A long creak from the rusted door hinges echoed down the dark hallway, shattering the silence of the night.
Emiya Shirou stepped over the threshold of the Polar Star Dormitory.
The first thing that greeted him was not a warm welcome, but a cold draft carrying the scent of old wood, dust, and lingering spices that had seeped into the building’s very pores.
A single chandelier flickered dimly in the center of the entrance hall.
Beneath that subdued light, the silhouette of an elderly woman suddenly emerged from the shadows of the staircase, as if she had been waiting there all along.
“Ho?
You’ve got some nerve opening the door without knocking, youngster,” a raspy voice broke the silence.
The woman stepped forward.
Her gray hair stood upright in a distinct style, her face was lined with wrinkles that told tales of a thousand experiences, and her eyes were as sharp as an eagle assessing its prey.
In her hands, she held an old album that looked just as antique as the building itself.
Shirou was not surprised.
His instincts had already detected someone’s presence while he was still in the dormitory’s courtyard.
He bowed politely, his expression as calm as the surface of a lake.
“Please forgive my intrusion.
The door was unlocked, and I assumed new residents were expected to simply walk in.
My name is Emiya Shirou.
I am the transfer student assigned to this dorm.”
Fumio scoffed softly, a cynical smile forming on her lips.
She scanned the auburn-haired youth before her from head to toe.
There was no large suitcase—only a neatly worn school uniform and a small bag slung over his shoulder.
“Emiya Shirou, huh?
The Polar Star Dormitory isn’t a dumping ground for dropouts; it’s a den for those who bear fangs.
There is only one condition to live here.”
Fumio pointed toward the hallway to her right.
“Make me a dish.
If your cooking can satisfy my palate, you will earn a room key.
If not…
please enjoy sleeping with the bugs in the forest tonight.”
“Understood,” Shirou replied without the slightest hesitation.
“Please show me to the kitchen.”
That calm reaction made Fumio raise an eyebrow.
Usually, new students would panic, beg, or at least show a tense expression.
Yet, this young man responded as if he had merely been asked to brew a cup of tea.
“Interesting,” Fumio murmured, turning around and leading the way.
“Let’s see if your skills match your composure.”
The Polar Star Dormitory’s kitchen was massive, resembling a professional restaurant kitchen from a bygone era rather than a standard dorm kitchen.
Gas stoves were lined up neatly, stainless steel prep tables reflected the overhead lights, and a wide array of cooking utensils hung on the wall racks.
Shirou placed his bag on a prep table.
The moment his fingertips brushed the tabletop and the handle of a nearby cast-iron skillet, his mind immediately began processing at an inhuman speed.
Structural Analysis activated instantly.
In the blink of an eye, Shirou understood the composition of the cast-iron skillet—its metal density, its heat distribution, and even the microscopic residues of seasonings that had once been heated upon it.
He knew exactly which stove burner had a slightly larger flame, and which part of the table was the most stable for chopping ingredients.
To him, this kitchen was a battlefield, and he had mapped its entire topography in less than a second.
Fumio sat in a chair across the kitchen counter, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I do not provide any ingredients other than salt, pepper, oil, and water.
A true chef must always be prepared with their own weapons.
What do you have in that little bag of yours, kid?”
Without uttering a word, Shirou opened his bag.
As he had prepared beforehand, he never relied on battlefield logistics.
He pulled out three neatly wrapped ingredients: guanciale cured with black pepper, a block of hard Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese aged for 36 months, and a small glass jar filled with a blend of dried herbs.
Seeing those ingredients, Fumio scoffed.
“Cured meat, hard cheese, and dried herbs?
Those aren’t ingredients for a main dish.
That’s survival rations for a mountain hiker.
You intend to impress me with emergency food?”
“Emergency food can become a masterpiece if you know how to treat its ingredients,” Shirou countered calmly.
He reached for a kitchen knife.
The moment his hand gripped the hilt, his aura completely shifted.
