World Gourmet Organization (WGO) Headquarters, New York.
Inside a private room designed to resemble a first-class hospital suite, the silence was broken only by the rhythmic dripping of an IV fluid.
The room was clean—too clean—dominated by a white so sterile it hurt the eyes.
Nakiri Mana sat in her wheelchair, staring blankly out the skyscraper window.
An IV tube was inserted into her arm, delivering a synthetic nutrient solution directly into her bloodstream.
It was the only way she could stay alive.
To the world, she was the “Bookmaster,” the supreme leader of the WGO who held absolute authority over global culinary evaluations.
But to herself, she was a prisoner of her own curse.
Her “God’s Tongue” had evolved too far.
She could no longer tolerate imperfection.
No matter how delicious a meal was, to her hypersensitive tongue, it tasted like rotting garbage if there was even a micron of error in its preparation.
And in this world, there was no such thing as a perfect chef.
Until eventually, she stopped eating altogether.
Her body rejected all forms of solid food.
“Mana-sama,” the voice of Anne, her loyal assistant, called out from the door.
Mana turned her head slowly.
Her face was beautiful yet gaunt, her eyes sunken from prolonged malnutrition.
“What is it, Anne?”
“The latest financial report from the foundation,” Anne stepped inside carefully, carrying an electronic tablet.
“The Einzbern family just transferred a grant in a…
completely absurd amount.
They called it a ‘Donation for Taste Disorder Research’.”
Mana smiled faintly, a weak and cynical smile.
“Hush money to keep us neutral, hm?”
She knew exactly what was going on.
Irisviel von Einzbern had contacted her.
Her message was clear: Do not let your husband, Azami, use the WGO’s influence for his insane agenda.
“Just accept it,” Mana said quietly.
“Besides, I have no intention of helping Azami.
His ambition will only accelerate the ruin of the culinary world.”
“Understood, Mana-sama.
And…
there is one more thing.”
Anne placed a medium-sized thermal box on the glass table in front of Mana.
The box looked ordinary, but it bore the crest of a silver Iris flower on its lid.
“Lady Irisviel sent this via a special private jet courier from Japan.
She left a message: ‘Please taste my son’s cooking.
Think of it as proof that hope still exists.'”
Mana’s brow furrowed.
“Her son’s cooking?
That adopted child?”
Mana felt reluctant.
She was tired.
Tired of hoping, tired of being disappointed.
Every time the world’s best chefs served her a dish, she only ended up throwing up, unable to stomach the “dirty taste” of their technical imperfections.
“Just throw it away, Anne.
I don’t want to ruin my mood today by tasting an amateur’s cooking.”
“B-But, Mana-sama…” Anne looked hesitant.
“Lady Irisviel was very insistent.
She said that if you don’t like it, you are free to throw the entire Einzbern donation into the sea.”
Mana let out a long sigh.
A subtle threat wrapped in a smile, typical of old nobility.
“Very well,” Mana surrendered.
“Open it.”
Anne broke the airtight seal of the box.
Hot steam billowed out.
As the lid was lifted completely, Mana was stunned.
The contents were not Foie Gras, not Caviar, nor a complex Haute Cuisine dish.
It was Egg Fried Rice.
The golden grains of rice glistened beneath the room’s lights, mixed with fine pieces of scrambled egg and sliced scallions.
It was incredibly simple.
So…
plebeian.
“She must be joking…” Mana whispered.
“She sent Egg Fried Rice to the Bookmaster?
Is she trying to insult me?”
The simpler a dish is, the more exposed its flaws become.
Fried rice is a trap.
Just a little too much oil, and it tastes rancid.
Just a slight unevenness in the heat, and the texture of the rice becomes inconsistent.
To the God’s Tongue, fried rice usually felt like eating greasy gravel.
However, as the steam from the dish reached her nose, Mana fell silent.
The smell…
it was clean.
There was no smell of oxidized oil.
No fishy scent from the eggs.
Only the pure aroma of caramelized rice starch and the savory richness of the eggs.
Driven by a strange curiosity, Mana’s frail hand reached out to pick up a silver spoon.
“Mana-sama, are you sure?” Anne asked anxiously.
