The second-floor hallway of the Polar Star Dormitory felt much quieter than the floor below.
Emiya Shirou’s footsteps were muffled by the aged wooden floorboards, which creaked softly as if greeting their newest resident.
In his hand, the brass key numbered 303 felt cold.
Shirou stopped in front of the wooden door bearing the number 303.
He turned the key, and with a dry click, the door swung open.
The room wasn’t spacious, but it was decent enough.
It had a neatly made single bed, a wooden study desk with fading paint, and a window that faced directly toward the dense forest behind the dormitory.
The air inside felt a bit stuffy, indicating the room hadn’t been occupied in a long time, but there was no bothersome thick layer of dust.
With ingrained efficiency, Shirou placed his bag on the bed.
He unrolled the thick cloth holding his cooking utensils, ensuring every knife was in its proper place.
He picked up his gyuto—a versatile Japanese-style chef’s knife with a gleaming, razor-sharp blade—and laid it on the study desk.
He always cleaned and honed his knives before and after use.
They weren’t just tools; they were extensions of his own hands.
After doing a bit of unpacking and opening the window to let the night breeze circulate, Shirou stretched his stiff muscles.
He took off his uniform blazer, leaving him in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
His initial intention was to wash up and go straight to sleep to recover his stamina.
His body certainly needed the rest, but his mind—calibrated by his experiences as a Counter Guardian—remained on high alert.
Shirou sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes.
The dormitory’s silence seeped into his ears.
He could hear the chirping of crickets from outside the window, the soft creaking of the building’s foundation settling in the cold air…
and something else.
Creak.
Shirou’s eyes snapped open.
His pupils shrank.
That wasn’t the sound of an old building.
It was the sound of a wooden board being pressed down by a concentrated weight.
A moving weight.
Creak…
rustle…
The sound was coming from above.
Right behind his room’s ceiling.
Someone was crawling around in the attic space, moving at a pace too steady for a rat or raccoon, and far too deliberate to be a coincidence.
It was about four meters away, steadily approaching the ventilation shaft or a removable ceiling panel.
In a fraction of a second, the atmosphere inside room 303 changed drastically.
The calm demeanor of a young chef vanished instantly, replaced by the cold, lethal aura of a soldier who had survived thousands of battlefields.
His eyes processed the data instantaneously: The intruder weighs roughly 70 kilograms.
Moving stealthily.
The destination point is the wooden panel directly above the bed.
Shirou didn’t move from his spot, but his leg muscles tensed like a coiled spring ready to snap.
His right hand smoothly grasped the hilt of the gyuto knife resting on the desk.
Slide.
The ceiling panel directly above Shirou’s head began to shift.
Little by little, a dark gap appeared, revealing a pair of eyes peering down.
To the intruder, everything happened far too quickly for common sense to process.
The moment the panel opened just a fraction wider, Shirou’s instincts took over.
His arm swung upward with a speed that tore through the air.
The gyuto knife shot out like a silver arrow, aiming dead-center for the dark gap where the intruder’s head was located.
However, a tenth of a second before the blade left his fingertips, Shirou realized one crucial detail: there was absolutely no killing intent coming from up there.
The intruder’s aura was relaxed, even coming off as friendly and mischievous.
This was a culinary school dormitory, not a war zone.
With a forceful jerk that nearly tore his own wrist muscles, Shirou shifted the knife’s trajectory two centimeters outward.
THWACK!
The high-grade steel blade pierced the hardwood ceiling panel until half of it was embedded, producing a resounding thud that would make anyone’s heart stop.
Above the ceiling, Isshiki Satoshi froze.
Time seemed to stand still for the second-year student and the seventh seat of the Elite Ten Council.
His mouth hung half-open, his eyes wide as they stared at the knife blade now less than an inch away from his left temple.
A cold gust of wind had brushed the side of his head when the blade shot past.
Isshiki could see, with his own two eyes, several strands of hair from the left side of his head drift down and land on the blade embedded in the wood.
A bead of cold sweat the size of a corn kernel rolled down from Isshiki’s forehead, past his temple, and dripped down.
His breath hitched in his throat.
What…
was that?
Isshiki thought, his normally brilliant and calculating mind now in complete disarray.
If that throw had been off by even a millimeter…
if the guy down there hadn’t altered its course at the very last second…
that knife would have pierced right through my skull.
Isshiki Satoshi was a person who always smiled, the type of genius who hid his sharp fangs behind a goofy demeanor.
But right now, there was no smile on his face.
There was only the primal terror of someone who had just stared directly into the eyes of the grim reaper.
