The world didn’t end with a blinding flash of light or eternal darkness.
For Emiya Shirou, his old world ended in a restless sleep, and his new one began with a splitting headache.
The soft morning sunlight pierced through the gap in the bedroom curtains, falling directly onto the sixteen-year-old’s face.
Shirou jolted awake, breathing heavily as if he had just run a marathon across an endless desert.
Cold sweat drenched his back.
However, it wasn’t the sweat that made him tremble.
It was the memories.
Thousands of years.
Millions of battles.
An ocean of blood and a hill of swords.
In the blink of an eye, the newly sixteen-year-old Shirou—an ordinary high school student whose hobbies were cooking and fixing electronics—had inherited the soul-crushing burden of his future self.
He saw himself as a Counter Guardian.
He felt the chill of steel, the searing heat of betrayal, and the emptiness of an ideal that had consumed him until nothing remained but ash.
“Archer…” he whispered.
His voice was hoarse, sounding foreign even to his own ears.
Shirou clutched his head, trying to piece together the scattered puzzle.
He was Emiya Shirou.
But he was also him.
Combat techniques, life experiences, bitterness, and—oddly enough—recipes from various eras and cultures were now permanently etched into his hippocampus.
He slowly got out of bed, his bare feet touching the cold wooden floor.
He walked over to the mirror.
The face in the reflection was still young.
Auburn hair, golden-brown eyes not yet dimmed by cynicism.
There was no desert-tanned skin or faded white hair.
He was still the unbroken Shirou.
His gaze shifted to an object on his study desk.
An old steel ruler.
Subconsciously, the circuits within his brain—or at least what he believed to be Magic Circuits from Archer’s memories—pulsed.
“Trace, on.”
The whisper escaped his lips instinctively.
Yet, no Prana flowed.
No magical energy burned through his nerves.
This world was…
empty.
Silent.
There was no Mana in the atmosphere.
But the information was there.
Structural Analysis.
In a fraction of a second, Shirou’s eyes dissected the ruler.
Metal composition: low-carbon steel, slight rust on the left edge.
A weight imbalance of 0.4 grams on the right side.
Manufactured twenty years ago in an Osaka factory.
Shirou’s eyes widened.
He wasn’t using magic.
He couldn’t project swords or supernaturally reinforce physical objects.
And yet, the comprehension remained.
His analytical abilities had evolved into something purely mental—a lightning-fast deduction born from millennia of combat experience, now recalibrated for this magic-less world.
“I see,” he muttered, setting the ruler back down.
“There’s no magic.
But my eyes…
they still see everything.”
The sound of rapid footsteps in the hallway outside shattered his reverie.
“Shirou!
Shirou!
Wake up!
You promised to make a special breakfast today!”
The bedroom door burst open.
A petite girl with long silver hair and ruby-red eyes bounded in.
Without braking, she lunged at Shirou and hugged his waist tightly.
“Illya-nee…” Shirou offered a wry smile, bracing against the weight of his older sister, who was far lighter than she should have been.
Illyasviel von Einzbern.
In Archer’s memories, this name carried a profound sense of pain and regret.
The girl he never managed to save.
The girl whose fate ended tragically as the vessel for the Holy Grail.
But here…
“You’re spacing out again!
Dad is already starving, you know!” Illya looked up, pouting adorably.
There were no agonizing Magic Circuits in her body, no destiny of a premature death.
She was simply a spoiled, cheerful, and healthy older sister.
“Sorry, sorry.
I just woke up,” Shirou said softly, patting Illya’s head.
A warmth spread through his chest, washing away the lingering remnants of the Counter Guardian’s nightmares.
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Hurry up!
Mom said if you take too long, she’s going to cook!” Illya threatened before dashing out.
Shirou’s eyes widened in horror.
That threat was very real.
The cooking of Irisviel—his mother in this world—was a culinary catastrophe that would make even a Counter Guardian choose death.
Shirou hastily washed his face, changed his clothes, and headed down to the kitchen.
The Emiya household in this world was far grander than the traditional Japanese estate Archer remembered.
It was a blend of modern and classical European architecture, reflecting his mother’s status as a daughter of the wealthy Einzbern family.
In the dining room, Kiritsugu Emiya sat reading the newspaper while sipping his coffee.
The man looked different.
There was no aura of a hitman.
No dead eyes scanning for the next target.
The Kiritsugu here was just a slightly overworked father, with fine laugh lines at the corners of his eyes indicating he smiled often—something utterly impossible for the Kiritsugu in Archer’s memories.
“Morning, Shirou,” Kiritsugu greeted without looking up from the financial section.
“Nervous about the exam tomorrow?”
“Morning, Dad.
A little,” Shirou replied, walking toward the kitchen counter.
“But I’ll be fine.”
“Of course you’ll be fine,” Irisviel’s voice chimed in from the backyard.
The beautiful silver-haired woman walked in carrying a basket of fresh vegetables.
“My son is a culinary genius.”
Shirou smiled, then his eyes landed on the row of kitchen knives neatly arranged on the magnetic strip.
He grabbed his trusty Gyuto (chef’s knife).
