The morning sunlight pierced through the gaps in the windows of the Polar Star Dormitory kitchen, bringing a warmth that contrasted with the still-biting early spring air.
Inside the spacious yet slightly worn kitchen, the symphony of clinking metal, sizzling hot oil, and billowing steam from broths had become an inseparable routine.
However, over the past three days, a new rhythm had infiltrated this harmony of chaos.
A rhythm led by one person: Emiya Shirou.
Three days had passed since the welcome party that shook the common sense of the dorm residents.
Since then, the atmosphere in the Polar Star had drastically changed.
Instead of feeling intimidated by the “monster” living under the same roof, the student residents of the Polar Star Dormitory saw Shirou as a guiding beacon.
“Emiya!
Taste this!”
The loud voice of Yukihira Soma shattered the dawn’s silence.
The red-haired youth slid over to the counter, setting down a plate of seafood Risotto that was still steaming hot.
The bags under his eyes were slightly dark, indicating he had probably only slept for two or three hours, but his eyes blazed with an inextinguishable fire of enthusiasm.
Shirou, who was sipping his warm green tea at the corner of the table, calmly set his cup down.
He took a clean spoon and scooped a small bite.
For a moment, his eyes closed.
In his mind, Structural Analysis operated purely as a high-level culinary instinct.
He dissected the layers of flavor: the doneness of the Arborio rice, the extraction of the clam broth, and the traces of butter.
“The temperature of your broth when you added it to the rice was too low, Yukihira,” Shirou said quietly, opening his eyes and looking straight at Soma.
“It caused the rice to absorb water for too long, making the edges slightly mushy.
And you used a very concentrated crayfish broth, but you forgot to balance it with a little acidity.
Add a few drops of lemon juice or a splash of white wine at the end of the process.
It will elevate the savory notes without tiring out the tongue too quickly.”
Soma fell silent for three seconds, staring at his plate, then smacked his own palm hard.
“Damn it!
You’re right!
Acidity!
I was so focused on the kick of the umami that I forgot the aftertaste!”
Without hesitation, Soma pulled the plate back, dumped the leftover Risotto into the organic waste bin, and immediately ran back to his cooking station.
Shirou merely shook his head slowly.
Soma’s unyielding spirit was something he highly respected.
The youth possessed no fragile ego; any sensible critique was instantly absorbed and converted into fuel.
However, Soma wasn’t the only one utilizing Shirou’s presence.
Throughout the day, the door to room 303—or Shirou’s cooking station in the kitchen—was almost never free from knocks.
“Emiya-kun…”
A soft and slightly hesitant voice came from behind the door later that afternoon.
Tadokoro Megumi stood there, holding a cutting board and an usuba knife.
Her face was flushed, looking nervous.
“U-Umm…
could I borrow a moment of your time?
My cutting motions for root vegetables still feel stiff…”
For Megumi, Shirou took a different approach.
The young man didn’t harshly critique her technique.
Instead, Shirou stood beside her, guiding her posture.
“It’s not your wrist that should be applying pressure, Tadokoro.
Let the weight of the knife do the work.
Relax your shoulders.
Imagine this knife is an extension of your arm, not a tool you have to force.”
Shirou’s advice was incredibly simple, straightforward, yet struck right at the core of the problem.
With gentle guidance tailored to Megumi’s timid nature, the girl’s vegetable-cutting efficiency drastically improved in just two days.
Her fear of failure was slowly replaced by a sense of comfort when holding a knife.
In another corner, Ryoko Sakaki found an extraordinary discussion partner in Shirou regarding fermentation temperatures.
When Shirou suggested adjusting the yeast storage room’s temperature by 0.5°C at night, the quality of Ryoko’s koji soared to a level she had never achieved before.
Yuki Yoshino frequently dragged Shirou to check the quality of her captive wild poultry meat, where Shirou gave her tips on butchering methods that wouldn’t induce stress in the animals, thus preserving the meat’s tenderness.
Shun Ibusaki, the quiet one, often silently offered plates of his smoked meats, receiving nods or brief suggestions from Shirou about the air circulation in his smokehouse.
Even Zenji Marui, the dorm’s professor, spent hours discussing culinary history literature with Shirou.
Marui was shocked to find that Shirou’s knowledge of classical European dishes felt so vivid, as if the youth had witnessed firsthand how the dishes were served in the Middle Ages—which, technically, Archer actually had.