Slowly, with his body still trembling slightly, Isshiki lowered his gaze through the open gap in the ceiling.
Down below, Emiya Shirou stood in a flawless throwing stance.
The auburn-haired youth’s face was completely deadpan.
There was no surprise, no panic.
Shirou’s eyes stared straight at Isshiki in the dark gap, radiating a calmness that was somehow far more terrifying than outright rage.
“Who are you?” Shirou asked.
His voice wasn’t loud, but every syllable rang clear and sharp as ice.
“And why are you crawling around in my room’s ceiling in the middle of the night?”
Realizing that his new kouhai was genuinely quite terrifying, Isshiki hurriedly raised both hands in surrender, despite still being on all fours.
He cleared his throat, trying desperately to summon his trademark friendly smile, even though the corners of his lips were twitching slightly.
“Y-Yo!” Isshiki greeted, his voice cracking a pitch higher than usual.
“Good evening!
Sorry for startling you, Emiya-kun, right?
I-I really didn’t mean any harm, I swear!”
Shirou narrowed his eyes, observing the figure up there.
Thanks to the moonlight spilling in through the window, he could now see the intruder more clearly.
The man was wearing an apron.
And…
only an apron.
Shirou raised a single eyebrow.
“Are you…
naked under that apron?”
Isshiki laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his head that hadn’t almost been skewered by a knife.
“Hahaha!
This is the official loungewear of Polar Star residents!
My name is Isshiki Satoshi, occupant of room 206 and your senior here.
Once again, please forgive my rather…
unconventional visit.”
In his heart, Isshiki swore upon all the culinary gods: I will never, ever, for the rest of my life, attempt to surprise this kid from the ceiling ever again.
Never.
Shirou let out a long sigh, relaxing his posture.
His lethal aura evaporated into thin air, reverting back into a normal high school student.
He stepped onto his bed, grabbed the hilt of the gyuto stuck in the ceiling wood, and with one smooth pull, yanked it out.
“Next time, use the door, Isshiki-senpai,” Shirou said flatly, inspecting the blade of his knife to ensure there were no chips.
“Old dormitories like this often have fragile ceiling structures.
You could fall through at any moment.
Besides, startling someone holding a kitchen knife isn’t exactly a brilliant idea.”
Forget just startling, you nearly took my head off with a throw worthy of a military sniper!
Isshiki screamed internally.
However, he maintained his smile, deciding to bury the fact that he had just nearly died at the hands of a freshman deep down inside.
“Message received loud and clear, Emiya-kun!” Isshiki replied, his face already back to its usual cheerful state, even though the cold sweat still clung to his back.
“By the way, the reason I came looking for you was to let you know that we’re throwing a party tonight!
A welcome party for you and our other new resident, Yukihira Soma!”
“A welcome party?” Shirou slid his knife back into its wooden sheath.
“This late at night?
And Yukihira passed Fumio-san’s exam?”
“Of course!
He got in a few hours after you did.
You should have seen Fumio-san’s face when she tasted both of your dishes, she was laughing happily like a child!” Isshiki crawled back slightly.
“Everyone is already gathered in Marui’s room on the second floor, room 205.
Hurry up and head over!
We won’t take no for an answer!”
Without waiting for Shirou’s reply, Isshiki slid the ceiling panel shut, letting the sound of his scuttling footsteps fade rapidly.
Very rapidly.
As if he were running away from something.
Shirou stared at his ceiling for a moment, then shook his head.
“Weird guy,” he muttered.
Still, Shirou didn’t really mind.
After living in the shadow of battlefield memories and the cruelties of the Holy Grail War, absurd things like a senior roaming the attic wearing nothing but an apron felt incredibly…
peaceful.
He tidied up his uniform, put back on the blazer he had taken off, and stepped out of room 303.
All along his walk down to the second floor, Shirou could already hear the commotion.
The sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and someone shouting in protest could be heard clearly, shattering the quiet night of the Polar Star Dormitory.
He stopped in front of room 205.
The door was slightly ajar, casting a bright light into the dim hallway.
The moment Shirou pushed the door wide open, the aroma of sake, fruit juice, and a wide assortment of snacks greeted his senses.
“Hey!
I told you guys to stop throwing parties in my room!
This is a sacred area meant for studying!”
A bespectacled student with middle-parted black hair—Zenji Marui—was visibly pulling at his own hair in despair, watching as his tidy room was invaded by his dormmates who were sitting on the floor, the bed, and even leaning against his bookshelves.
“Oh, don’t be such a stiff, Marui!