The moment the wooden handle touched his palm, Shirou’s world shifted.
Structural Analysis: Active.
It wasn’t combat data flooding in, but culinary data.
Material: VG10 Damascus Steel.
Sharpness: 98%.
Bevel angle: 15 degrees.
History: Used to cut beef last night; slight fat residue near the bolster; requires a hot water rinse.
Shirou twirled the knife in his hand.
Light.
Too light compared to Kanshou and Bakuya.
But this wasn’t a tool for killing.
This was a tool for creating life.
“Alright,” Shirou murmured.
His gaze sharpened.
In this world, cooking wasn’t just a hobby.
It was status.
It was power.
And tomorrow, he would step onto the most prestigious battlefield: Totsuki Culinary Academy.
“Today’s menu: A Japanese Breakfast Set with a modern twist.”
Shirou moved.
Had anyone been watching closely, they would have noticed his movements this morning were different than usual.
Before, he was efficient.
Now, he was transcendent.
He picked up a daikon radish.
Clairvoyance.
His eyes didn’t just see the radish’s outer skin.
He could see the fibers inside, the moisture content of every layer, and the exact points where the texture would be the crunchiest.
He didn’t need to measure.
He just knew.
Slash.
The knife moved so fast it was almost a blur.
The cuts were precise down to the micrometer.
The thickness of each daikon slice was identical, guaranteeing uniform doneness when simmered later.
Next, the salmon.
Shirou placed the fish fillet on the cutting board.
He closed his eyes for a moment, activating the very skill he had relied on most in life-or-death battles.
Eye of the Mind (True).
In combat, this ability allowed Archer to predict enemy attacks and find that 1% chance of victory in impossible situations.
In the kitchen, the ability transformed.
Shirou could simulate the cooking process entirely in his head.
He could predict how the heat would permeate the fish, when the fat would render perfectly, and the exact second the skin would crisp up without scorching the flesh beneath it.
It wasn’t speculation.
It was an absolute calculation.
“Heat the pan.
Temperature at 180°C.
Drop the fish in.
Hold for 45 seconds on the skin side.
Flip.”
His hands danced.
There were no wasted movements.
Every swing of the blade, every pinch of salt, every stir of the miso soup was executed with the efficiency of a killing machine, yet with the gentleness of an artist.
Aromas began to fill the kitchen.
It wasn’t just the smell of good food.
It was a fragrance that carried weight.
The deep, comforting scent of dashi broth mingled with the savory richness of seared salmon fat and the sweet fragrance of freshly cooked rice.
Kiritsugu lowered his newspaper.
His nose twitched.
Illya stopped playing on her phone, practically drooling.
Irisviel beamed, her eyes sparkling with pride.
“Done,” Shirou said, placing the final bowl on the tray.
He served the food at the table.
Simple, yet perfect.
White rice gleaming like pearls, miso soup with silken tofu cut with geometric precision, grilled salmon with a golden crust, and pickled daikon arranged to resemble flower petals.
“Thanks for the meal,” they chorused.
The first bite.
Silence.
The dining room was dead silent for three full seconds.
Then, Kiritsugu let out a long exhale.
His tense shoulders relaxed completely.
“Shirou…
this is…”
The flavor exploded in their mouths.
Not aggressively, but rather like a warm embrace in the middle of a blizzard.
The juicy texture of the salmon contrasted with the crispy skin, the saltiness perfectly balanced by the sweetness of the rice.
There was a depth of flavor that defied logic for an ordinary home-cooked breakfast.
It was as if the chef had spent a hundred years perfecting this very dish.
“So gooood!” Illya squealed, her cheeks flushed with pure bliss.
“Onii-chan, what did you do?
This is way better than usual!
It tastes like…
like you put magic into it!”
Shirou offered a faint smile as he untied his apron.
“No magic, Illya.
Just a little…
experience.”
Yeah, experience straight from hell, he thought to himself.
Shirou watched his family eat heartily.
This sight—a tranquil Kiritsugu, a joyful Irisviel, a laughing Illya—was exactly what Archer Emiya had sacrificed for a hollow ideal.
Becoming an Ally of Justice?
Saving countless strangers only to be betrayed in the end?
Shirou clenched his fist, then slowly relaxed it.
No.
In this world, he didn’t need swords.
He didn’t need Unlimited Blade Works.
He didn’t need to be some miserable guardian of the world’s balance.
In this world, happiness could be forged on a plate.
Smiles could be protected with delicious food.
Tomorrow, he would enroll at Totsuki.
The place where culinary monsters gathered.
A place where cooking was war.
Shirou stared at his kitchen knife gleaming under the lights.
The reflection of his face was visible there—half his naive self, and half the shadow of the cynical, masterful Archer.
The two were now one.
His lips curled into a confident smile.
It was the same smile Archer wore when facing impossible foes, but this time, it was free from the burden of death.
“I’m ready,” he whispered to himself.
The Totsuki entrance exam was just the first step.
Emiya Shirou wouldn’t just be any ordinary chef.
He would be the one and only chef who forged flavors with experience spanning across space and time.
Here I come, King of Chefs.
Do you have enough ingredients in stock?