That morning, the spring air felt colder than usual.
Inside room 302 of the Polar Star Dormitory, time seemed to drag on.
Tadokoro Megumi sat on her knees atop her mattress, her body trembling slightly.
The Totsuki Academy uniform, which usually felt like a badge of pride, this morning felt like a suit of iron armor weighing down her shoulders.
In her clammy hands, she tightly gripped a bright red good luck charm.
Embroidered on the fabric’s surface in gold thread were two kanji characters: 必勝 (Hisshō), meaning certain victory, or in this context—passing.
“Everything will be okay…
Everything will be okay…” Megumi muttered repeatedly, chanting the prayer like a curse-breaking spell.
She closed her eyes, trying to calm her wildly racing heartbeat.
The Totsuki Friendship and Rapport Training Camp—a name that sounded sweet, yet concealed a brutal reality.
This was the first filter of Totsuki’s hell.
One slight miscalculation in measuring salt, one slight error in temperature control, or simply boring the judges, and a ticket home would be printed immediately.
Her culinary career would end before it had even truly begun.
However, amidst her fear, the memories of the last three days flashed through her mind.
The aroma of perfectly harmonized broth, and Emiya Shirou’s gentle guidance on how to hold an usuba knife without excessive pressure.
“Let the weight of the knife do the work.
Relax your shoulders.”
Shirou’s calm voice echoed in her memory, slowly untangling the knot of tension in her chest.
Megumi took a deep breath, slipped the red charm into her skirt pocket, and slapped both of her own cheeks quite hard.
“Alright!
I can do this!” she declared, forcing a smile toward the mirror before stepping out of her room to face her destiny.
Two hours later, Totsuki Academy’s vast parking lot was filled with rows of premium-class tour buses.
Nearly a thousand first-year students had gathered, arranged in neat lines with faces reflecting a broad spectrum of emotions: from paralyzing fear to overflowing arrogance.
In one of the buses allocated for several mixed classes, the residents of the Polar Star Dormitory took their seats in the middle rows.
Unlike a typical school trip bus filled with jokes and laughter, the atmosphere inside this bus felt heavy and suffocating.
Most of the other students were busy rereading recipe notes, while others stared blankly out the window.
Yukihira Soma, the biggest anomaly in that batch, sat casually with his hands clasped behind his head.
He chewed on a piece of gum, his eyes gazing out the window with the enthusiasm of a child about to go to an amusement park.
“Hey, Soma-kun, you don’t look nervous at all,” commented Yoshino Yuki, sitting across the aisle and hugging her own knees anxiously.
“Nervous?
What for?” Soma chuckled softly.
“We’re going to be cooking for days, right?
That’s the whole point of us being at this school.
I actually can’t wait to see what kind of judges will be evaluating us.”
In the seat directly behind Soma, Emiya Shirou sat calmly, leaning his head against the soft seat cushion.
His eyes were closed.
Before boarding the bus, his long-distance vision had caught sight of a few interesting silhouettes amidst the sea of students.
He saw Nakiri Erina, the “God’s Tongue,” walking toward an exclusive VIP bus, accompanied by her loyal secretary, Arato Hisako.
But Erina wasn’t the only one exuding a different aura.
In another corner of the parking lot, Shirou had spotted the silhouette of a girl with short silver hair whose movements radiated high-level confidence, accompanied by a weary-looking youth.
On the opposite side, two teenagers with blonde and black hair—who appeared to be siblings of foreign descent—walked with a firm stride, a competitive aura radiating from the older brother.
Many unpolished talents, Shirou thought with a faint smile.
This is going to be an interesting week.
The journey to the mountainous region took several hours.
The further the bus left the hustle and bustle behind, the more the scenery shifted to lush green forests and winding roads.
The air inside the bus felt colder as their altitude increased.
Until finally, the convoy of luxury buses turned and passed through a heavily guarded giant iron gate.
At the end of the smooth asphalt driveway stood a building that made the students hold their breath.
“Whoaaaa…!” Soma pressed his face against the bus window, his eyes widening.
“What the heck is this place?!
Is this really a hotel?!”
Looming before them was the Totsuki Resort Hotel, a masterpiece of modern architecture blending seamlessly with the majesty of the mountainous nature.
The expansive building, dominated by glass and steel, reflected the light.