Even the usually sloppy Daigo Aoki and Shoji Sato began paying more attention to the cleanliness of their workspaces after seeing how Shirou organized his kitchen counter with military-grade efficiency.
Those three days were an extraordinary incubation period for the Polar Star Dormitory.
Shirou’s advice was like water nourishing talented sprouts; easy to understand, right on target, and tailored to each individual’s specialty.
The cooking skills of all the dorm residents improved significantly, an anomaly that had never before occurred in the dormitory’s history.
In the late afternoon, as the sun began to lean west and cast a golden-orange hue, Shirou stepped out into the farming area behind the dorm.
The outside air felt fresh, carrying the distinct scent of damp earth and animal manure.
In the middle of the cabbage patch, Isshiki Satoshi stood in his usual majestic attire: merely a white fundoshi wrapped around his waist, coupled with a small towel around his neck, and a hoe in his hand.
A cheerful smile forever adorned the second-year senior’s face.
“Ah, Emiya-kun!
How rare for you to step out of the kitchen at this hour,” Isshiki greeted, driving his hoe into the soil.
“The kitchen has been taken over by Yukihira and Yoshino.
They’re arguing over whether wild venison pairs well with squid,” Shirou replied casually, stepping into the farm area.
He rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows.
“I figure this field could use a little help.
The soil in the western plot looks a bit dry.”
Isshiki laughed softly.
“Sharp observation.
I was planning to irrigate that plot in a bit.
But honestly, your help is very welcome.”
For the next hour, the two young men worked in a comfortable silence.
Shirou was no stranger to manual labor.
In this world, his life was filled with the luxuries of the Einzbern family, where his mother, Irisviel, and his older sister, Illya, always ensured everything was provided for him.
However, the instincts of Emiya Shirou—someone who found peace in fixing things and nurturing life—never faded.
He redirected the irrigation channels, weeded efficiently, and occasionally stopped near the pens to feed the deer and Yuki’s pet chickens.
The animals seemed to sense Shirou’s calming aura and approached without fear, allowing Shirou to pet their heads.
“You know, Emiya-kun,” Isshiki broke the silence, his eyes gazing out at the dormitory grounds in the distance.
“Since you arrived, the first-years have changed.
There’s a healthy tension in the air.
They’re no longer afraid of the academy’s system, but they are afraid of falling behind one another.
You’ve brought a very strong wind of change to the Polar Star.”
Shirou paused his work for a moment, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“I didn’t do anything, Isshiki-senpai.
They already had that talent and determination inside them.
I just slightly adjusted their perspectives so they wouldn’t hit unnecessary walls.”
Isshiki smiled meaningfully.
“That humility of yours is sometimes more terrifying than Erina Nakiri’s arrogance.
But be prepared, Emiya-kun.
These three days of peace are just the calm before the real storm.”
Shirou turned his head.
“Meaning?”
“Just wait until dinner,” Isshiki winked mysteriously before picking up his hoe once again.
True enough, Isshiki’s prophecy was proven right just a few hours later.
As all the dorm residents gathered in the main dining room for dinner, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway.
Fumio Daimido, the Dorm Mother, walked in carrying a portable bulletin board.
Her wrinkled face bore a grin that made the hair on the back of several students’ necks stand up.
“Attention, dorm brats!” Fumio shouted, slapping the board with a wooden ruler.
All dining activities instantly ceased.
“A circular from the board of directors just arrived.
Your playtime is over.”
Fumio pinned a thick sheet of paper bearing the official gold seal of Totsuki Academy onto the board.
Megumi’s eyes immediately widened, her face turning as white as a sheet.
Yuki dropped her fork, while Ibusaki adjusted his bangs with a tense movement.
Written on the paper in bold capital letters was: TŌTSUKI FRIENDSHIP AND RAPPORT TRAINING CAMP – FIRST-YEAR HELL TRAINING CAMP.
“I-It starts the day after tomorrow?!” Marui’s voice cracked, his hands shaking so violently that his glasses slipped down again.
“I-It’s already time?!
B-But it feels like we just enrolled!”
“That is the reality of Totsuki!” Fumio declared mercilessly.
“This camp is the first true filter.
Five days at an isolated resort hotel owned by the academy, tested from early morning until late at night.
The average dropout rate each year reaches dozens of percent.
If you make even a single tiny mistake, you’ll have to pack your bags and get out of this academy!