This is a Polar Star tradition!” chimed a girl with shoulder-length orange hair, Yoshino Yuki, as she poured a drink into a paper cup.
“Besides, your room is the most spacious because you don’t have any weird clutter,” added Ryoko Sakaki, a tall girl with dark purple hair sitting gracefully near the desk, holding a cup of liquid that, for some reason, smelled heavily of strong fermentation.
In the midst of that chaos, Yukihira Soma sat cross-legged, holding a glass of juice and laughing broadly.
“Wow, this dorm is actually pretty lively!
I thought it was full of ghosts since the building looked so creepy from the outside!”
“Yo, Yukihira,” Shirou greeted as he stepped inside.
All eyes immediately turned to the auburn-haired youth.
The initially noisy atmosphere in Marui’s room instantly quieted down for a few seconds as they observed their second new resident.
Soma waved his hand enthusiastically.
“Emiya!
You finally came down!
Here, take a seat!
They were just telling me about our dorm rules.”
“Ah, you must be Emiya Shirou!” Yoshino jumped up, walking up to Shirou with eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“My name is Yoshino Yuki!
And the one yelling earlier is Marui, the pretty one is Ryoko, then there’s Shun Ibusaki—” she pointed toward a youth whose hair covered his eyes, quietly sipping from a juice box, “—and over in the corner is Megumi, who I’m sure you already know!”
Tadokoro Megumi, sitting in the corner of the room, waved her hand shyly, her face still a bit flushed from the liveliness of the party.
“Nice to meet you all,” Shirou replied politely, bowing slightly.
Right at that moment, the sliding balcony doors opened.
Isshiki Satoshi stepped inside, still wearing his trusty apron uniform, carrying a large bottle of a beverage.
His face was completely radiant, not leaving the slightest trace of trauma from the incident in room 303 a few minutes prior.
“Well then, since our main stars have all gathered!” Isshiki exclaimed, raising his bottle high.
“Let us propose a toast to welcome the two newest members of our Polar Star family!
Yukihira Soma and Emiya Shirou!”
“CHEERS!”
Everyone raised their glasses in unison.
Shirou accepted a glass of apple juice offered by Megumi and clinked his glass alongside Soma’s.
The party truly began.
Marui was still muttering complaints about his books potentially getting dirty, but no one was listening to him.
Yoshino and Ryoko started bombarding Soma with questions about his family’s diner, which Soma answered with his characteristic pride.
Shirou sat slightly off to the side, observing the interactions of his new friends.
He realized that beneath their eccentric behavior, everyone in this room possessed a solid aura.
Their hands were rough from knives and the heat of stoves.
They weren’t just ordinary students; they were madmen who had dedicated their lives to cooking.
“So, Emiya-kun,” Ryoko’s gentle voice broke Shirou’s reverie.
The girl leaned forward, looking at Shirou with an intrigued smile.
“I heard from Fumio-san that you made an emergency dish using guanciale and cheese that nearly made her cry from how delicious it was.”
Ryoko’s words instantly plunged the room back into silence.
Even Soma stopped laughing and turned to Shirou with a sharp gaze.
“Is that true, Emiya?” Soma’s eyes gleamed, his competitive spirit ignited.
“You nearly made Fumio-san cry?
Damn, I only got a compliment that my cooking was acceptable!”
Isshiki, sitting not far from there, smiled meaningfully.
He looked at Emiya with a much more appraising gaze than before.
He knew exactly how dangerous this young man was physically, but tonight, in this room, the only thing that mattered was culinary skill.
“At the Polar Star Dormitory, skills speak louder than words,” Isshiki swirled the glass in his hand.
“Soma-kun has already promised to make us some snacks using the ingredients he bought with the money he borrowed from you, Emiya-kun.
But in return, we are also incredibly eager to taste a dish from the man who conquered our Dorm Mother.”
Shirou looked at the faces awaiting his answer.
He could see the small, blazing fire in Yukihira Soma’s eyes, the anticipation on Yoshino’s face, and the challenging smile from Isshiki.
Shirou placed his juice glass on the table.
He stood up, rolling up his shirt sleeves a little higher.
A faint smile, the signature smile of a chef ready to serve his customers, was etched onto his face.
“As it happens, I still have some leftover cheese and herbs in my room.
If you all don’t mind waiting,” Shirou said calmly, yet his voice carried absolute conviction.
“I will show you what it means to turn leftovers into a masterpiece.”
The room instantly erupted in cheers.
The welcome night at the Polar Star Dormitory was just about to reach its climax, and Emiya Shirou was ready to fire up the stove.
“Like my work?