His posture became incredibly sturdy, his shoulders relaxed yet brimming with power.
Fumio, who had initially underestimated him, suddenly leaned forward.
The air in the kitchen felt as though it had grown denser.
Clairvoyance and Eye of the Mind were fully engaged.
Shirou didn’t just see the ingredients in front of him; he calculated the room temperature, the humidity level, and the fat density of the meat.
He began to slice the guanciale.
The sound of his cuts rang out with a rhythm so constant it resembled the perfect ticking of a clock.
The thickness of each meat slice was exactly identical, calculated down to the millimeter scale.
Shirou knew precisely how much surface area was needed for the fat to render perfectly without toughening the meat itself.
Next, he grabbed the cast-iron skillet he had analyzed earlier.
Without adding a single drop of oil, he placed the guanciale slices onto the cold pan, then turned the heat on low.
“Putting meat into a cold pan?” Fumio’s brow furrowed, but a few seconds later, her eyes widened as she realized his intent.
“I see…
you’re slowly rendering the fat so it won’t burn.”
Shirou didn’t answer, his focus unbroken.
He let the heat rise gradually.
A soft sizzling sound began to echo, accompanied by the savory aroma of cured fat slowly melting and coating the pan’s surface.
While the meat cooked, Shirou took the block of Parmigiano-Reggiano and a grater.
This was where the experience from his future took over.
With terrifying speed and precision, he grated the cheese into two distinct consistencies: one extremely fine for emulsification, and the other slightly coarser to provide texture.
Once the guanciale fat had rendered perfectly and the meat had turned a crispy golden brown, Shirou removed the meat and set it aside.
He then evenly sprinkled the coarsely grated cheese over the base of the pan filled with pork fat.
Instantly, the cheese sizzled, beginning to melt and fuse with the savory fat.
Just before the cheese hardened completely, Shirou sprinkled his dried herb mixture—mountain rosemary, thyme, and a pinch of coarsely ground black pepper.
The scent wafting from the pan was extraordinary.
The aroma of melting cheese blended with the richness of the cured fat and the freshness of the herbs activated by the high heat.
Fumio subconsciously gulped, her eyes glued to the movements of Shirou’s hands.
Eye of the Mind calculated the percentage of success.
Shirou waited until the edges of the cheese began to turn golden brown.
He poured a single teaspoon of cold water along the edge of the pan to create a burst of steam, and then, with one smooth flick of his wrist, he flipped the sheet of cheese as if it were a crepe.
He arranged the crispy guanciale pieces in the center of the still-pliable sheet of cheese, added a light sprinkle of the fine cheese, and folded it into a neat semicircle before lifting it and plating it on a pristine white porcelain dish.
The residual heat from the pan caused the outer layer of the cheese to harden into a crispy shell, while the inside sealed the crispy meat and the remaining melting cheese.
“Done,” Shirou stepped forward, placing the plate in front of Fumio.
“This is Frico con Guanciale e Erbe—A Crispy Cheese Galette with Cured Meat and Herb Infusion.
Please enjoy it while it’s hot.”
Daimido Fumio stared at the dish before her.
There were no extravagant sauces, no complex floral garnishes.
It was just a golden fold of cheese speckled with herbs, concealing a meat filling within.
It was an incredibly simple dish, almost too simple for a meal prepared by a Totsuki student.
Yet, its aroma carried an inexplicable weight.
There was a sharpness, a depth, and a warmth that made her stomach growl mercilessly.
Using a knife and fork, Fumio sliced through the center of the dish.
Crunch.
The crisp sound of the severed cheese shell rang out clearly.
From the opening of the cut, hot steam billowed out, carrying the sharp aroma of the softly melting Parmigiano-Reggiano, tightly embracing the glistening pieces of guanciale.
Fumio placed the morsel into her mouth.
Instantly, time seemed to stand still.
Fumio’s eyes widened, her pupils shrinking as a wave of flavor battered her taste buds like a storm.
