The engine of the sleek black Mercedes-Benz S-Class purred softly as it climbed the smooth asphalt road cutting through the lush forest.
In the driver’s seat, Kiritsugu Emiya held the steering wheel casually, an unlit cigarette tucked between his lips—an old habit that died hard, even though he had quit smoking for Illya’s health.
In the backseat, Shirou gazed out the window.
The dense cityscape gradually gave way to neatly manicured greenery, but his mind was wandering far away.
“Shirou, are you nervous?” Irisviel asked from the front passenger seat.
His mother twisted around, looking at him with affectionate crimson eyes.
“A little,” Shirou answered briefly.
“Liar!” Illya, who was sitting beside him hugging his left arm tightly, interjected.
“Onii-chan’s heartbeat is super calm.
He isn’t scared at all!”
Shirou smiled faintly.
Of course his heartbeat was steady.
For someone who had inherited memories of battling mythological monsters and witnessing the world’s end, a high school entrance exam was nothing more than a walk in the park.
However, that calmness was slightly shaken when their car rounded the final corner.
The trees parted, revealing a sprawling building complex that dominated the horizon.
Totsuki Culinary Academy.
In the past—or future—memories of Archer Emiya, he had seen the majestic and haughty Clock Tower of the Mage’s Association in London.
He had seen the Einzbern castle standing amidst an eternal blizzard.
Yet, Totsuki possessed a completely different aura.
It wasn’t a school.
It was a fortress.
Glass skyscrapers, classical European-style facilities, and vast grounds encompassing the entire hill.
This was an empire built upon the foundations of human gluttony and the ambition for flavor.
“It’s massive…” Shirou murmured subconsciously.
“Of course,” Kiritsugu replied, steering the car toward a drop-off area packed with other luxury vehicles.
“Totsuki sits at the very top of the food chain in the culinary world.
They have a budget that rivals a small country.
Be careful in there, Shirou.
The world of elite chefs is sometimes crueler than politics.”
The car came to a halt.
A uniformed driver from the vehicle in front of them—a Rolls Royce—was holding the door open for an arrogant-looking boy.
“I’ll get off here,” Shirou said.
“Do your best, Onii-chan!
Crush them all!” Illya cheered, clenching her tiny fists.
“Don’t go causing trouble, but don’t let them walk all over you either,” Kiritsugu added flatly, though a glint of pride flashed in his eyes.
“Got it.”
Shirou stepped out.
The air here felt different.
Thinner, sharper.
Or perhaps it was just his imagination, amplified by his enhanced Sense of Smell.
He could pick up the scent of expensive perfumes, lingering cigar smoke, and beneath it all…
the distinct scent of fear.
Hundreds of prospective students had gathered in the main gate’s courtyard.
Almost all of them were clad in designer brands, accompanied by servants, or busy showing off their ridiculously expensive knives.
Shirou walked at a leisurely pace, the bag containing his cooking utensils slung over his shoulder.
He passively activated Structural Analysis on his surroundings.
Main building: High-quality reinforced concrete.
Gate: Wrought iron with intricate carvings, high artistic value.
People: 80% heart rate above normal (nervous).
15% arrogant.
5% desperate.
Just then, his eyes caught a minor commotion near one of the gate pillars.
“Out of the way, commoner!”
The voice was shrill and obnoxious.
Shirou turned his head slightly.
A dapperly dressed youth—most likely new money—was glaring in disgust at another teenager whose appearance was a stark contrast.
The boy was wearing a plain t-shirt, sporting fiery red hair, and had a thin scar slashing through his left eyebrow.
Nikaido Yoshiaki, the heir to a famous French restaurant, was currently face-to-face with Yukihira Soma.
“Huh?
Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Soma replied casually, scratching his head.
His demeanor was so nonchalant that it bordered on insulting in the eyes of the surrounding elites.
“Do you think this is a tourist attraction?
What kind of outfit is that?” Nikaido sneered.
Shirou paused, observing the interaction from about ten meters away.
To the average person, this was just a teenage squabble.
But to Emiya Shirou, who possessed thousands of years of experience reading people, this was a perfect microcosm of Totsuki’s underlying philosophy.
Entrance invitations, Shirou thought to himself, his mind spinning to analyze the situation.
Totsuki sent entrance exam invitations across various social strata, including the children of small-time diner owners like Soma.
Why?
Were they genuinely scouting for hidden talent?
No.
Shirou stared at the giant gates that seemed ready to swallow the students whole.
This system wasn’t designed for inclusivity; it was designed to make a statement.
They invited the “commoners” purely to crush them in front of the elites, reinforcing the hierarchy that true Gourmet belonged exclusively to those with money and status.