Ah, seeing your terrified faces always makes me feel so youthful.”
“N-No way…
what are we going to do…” Megumi began to ramble quietly, gripping her apron tightly.
The trauma of the expulsion threat returned to haunt her.
However, amidst the mass panic, a soft chuckle could be heard.
Soma stood up from his chair, cracking his knuckles with a very wide grin.
“Heh.
Training Camp, huh?
Great.
That means we’ll get to meet all the other first-years and some heavyweight judges, right?
Finally, I can see just how far my skills can go!”
Soma turned toward Shirou, who was calmly chewing a piece of grilled fish.
“Hey, Emiya!
Don’t you dare get expelled before I can beat you in an official challenge!”
Shirou swallowed his food slowly, picked up a napkin, and wiped his mouth.
His golden-brown eyes gazed at Soma with absolute calm.
“Just make sure you don’t run out of breath on the first day, Yukihira.
I don’t plan on going home early.”
Shirou’s calm reply somehow worked like magic.
Hearing his steady tone, Megumi’s panic slowly subsided.
Ryoko and Yuki exchanged glances and nodded firmly.
Emiya Shirou’s presence provided a strong emotional anchor for the Polar Star residents.
They had been forged by the advice of a world-class chef over the past three days.
If they fell now, it would be tantamount to disgracing the knowledge Shirou had imparted to them.
While the Polar Star Dormitory braced for the storm, dozens of kilometers away, in a quiet mountainous region, stood a masterpiece of modern architecture.
The Totsuki Resort, a magnificent five-star luxury hotel, shone through the darkness of the night, welcoming the arrival of the Totsuki Alumni.
Inside the executive lobby dominated by Italian marble and crystal chandeliers, the atmosphere felt incredibly oppressive.
The hotel staff moved with silent precision, not daring to make the slightest noise that could disturb the concentration of the burly man standing in the center of the room.
Dojima Gin, the Head Chef of Totsuki Resort and a member of the Board of Directors, stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest.
His expensive suit framed his perfectly sculpted muscles.
His sharp eyes monitored the attendance list on a tablet held by his secretary.
“Have all the invited alumni arrived at the resort?” Dojima asked, his deep voice echoing in the vast lobby.
“Y-Yes, Dojima-sama,” the secretary replied, breaking into a slight cold sweat under that intimidating gaze.
“Chef Kojiro Shinomiya just arrived from Paris ten minutes ago.
Chef Hinako Inui, Chef Fuyumi Mizuhara, Chef Hitoshi Sekimori, and Chef Donato Gotoda are currently in the VVIP lounge, enjoying the welcome banquet.”
Dojima nodded slowly.
Gathering these alumni, who had now become star chefs across the globe, was no easy feat.
They were busy professionals, arrogant figures standing at the top of the culinary industry’s pyramid.
However, for Totsuki’s sake, they always returned to act as ruthless executioners for the first-year students.
From the direction of the lounge corridor, the sound of high heels approached, followed by a light laugh.
“Ah, Gin-senpai!
Long time no see!” exclaimed Hinako Inui, an expert in Japanese cuisine who always wore an elegant kimono yet possessed a very relaxed and slightly mischievous personality.
She waved happily, while behind her, a pink-haired man with black-framed glasses walked with a highly irritated expression.
“Hinako, do not yell in the lobby.
You’re hurting my ears,” grumbled Kojiro Shinomiya, The Magician of Legumes.
His aura was cold, brimming with the arrogance of an absolute perfectionist who had managed to conquer France.
“And Dojima-senpai, I canceled three VIP reservations at my restaurant for this camp.
I hope this year’s batch isn’t filled with trash that will only waste my time.”
Dojima Gin looked at Shinomiya, completely unaffected by his aura.
“You will find out your answer the day after tomorrow, Shinomiya.
Totsuki never lowers its exam standards.”
Just as the perpetually sleepy-looking Fuyumi Mizuhara and Hitoshi Sekimori joined them in the lobby, a very specific ringtone interrupted their conversation.
Dojima Gin reached into his suit’s inner pocket.
Upon seeing the caller’s name on the screen of his special military-encrypted phone, Dojima’s already serious expression grew even stiffer.
“Excuse me, I need to take this,” Dojima said briefly, giving a hand gesture to the alumni to wait for him.
He turned and walked away toward a more private corner of the room.
