him—salt, likely, based on the granules I glimpsed.
But just as the container angled to pour, my hand snapped out and seized his wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.
He flinched, a sharp gasp of pain escaping him as he instinctively tried to yank away—but I didn't let go.
Instead, I subtly adjusted the angle of his hand, letting salt fall into the stew. Not enough to render it inedible, but enough to disrupt the balance of flavor and make us fail.
Gasps erupted from the surrounding students.
Perfect.
With the entire room's attention now on us, I raised my voice, so all could hear—calm, firm, unwavering.
"Is this what Tōtsuki stands for? Underhanded tricks and sabotage?"
A hush fell over the room.
"Where pride in your skill should speak, you bring cowardice instead. You don't aim to surpass others through talent, but to sabotage them. To ruin not just their food, but the very spirit of competition."
The student tried to pull his wrist away, but I held him just long enough to ensure everyone saw the salt in his hand—and what he had tried to do.
"You claim you belong in this academy, yet your first instinct is deceit. If this is what the 'Tōtsuki elite' are made of, then perhaps your names are the only things worth remembering about you—because your cooking certainly won't be."
I let go.
He staggered backward, collapsing onto the floor in a heap, his face flushed red with a mixture of fear and anger, unsure between fighting back and fleeing.
Megumi, her eyes wide with panic, rushed over to the pot. Her hands trembled as she saw what she feared most—most of the salt had already dissolved into the stew. The color drained from her face.
"N-No..." she whimpered, the devastation plain in her voice.
Sōma was quieter. Calmly, he dipped a spoon into the sauce and tasted it. His face tightened.
"It's way too salty," he muttered. "There's no recovering from this."
That was the moment Chapelle-sensei stepped forward, his heavy footsteps silencing the murmurs around the room. The disgraced student was just getting to his feet, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, eyes burning with resentment. He opened his mouth to lash out—
"Y-You bas—!"
"Enough!" Chapelle-sensei snapped, his voice sharp as a whip.
He turned a steely glare at the boy. "Toyoda, not only have you dishonored the food before you, but you've also disgraced what it means to be a chef—and worse, you've tarnished the name of Tōtsuki itself."
There was a pause. The instructor's eyes narrowed as he studied the pitiful figure trembling before him.
"You," he pointed coldly at the culprit, "and you," his gaze shifted to the accomplice who stood off to the side, clearly shaken, "are hereby expelled from Tōtsuki Culinary Academy. Leave now. Official documentation will be sent to your registered addresses."
"N-No, please! I—I'm sorry!" the first boy cried out, dropping to his knees in desperation, his voice cracking.
The second student, furious, took a step forward. "What?! Why me?! I didn't do anything! It was him!" he shouted, pointing furiously at his partner.
Before the kneeling student could defend himself, Chapelle-sensei's eyes darkened. "I saw the way you two exchanged looks, how you kept glancing at their pot," he said coolly, gesturing toward me, Sōma, and Megumi. "You're both responsible. There will be no debate."
"I will not repeat myself. Get out."
Realizing there was no mercy to be found, the first student slowly rose to his feet, his body trembling with fury. His eyes locked onto mine with pure hatred.
"You... YOU BASTARD! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!!" he screamed, completely ignoring Sōma and Megumi as his rage zeroed in solely on me.
And then he snapped.
With a furious cry, he lunged at me, charging, fist raised, ready to strike.
"Kiyotaka!!" Megumi screamed in panic, breaking into a run toward me.
Sōma's expression turned deadly serious. He moved too, attempting to intercept the charging student, but it was too late.
The boy reached me, his rage boiling over as he swung a wild fist at my head.
He was far too confident.
I didn't dodge dramatically. I didn't raise my arms. I simply took one step to the right. That was all it took. His punch sliced through empty air.
His own momentum betrayed him. His balance shattered, and I turned my head slightly to watch him stumble past me—helpless, uncoordinated.
Then, with a solid and humiliating thud, he slammed face-first into the cold, unforgiving floor.
"Aaaaarghhhh!!"
The scream tore through the stunned silence like a knife. Everyone had frozen. All eyes were on him, crumpled on the floor, groaning in agony.
Megumi reached my side, hands over her mouth, eyes wide with shock. Sōma stood just behind her; aside from being shocked as well, annoyance crept up his face.
The boy—blood now flowing freely from his nose—slowly pushed himself up, swaying. He held a hand to his face, horror etched into his expression.
"M-my nose...! You bastard! You broke my—AAARGHH!" His voice cracked, high and trembling.
He took a staggering step forward, as if to charge again. Chapelle-sensei started to move to intercept him—
—but I was already there, standing over him, my eyes locked with his.
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't move.
I simply looked down at him and asked:
"Are you sure you want to continue this?"
The words hit harder than a strike ever could.
He froze. The trembling in his arms returned. His legs, once rigid with anger, now buckled beneath him ever so slightly.
He knew.