It was a ritualistic mental sacrifice meant to stroke the egos of the culinary aristocracy.
“Cruel,” Shirou muttered quietly.
“But effective.”
He shifted his gaze back to Soma.
The kid didn’t flinch in the slightest.
If anything, he looked…
bored?
“Interesting.”
Shirou didn’t intervene.
He wasn’t some wannabe hero who would blindly defend a stranger for no reason.
He resumed his walk toward the exam hall, leaving the drama at the front gates behind.
…………………………………………………………………….
The exam hall was vast, boasting vaulted ceilings reminiscent of a grand cathedral.
Inside, hundreds of kitchen stations were lined up immaculately, gleaming under the spotlights.
Shirou placed his bag on one of the counters in the middle row.
He took out his Gyuto knife and laid it on the table.
All around him, the other participants were busy unpacking silver-plated utensils, German-crafted knife sets, or rare spices they had brought from home.
They cast sidelong glances at one another, sizing up their competition based on the price tags of their equipment.
Shirou let out a sigh.
Amateurs.
A chef’s greatest weapon wasn’t a thousand-dollar knife; it was their profound understanding of the ingredients.
Not long after, the heavy doors of the exam hall swung open again.
Yukihira Soma strolled in, casually looking around with his mouth slightly agape.
“Wow, this place is huge,” Soma commented, his voice echoing loudly enough to draw several venomous glares.
Shirou narrowed his eyes.
His Eye of the Mind (False) twitched.
He stared at Soma more intensely.
It wasn’t just a physical gaze, but the appraising stare of a war veteran.
Soma’s posture was relaxed, yet his center of gravity was perfectly balanced.
His hands were rough, riddled with tiny burns and faint, healed cuts—the indisputable marks of thousands of hours spent in front of a stove.
There was an unfeigned confidence radiating from him.
This kid was clearly no beginner.
He had likely been holding a knife since he could walk.
But…
Shirou compared Soma’s “aura” against the standards etched into his very soul.
Compared to the Heroic Spirits he had encountered?
Compared to King Arthur’s royal chefs?
Or compared to himself, who had once cooked monster meat in a barren, post-apocalyptic wasteland just to survive another day?
Shirou shook his head slowly.
Still green.
Soma’s technique was solid, but it was a technique born from the daily grind of a diner.
It was a technique meant to “satisfy hungry customers,” not a technique meant to “achieve a miracle.” Soma had never tasted the kind of despair where a single seasoning mistake could mean death.
He had never cooked with the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.
In the eyes of Emiya Shirou, the former Counter Guardian, Yukihira Soma was a fine blade, but one that had yet to be forged in true fire.
He was still an “amateur” in the grandest sense of the word—someone who had yet to gaze upon the edge of the world.
“What are you looking at?”
Shirou blinked, slightly startled.
Soma was already standing at the adjacent station, staring back at him with a wide grin.
“Just sizing up the competition,” Shirou answered calmly, his expression completely deadpan.
“Oh?
Are you a diner kid too?” Soma asked enthusiastically, assuming he had stumbled upon a kindred spirit amidst a sea of trust-fund kids.
“No.
Just someone who likes to cook,” Shirou replied diplomatically.
He had zero intention of explaining the convoluted Einzbern family tree.
Soma laughed heartily.
“Likes to cook, huh?
That’s the most important thing!
My name’s Yukihira Soma.”
“Emiya Shirou.”
Soma opened his mouth to say something else, but the sharp, commanding clack of footsteps echoed throughout the hall, instantly silencing all conversations.
Dead silence fell over the room.
From the doors near the main stage, a girl stepped out.
The aura she exuded was so oppressive that the room’s temperature felt as though it had dropped several degrees.
Long honey-blonde hair, sharp, condescending purple eyes, and a Totsuki uniform that tailored her figure flawlessly.
Nakiri Erina.
The God’s Tongue.
Shirou felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck.
His danger instincts flared.
It wasn’t a physical threat—this girl couldn’t scratch him in a real fight—but rather the threat of absolute authority.
She was exactly the type of tyrant he used to see sitting on the thrones of ancient kingdoms.
Erina stood at the podium, looking down at the hundreds of examinees the way a goddess might look at a swarm of insects.
“I will be the examiner for this entrance exam,” she declared coldly.
Her voice was melodic, yet laced with venom.
Shirou exhaled a long breath, his hand naturally moving to rest against the hilt of his knife.
The cold sensation of steel grounded him.
The real test had just begun.
And for Shirou, this was no longer just about passing or failing.
It was about proving that millennia of blood-soaked experience would never bow to the sheer talent of an arrogant teenage girl.
Let’s begin, Shirou thought, his eyes glinting sharply.
Trace, on.
“Like my work?