Dojima pressed the phone to his ear.
“Good evening, Director Senzaemon.”
“Evening, Gin,” Nakiri Senzaemon’s deep, gruff voice came from the other end.
A voice that implied absolute power over the Totsuki Empire.
“Are the camp preparations running smoothly?”
“Perfectly, Director.
All the alumni assigned as examiners have gathered.
The kitchen facilities and exam ingredients have been inspected for a third time,” Dojima reported in a formal tone.
A heavy sigh could be heard from the other end.
“Good.
However, I didn’t call you to ask about those routines, Gin.
I have a special order for you.”
Dojima narrowed his eyes.
The Director rarely intervened in the technical affairs of the Training Camp.
“I am listening, Director.”
“Among the students arriving the day after tomorrow, there is one transfer student.
His name is Emiya Shirou,” Senzaemon said slowly, making sure every syllable was embedded in Dojima’s brain.
“I want you to monitor and pay special attention to that boy.
Do not give him any leeway, but ensure you evaluate his potential with your own eyes, far beyond the standard judgment of an ordinary alumnus.”
Dojima was stunned for a moment.
“Emiya Shirou?
Do you mean he is a part of the ‘Jade Generation’ plan you initiated, Director?”
“Not just a part, Gin,” Senzaemon corrected, his voice now carrying a tremor of emotion he rarely displayed.
“He is the key.
The Jade Generation plan is my final gamble to find young chefs who can evolve to unimaginable heights.
And Emiya Shirou…
that boy is the only hope to break the curse that blankets the Nakiri bloodline.”
Dojima Gin’s eyes widened.
His heart beat faster.
As the former first seat of the Elite Ten and a trusted confidant of the Nakiri family, Dojima knew exactly what that “curse” meant.
He remembered very clearly the tragedy that befell Nakiri Mana, Erina’s mother.
The “God’s Tongue,” initially considered a blessing, had evolved into an endless torture due to the inability of any chef in the world to cook a dish that could satisfy that palate.
Mana ultimately fell into despair, unable to consume anything but liquid nutrients via IV, and abandoned her family.
Erina Nakiri was currently walking that exact same path.
The clock was ticking before the girl’s God’s Tongue evolved to a self-destructive stage.
“Are you certain, Director?” Dojima asked, his voice slightly caught in his throat.
“Does this youth named Emiya Shirou truly possess that level of skill?
Even the WGO’s three-star chefs couldn’t satisfy Lady Mana.”
“I’m not just certain, Gin,” Senzaemon replied, and Dojima could imagine the old man smiling faintly in his office.
“A few days ago, Mana called me.
Her mother, Irisviel von Einzbern, had Shirou’s cooking delivered directly to Mana at the WGO headquarters.
A simple egg fried rice.”
“Fried…
rice?” Dojima nearly choked on his own spit.
Such an overly common dish.
“And Mana,” Senzaemon continued, his voice sounding both relieved and filled with awe, “ate the entire dish.
She cried, Gin.
For the first time in years, Mana was able to enjoy food.”
A deafening silence washed over Dojima Gin.
The muscles in his jaw hardened.
This information was far too monumental.
The Einzbern family, a mysterious conglomerate family with terrifying global economic influence, actually had a son with culinary talent capable of subduing a final-stage God’s Tongue.
And that boy, that savior, was currently enrolled as a first-year student at Totsuki.
“I understand, Director,” Dojima said, his tone now filled with steely determination.
“I will test Emiya Shirou with my own two eyes.
I will see if he truly possesses the strength to shoulder the future of the culinary world.”
Senzaemon hung up.
Dojima Gin slowly lowered his phone.
He turned around, walking toward the giant glass wall that offered a view of the dark mountainous forest surrounding the resort.
His reflection in the glass looked tense, yet his eyes conveyed a burning curiosity.
Behind him, Hinako’s laughter and Shinomiya’s scolding could be heard again, completely oblivious to the fact that the very foundation of the culinary world they were so proud of was about to be shaken to its core.
Dojima Gin pressed his large palm against the cold glass surface.
“Emiya Shirou…” he muttered softly, carving the name into his memory.
“Bring that storm here, kid.
Show me what kind of miracles you can create on this proving ground.”
The Hell Training Camp was no longer just a student filtration event.
For Dojima Gin, the day after tomorrow would be the day he met the anomaly that would alter Totsuki’s history forever.
“Like my work?