He wouldn't land a single hit.
And he wouldn't get a second chance.
The student's rage collapsed into a sobbing fit. His bravado shattered, he turned and sprinted out of the kitchen, crying uncontrollably as his footsteps and wails faded down the hallway.
His partner, realizing the spotlight was no longer on him, took the opportunity to quietly slink away without a word, hoping to escape unnoticed, if not unscathed.
Megumi stepped closer, still shaken, and gently tugged at my sleeve.
"Kiyotaka... are you alright?" she asked softly, concern etched across her face—even though we'd barely known each other for an hour.
"I'm fine," I replied with a faint nod. "No need to worry."
That's when Chapelle-sensei approached, his usual commanding demeanor softened by a hint of regret. He offered a small bow, a gesture of respect.
"I apologize for such a disgraceful welcome to our academy. If you'd like to press charges for attempted assault, you have the entire class as witnesses. They'll be required to testify truthfully."
I shook my head. "It's not worth the effort. He's no longer of concern to me."
Chapelle-sensei raised an eyebrow. "Are you certain? Had he succeeded, and you hadn't noticed, your standing would've been compromised."
"Yes," I answered simply. "Even so, it doesn't matter."
The instructor seemed to consider this, then gave a nod. "In that case, I'll allow your team an extension on the time limit to make up for the disruption—"
"There's no need," I said, glancing over at Sōma. "Right?"
Sōma paused, then grinned.
"Pfft—hahahaha!" he erupted, slapping his thigh. "No need at all! We've got plenty of time. You're talking to the sous-chef of Yukihira Restaurant after all, remember?"
Megumi, still recovering from the emotional rollercoaster, stared at us like we were both insane.
"And how many cooks did you have?" I asked the critical question.
Sōma's grin stretched even wider, proud and carefree.
"Two. My old man and me," he said with a shrug, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Exactly what I expected.
And somehow, I couldn't help it—the corners of my lips curved upward ever so slightly. The smallest smile. But unmistakably there.
It was the first time my expression had shifted since the moment I stepped into this academy and since the meetup with Horikita in the café.
Sōma blinked, caught off guard.
"Whoa—was that... did you just smile?"
Even Megumi, still a bit shaken from the earlier chaos, turned toward me with wide eyes. "Woah..."
Understandable. My face had been a blank slate since the beginning of the lesson, and now here I was—smiling, even if only faintly.
Sōma let out a long whistle. "Man, now I really wanna know what it'd take to make you burst out laughing."
"Focus," I replied, though my tone lacked any real sharpness. "We still have a dish to finish."
"Yes, chef!" he responded with a mock salute, a grin stretched across his face as he was reaching for the secret ingredient that would allow us to finish the dish in the short time we had.
Megumi, too, gave a small, genuine nod, the tension in her shoulders easing.
Order was restored.
We slipped seamlessly back into rhythm, the kitchen once again alive with movement and purpose.
Before returning the lid to the new Dutch oven, I took a moment to slice bacon into neat, bite-sized pieces, then crisped them in a hot pan until golden and aromatic. Their savory richness would round out the stew's depth of flavor, adding just the right amount of contrast to the sweet notes that were now being introduced.
Sōma, meanwhile, took the marinated beef—now laced with a golden glaze—and gave a short nod. Our secret weapon was already doing its work, honey.
More than just a sweetener, honey contained proteinase, an enzyme that naturally breaks down tough muscle fibers in meat. When used sparingly and in the right ratio, it transformed even the firmest cuts of beef into fork-tender morsels in a fraction of the time traditional braising would require.
"Megumi," I called out, handing her the last of the ingredients, "sauté the mushrooms in a stainless steel pan. Add a knob of butter and a bit of garlic to start. Medium-high heat."
"Yes!" she answered quickly, her voice steady and sure, no trembling and no hesitation, unlike before. Her hands moved with newfound confidence, eager to do her part.
And just like that, with each piece falling into place, the dish came together.
Steam curled from the pot, fragrance blooming from the simmering sauce. The beef—tender and glistening—rested in a deep, wine-red pool of flavor, kissed by mushrooms, crowned with herbs, and balanced with our small but crucial twists.
Our Boeuf Bourguignon was complete.
And judging by the scent alone, it was more than ready for judgment.
There were only five minutes left on the clock, meaning just an hour and twenty-five minutes had passed since we first began. Despite the earlier accident and forced restart, we were still the first team to complete our dish.
With the final touches plated, Sōma, Megumi, and I carried our creation to Chapelle-sensei, who sat at the front of the room, awaiting the first group to present their work.
He had watched us closely throughout the cooking process, his sharp eyes never missing a step. From the look on his face now, it was clear he'd already formed a certain level of expectation—and the dish in front of him seemed to exceed even that.
He picked up his fork and pressed it gently into the beef. It gave way with just the right amount of resistance, springing slightly back into shape.
"...It's tender," he noted quietly, almost to himself.