Shun Ibusaki, sitting next to Ryoko, answered slowly.
“Totsuki Resort.
A world-class five-star hotel fully managed by the Nakiri family’s network.
Even a standard room in this place, I hear, costs up to 80,000 yen per night.”
Soma immediately choked on his own spit.
He turned around with a stiff neck.
“E-Eighty thousand yen?!
Just for a place to sleep for one night?!
How many servings do I have to sell at the diner to pay for that?!”
“This is the standard of Totsuki, Yukihira,” Marui replied.
“And we will be staying here for five nights.
You can calculate for yourself just how massive of an investment this school is making to filter us out.”
Shirou, stepping off the bus after them, simply stared at the building calmly.
As someone who had seen the Einzbern family castle, which was far more massive and isolated, this modern hotel building did not surprise him.
However, he had to admit, for a school facility, Totsuki truly operated in a different dimension.
After dropping off their luggage in the lobby area, nearly a thousand students were directed toward the Main Hall.
As the giant double doors opened, the students were welcomed by a vast room whose design was capable of mentally intimidating anyone.
A thick blood-red carpet covered the entire floor of the hall.
The walls were painted red, with dim lighting focused toward the main stage.
All the students stood huddled together in a tense silence.
Ryoko Sakaki pulled her arms close to her body, her eyes looking around.
“This…
is so strange.
There are almost a thousand people in this room, but it feels so quiet.”
“That’s because their aura of fear is absorbing all the sound,” muttered Ibusaki, his bangs covering his watchful eyes.
However, that silence did not last long.
When a few students from other classes noticed the presence of the Polar Star group, or more accurately, noticed a single spiky-red-haired figure, the atmosphere in the room changed drastically.
Hostile whispers began to spread like poison through the air.
“There he is…
the arrogant transfer student…” “How dare he show his face looking so relaxed…” “I can’t wait to see him cry and get kicked out of this hotel…”
Almost every pair of eyes shot a sharp glare toward Yukihira Soma.
They hadn’t forgotten his controversial speech during the entrance ceremony, where the youth claimed he would use the entire student body of Totsuki merely as his stepping stones.
The anger and pride of these young chefs focused on a single point.
Soma, of course, simply scratched the back of his head innocently.
“Hee…
looks like I’m pretty popular, huh.”
Beside Soma, Shirou stood in absolute silence.
The most extraordinary thing was that, even though he was standing right at the epicenter of that hatred, not a single student noticed his presence.
Shirou naturally suppressed his aura, blending into the shadows and the atmosphere of the room like a ghost.
He let Soma absorb all that pressure, knowing that the stubborn youth would only convert that hatred into fuel for his motivation.
Suddenly, the hum of a microphone pierced the oppressive silence.
Eeeeeeeee—
Standing on the main stage was Roland Chapelle, the famous French cuisine chef.
He looked down at the sea of students beneath him with a cold gaze that made the room’s temperature feel as if it had dropped several degrees.
“Good morning, students,” Chapelle’s deep voice echoed through giant speakers in all four corners of the hall.
“I will briefly explain the outline of the training camp here.”
Thousands of students held their breath.
Megumi squeezed her skirt pocket again, making sure her charm was still there.
“You will be at this resort for six days and five nights,” Chapelle continued.
His voice possessed no intonation, like a machine reading out a death sentence.
“During that time, you will be divided into small groups.
Every day, you will be given cooking assignments or evaluations related to kitchen operations.
Those who receive an evaluation score below average from the examiners will be immediately dismissed.”
Several students gulped hard.
“Students who fail will be directed straight to the special buses on standby outside, sent back to the school to pack their belongings, and a notice of expulsion will be issued right then and there.
There are no second chances.
There is no mercy.”
Chapelle paused for a moment, letting the threat seep into the marrow of every student present.
“And as for who will be evaluating you…
We have invited special guests.
They are busy people who have graciously spared their time to return to this school.
The monsters who once survived this very camp in the past, and now stand at the front lines of the global culinary world.
The alumni of Totsuki Academy.”
Following Chapelle’s last sentence, the giant double doors on the right side of the stage swung open.
Footsteps that were rhythmic and full of authority rang out.
Shirou, who had kept his eyes closed this entire time, slowly opened them.
His instincts had picked up on something.
These weren’t just elite chefs; this was a gathering of individuals who had crossed the oceans of the culinary arts and experienced the harshness of the real world.