Within her mind, a magnificent visualization exploded.
She was no longer in an old dormitory kitchen.
She found herself standing amidst a blizzard high in the freezing Alps.
Her body shivered with cold, nearly surrendering to the cruel elements of nature.
Suddenly, a warm hand, draped in a thick red cloak, pulled her into a tent.
In front of a brightly burning hearth, a nameless knight offered a hot pan filled with food.
As she ate it, an absolute warmth flowed through her veins, bringing a sense of safety, protection, and the strength to live on.
Snapping back to reality, Fumio clutched her flushed cheeks.
Her body was sweating, and her breathing was ragged.
“W-What in the world is this explosion of flavor?!” she exclaimed, losing all of her composure.
“The outside is incredibly crisp with the concentrated saltiness of the cheese, but the moment the shell breaks, the inside melts with extraordinary softness!
And this guanciale…
how does it not feel greasy at all?!
The fat has completely melded as one with the cheese!”
She took a second bite, her hands moving on their own, unable to stop.
“And these dried herbs!
Dried herbs usually lose their kick if stored for too long, but this…
this tastes as if it was freshly picked and roasted under the sun!
The flavor of the thyme and rosemary cuts through the heaviness of the cheese and meat, creating a balance that completely cleanses my palate!”
Fumio devoured the dish in just four massive bites.
The plate before her was wiped clean without a trace.
She panted, staring at Shirou as if looking at a monster disguised as a high school student.
“You…
who are you really, youngster?” Fumio asked, her voice trembling slightly from the euphoria of flavor still lingering on her tongue.
“This dish may be based on street food or survival rations from the Friuli region of Italy.
But the level of perfection in its execution…
this isn’t something you can learn from a recipe book.”
Shirou stood calmly, his hands stuffed into his pants pockets.
“This is purely a matter of precision and understanding the ingredients, Fumio-san,” Shirou began to explain, his voice flowing in a soothing rhythm.
“You are correct, this is essentially emergency food.
But that is the point.
In conditions where you only have limited ingredients, the only way to achieve perfection is by extracting one hundred percent of the potential from every single element.”
Shirou pointed toward the now-empty pan.
“The key lies in absolute temperature control.
The guanciale has a specific fat melting point.
I heated it slowly in a cold pan so the fat would render perfectly without damaging the meat’s structure, allowing it to reach its maximum crispiness.
That rendered pork fat then became the primary canvas for frying the cheese.
For the Parmigiano-Reggiano, the secret is using two different grating sizes.
The coarse grate forms the structural shell that retains heat, while the fine grate melts instantly to bind the meat on the inside.
And regarding the herbs…
I didn’t just sprinkle them.
I dropped them right as the fat reached its highest boiling point, a split second before the cheese hardened.
That thermal shock process forces the essential oils within the dried herbs to vaporize and become locked within the cheese batter, instantly releasing a ‘fresh’ flavor.”
Fumio listened to every word of the explanation intently.
It was a logical theory, highly scientific and brutal in its efficiency.
There were no secret spices, no bizarre tricks—only a cold, accurate calculation executed with pure technique.
The old woman smiled widely, a smile that radiated genuine respect.
She pulled a key from her pocket and tossed it toward Shirou.
With perfect reflexes, Shirou caught the key mid-air.
“Room 303,” Fumio said.
“Welcome to the Polar Star Dormitory, Emiya Shirou.
Don’t make a ruckus at night, and make sure you come down for breakfast tomorrow morning.
The other residents might be quite surprised to see the new monster that has just moved into this dorm.”
Shirou stared at the brass key numbered 303 in the palm of his hand.
He nodded slowly, offering a faint smile that was very rarely seen.
“Thank you, Fumio-san.
I will take good care of the room.” Turning around toward the dark staircase, Shirou realized one thing.
This dormitory, with all its eccentricities and residents, would probably not be boring.
“Like my work?