"I watched your process carefully," he began, a chuckle escaping his usually stoic expression. "You used honey... That's the first time I've seen anyone use it for tenderizing meat. I've seen pineapple used before, but honey? That's new."
His gaze drifted between us—first to Sōma, who stood there grinning with an easy confidence, then to Megumi, who managed to stand tall despite the lingering tension in her shoulders. Finally, his eyes locked with mine. He lingered just a beat longer, as though trying to unravel something he couldn't quite put into words.
Then, he cut a slice of beef, brought it to his mouth, and took a bite.
The room collectively stilled.
Conversations died mid-sentence, movement ceased, and dozens of eyes snapped to the front of the classroom—to Chapelle-sensei, to the steaming plate, and to us.
He chewed once.
Then again.
And paused.
The expression on his face shifted. A smile tugged at his lips, spreading until it formed something rare and unfamiliar on him—pure joy.
"WHAT?!"
"Did... did Chapelle-sensei just smile?!"
Voices whispered around the room in disbelief. Shock washed over the crowd like a wave.
After a long exhale, he finally spoke.
"The wine... mellow, not overpowering. It harmonizes with the stock beautifully. The herbs—subtle, perfectly balanced. Not a hint of bitterness."
He paused again, clearly savoring the experience.
"The bacon adds depth, a smokiness that accents rather than dominates. And the mushrooms..." He took another bite, this time scooping up a mix of beef, carrot, and mushroom in a single forkful. "They were sautéed at just the right temperature. The butter clings to the palate in the most pleasant way."
Then came the final touch.
"And that delicate sweetness from the honey, balanced against the saltiness of the bacon... brilliant."
He leaned back slightly, clearly pleased.
"It's delicious. Merveilleux."
Gasps rippled across the room. Disbelief. Confusion. Envy.
The first group to finish. The transfer students. And yet, they were the ones who impressed Roland Chapelle—the man who had sent entire classes into panic with a single glare.
Sōma chuckled under his breath. Megumi's hands trembled slightly as she covered her mouth, her eyes glistening in disbelief.
As for me, I merely nodded.
Chapelle-sensei placed his utensils down with a sigh of contentment. "Ayanokoji, Yukihira, Tadokoro. I award you an 'A'."
He paused, then added with a rare smirk, "Know that I am most disappointed that I do not have the power to give you a higher grade!"
Sōma pulled off his headband with a dramatic flair. "It was nothing!"
He turned to me, hand raised in celebration. I met it with a crisp high five. Then he turned to Megumi, offering her the same.
She responded with a soft slap of her palm against his, her smile small but genuine. Then, almost timidly, she shifted her gaze to me.
There was a slight hesitation in her movements, her cheeks tinged with pink as she slowly lifted her hand, a bashful smile tugging at her lips.
I met her halfway, my high five slower, more delicate this time, matching the energy she offered.
Her expression brightened.
With the test completed, we returned to our station.
Time remained.
So we did what anyone who had just cooked a dish would do.
We sat down and ate.
As we finished the last bites of our meal, Sōma leaned back with a long, satisfied sigh. "Pfffft—man, that hit the spot. I'm stuffed."
Megumi, now more composed, dabbed her lips with a napkin before offering a smile. "That was the best dish I've ever had in class."
Just then, Sōma's eyes lit up, sparkling with mischief. The kind of look that only spelled trouble.
I had a bad feeling about this.
"Kiyotaka! Megumi!" he grinned, reaching into his bag and producing a small plastic container, ominously sealed. "Wanna try my latest dish?"
"Can I? I'd love to!" Megumi answered, eager, until he popped the lid.
Her joy evaporated. Her smile collapsed into horror as the pungent scent hit her nose. She instinctively leaned back, already regretting her answer.
Sōma, with the gleam of a madman, announced proudly, "Behold! Honey-coated cuttlefish!"
Before Megumi could fully retreat, he had already slipped a piece into her mouth with terrifying precision.
She chewed. Swallowed. Regretted her life choices.
Her face contorted into an expression of pure betrayal and trauma.
Then he turned to me.
"Well? Kiyotaka? Want a taste?"
The words "curry-flavored shit or shit-flavored curry" rang in my mind. Ibuki's analogy was starting to feel prophetic.
I stared down at the glistening, sweet-slathered seafood horror before me. Against all logic, curiosity won.
I grabbed the chopsticks and took a bite.
The flavor hit instantly. My jaw clenched, my entire face recoiling. The combination of slimy texture and aggressively sweet brine assaulted every part of my being. A gag reflex teased the back of my throat.
Sōma, now on the floor, was howling with laughter. "Hahahaha! There it is! That's two expressions in one day!"
He pointed up at me, clutching his stomach like he'd been stabbed.
Even Megumi, still recovering from her own culinary trauma, gave me a look full of sympathy and shared suffering.
I swallowed the cuttlefish.
Barely.
This... was going to be a long three years.