From the shadows emerged a group of adult men and women radiating an aura of absolute dominance.
The first to lead the way was a bespectacled man with pink hair.
Kojiro Shinomiya.
He walked with an upright posture, his chef’s coat ironed flawlessly.
His eyes looked down at the students as if they were a pile of worthless trash.
Behind him, Inui Hinako walked with a cheerful stride.
Wearing a modified traditional outfit, she smiled sweetly at her juniors, but anyone with a keen sense could feel the sharpness of a hidden blade behind that friendly smile.
Then there was Fuyumi Mizuhara, walking with half-closed eyes, looking bored to death; Hitoshi Sekimori, whose burly physique resembled a wrestler’s; and Donato Gotoda, with his signature European smile.
“T-That’s…” murmured a student near Soma’s group, his voice trembling violently.
“That’s Kojiro Shinomiya!
The first Japanese person to win the Pluspol award in Paris!” “There’s Hinako Inui too!
The head chef of the traditional Japanese restaurant, Kirisaki!”
The alumni lined up on the stage, staring out at the sea of students with various expressions: ranging from condescension, to sleepiness, to restrained anger.
“Your task here is to treat these alumni as you would customers in their restaurants,” Chapelle added.
“A single instance of dissatisfaction from them equates to the end of your career.”
The hall was plunged into terror.
The presence of the alumni pressured the students so heavily it felt difficult even to breathe.
Megumi shut her eyes tightly, almost breaking into tears on the spot.
Kojiro Shinomiya stepped forward to the edge of the stage.
He adjusted his glasses with his index finger.
Absolute silence fell over the hall, waiting for what the Magician of Legumes was about to say.
However, instead of speaking into the microphone, Shinomiya suddenly furrowed his brow.
He lifted his head slightly, sniffing the air around him with an expression of distaste.
With slow yet certain steps, he descended the small stairs on the side of the stage, walking straight toward the crowd of students.
The first-years reflexively parted to make way for him like the parting of the Red Sea, intimidated by the man’s cold glare.
Shinomiya kept walking, his eyes locking onto a specific area.
He stopped right in front of the row where the Polar Star group stood.
Megumi’s heart felt as though it had stopped beating when the man stood mere meters from her.
However, Shinomiya’s gaze was not directed at the girl.
“Hey, you there,” Shinomiya said quietly, his voice cold and sharp as a blade of ice.
He raised his right hand, pointing into the crowd.
“The ninth row.
The kid with the scar on his forehead.”
Every pair of eyes in the area followed the direction of Shinomiya’s index finger.
In the ninth row stood Yukihira Soma, a scar slashing through his left eyebrow.
Soma blinked, slightly surprised.
He raised his own index finger, pointing at his face.
“Eh?
Me?”
The atmosphere grew incredibly tense.
Was Soma going to be expelled right off the bat because of his behavior during the entrance speech?
Did Shinomiya hold a personal grudge against him?
Shinomiya stared flatly at Soma’s finger pointing at himself.
Then, the alumnus shook his head slowly, his expression unchanging.
“No,” Shinomiya cut in sharply.
His index finger shifted slightly toward a brown-haired male student standing right next to Soma.
“The one next to you.”
The brown-haired student flinched, his face instantly draining of color.
“M-Me…
Chef?”
Shinomiya leaned his face forward slightly, his eyes narrowing behind the lenses of his glasses.
The strong, artificial scent of citrus emanated from the student’s hair.
“Your hair…
you’re using a citrus-scented pomade, aren’t you?” Shinomiya asked, his tone sounding like a lethal interrogation.
“Y-Yes, that’s right…
to maintain my appearance…” the student answered with a trembling voice.
“A strong citrus scent will ruin the delicate aroma of ingredients that have a delicate flavor profile, confuse the customers’ olfactory senses, and most importantly, it disrupts my concentration,” Shinomiya declared.
He straightened his posture, crossed his arms over his chest, and brought down the hammer without the slightest hesitation.
“You’re…
expelled.
Go home.”
In a matter of seconds, a decision had been made.
Before they even had the chance to touch a kitchen knife or turn on a stove, this training camp had claimed its first victim simply because of hair scent.
The curtain had just been raised, and Emiya Shirou knew, this was merely the beginning.
“Like my work?