She was terrified her master would throw up again and her condition would worsen.
“Just one bite.
Out of respect for the Einzberns,” Mana replied coldly.
She scooped up the rice.
The grains were perfectly separated from one another, yet remained moist.
There were no clumps.
Mana put the spoon into her mouth.
She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the “storm” of unpleasant tastes that usually assaulted her nerves.
She prepared to taste unevenly distributed salt, or rice that was too hard on the inside.
One second.
Two seconds.
Mana didn’t open her eyes.
Anne held her breath, her hands trembling as they gripped the tray.
“Mana-sama?”
Slowly, tears began to stream from the corners of Nakiri Mana’s eyes.
They weren’t tears of pain.
They were tears of relief, so profound that it was almost heartbreaking.
Inside her mouth, the Egg Fried Rice tasted…
silent.
There was no “noise” from chef’s errors.
Every single grain of rice was coated in oil and egg at an identical, microscopic thickness.
The level of doneness for each grain of rice was 100% uniform.
The salt was distributed down to a molecular level.
This wasn’t merely cooking.
This was structural engineering that transcended human capabilities.
The taste was warm, gentle, and nostalgic.
It felt like coming home to a house she had never had.
Her God’s Tongue searched for a loophole, searching for even a single flaw to criticize, but came up completely empty.
Perfect.
The word echoed in Mana’s mind.
A word she had always considered a myth.
Subconsciously, Mana’s hand moved again.
A second bite.
A third bite.
“Mana-sama…
you’re…
you’re eating?” Anne’s eyes widened, nearly popping out of their sockets.
She hadn’t seen Mana eat this heartily in years.
Mana didn’t answer.
She couldn’t answer.
Her mouth was busy chewing, savoring the sensation of solid food passing through her throat without the slightest hint of nausea.
A warm energy spread throughout her frail body.
Her stomach, which had only been filled with cold fluids for so long, now welcomed the food with joy.
Within five minutes, the lunchbox was empty.
Wiped clean.
Mana set down her spoon with a soft clink.
She wiped away her tears with a napkin, her breathing slightly ragged from sheer elation.
“Anne,” Mana’s voice sounded hoarse, but far more energetic than before.
“Y-Yes, Mana-sama!”
“What is the name of the one who made this?”
“E-Emiya Shirou.
The adopted son of the Einzbern family.
He is currently a first-year student at Totsuki.”
Mana leaned back, staring at the white ceiling with a distant gaze.
So that was it.
Her father, Senzaemon, hadn’t merely recruited a talented child.
He had found a “Savior.”
“Father…” Mana whispered, her lips curving into a rare, genuine smile.
“You truly are a sly old fox.”
She understood now.
Azami planned to take over Totsuki to “save” Erina by erasing all food he deemed trash.
A fascist method that would only isolate Erina, just like the isolation Mana was experiencing now.
But Emiya Shirou…
This boy didn’t erase the trash.
He turned simple ingredients into gold.
He proved that perfection could be achieved not by restricting ingredients, but through technique and a soul that transcended dimensions.
“Emiya Shirou,” Mana murmured, feeling the sweet aftertaste of the fried rice lingering on her tongue.
“He is the key to the true revolution.”
The anxiety that had been suffocating her heart all this time—the fear that her daughter, Erina, would end up miserably in an isolation room just like her—slowly faded away.
“Erina…” Mana clutched her chest.
“You don’t need to be afraid anymore.
There is someone out there who can satisfy your thirst.”
Mana turned to Anne, her gaze now sharp and full of the authority of a Bookmaster.
“Anne, reply to Lady Irisviel’s message.”
“U-Understood!
What should it say?”
“Tell her: ‘Thank you.
I am already full.’ And also tell her…” Mana smirked, “The WGO will be watching this year’s Jade Generation very, very closely.”
Outside the window, New York was still busy with its own affairs.
But inside that room, a destiny had just been rewritten.
A woman cursed by the god of taste had just been saved by a plate of fried rice from a former hero.
And Nakiri Mana knew that the storm Emiya Shirou would bring to the culinary world would be far more devastating than anything her foolish husband could have ever imagined.
“Like my work?