The sky over Totsuki Resort had completely shifted to a deep, pitch-black purple when the bus carrying Group F pulled up in front of the hotel’s grand lobby.
The light from the crystal chandeliers inside reflected off the glass walls, promising a luxury that felt as if it could wash away all exhaustion right out of their pores.
Emiya Shirou stepped out of the bus, inhaling the cold night air.
Behind him, Yukihira Soma stretched his body until a rather loud popping of joints could be heard.
Megumi Tadokoro followed with a slightly unsteady gait, her eyes narrowing as she gazed at the grandeur before her.
“Finally…
we’re here,” Megumi muttered, her voice nearly swallowed by the wind.
In the vast lobby area, they didn’t have to look far to find their friends from the Polar Star Dormitory.
In a corner of the room covered by a thick red carpet, a scene played out that completely contrasted with the hotel’s luxurious decor.
Zenji Marui lay face-down on the carpet, his face pressed against the floor as if trying to merge with the fabric fibers.
Beside him, Shun Ibusaki stood calmly with his hands in his pockets, while Yoshino Yuki and Ryoko Sakaki were massaging their respective shoulders.
“Hey!
Everyone!” Soma waved cheerfully, acting as if he had just returned from an evening stroll rather than a training camp that had nearly sent half the students packing.
“Soma!
Megumi!
Emiya-kun!” Yoshino Yuki yelled lethargically, though a spark of relief was visible in her eyes.
“You guys survived!”
“Of course,” Soma answered casually.
He then pointed at the motionless Marui.
“But that…
is Marui actually still alive?
Did he really pass?”
Shun Ibusaki nodded slowly.
“I already confirmed via phone.
All members of the Polar Star Dormitory passed this first day.
Marui…
he just pushed slightly past his physical limits.”
“Slightly?” Ryoko Sakaki smiled wryly.
“He’s been running around the mountain since this morning.
His instructor apparently has a hobby of running marathons while carrying kitchen equipment.”
Soma let out a crisp laugh.
“Ah, sounds like his test was similar to ours.
The wilderness really shows no mercy.”
“But it truly is exhausting, isn’t it,” Ryoko let out a long sigh, tidying up her slightly messy hair.
“I feel like my pride as a chef has been wrung dry today.”
“I don’t think my body can move anymore,” added Megumi, her shoulders slumping weakly.
Hearing those complaints, Yoshino Yuki suddenly stood upright, her eyes gleaming with a misplaced ambition.
“What are you guys talking about, ladies!
Listen, this pain is the price we had to pay.
But now?
Now it is time for our reward!”
“Reward?” Megumi and Ryoko asked in unison, a bit confused.
“A high-class dinner from a five-star chef!
Steaming hot water infused with essential aromas!
A hotel room with a mattress that will swallow you into sweet dreams!” Yoshino fantasized with dramatic hand gestures.
“I bet it’s going to be absolutely amazing and luxurious!
I am going to enjoy all these facilities to my heart’s content until my body’s cells regenerate!”
Shirou, who had only been listening this whole time, instead felt a bad premonition—even though in this world it only manifested as a sensory feeling—sensing an approaching presence from the direction of the main corridor.
A presence carrying the scent of rigid discipline and heavy mental pressure.
Heavy, measured footsteps echoed closer.
A tall man with a stern face and neatly styled hair appeared.
He was Hitoshi Sekimori, a Totsuki alumnus known for his mastery of traditional Japanese cuisine, particularly sushi, as well as his disciplined strictness.
“You all look very relaxed,” Sekimori’s deep voice cut through Yoshino Yuki’s fantasy like a hot knife through butter.
The hope on Yoshino’s face shattered instantly when she saw the chef’s uniform Sekimori wore was still pristine and stiff.
“Sorry to interrupt your imaginary rest period,” Sekimori said without a smile.
“But the training camp at this hotel has just entered its second phase.
Your next assignment: Dinner.”
“Wow, perfect timing!
We were just getting hungry!” Soma responded without a care in the world.
Sekimori stared flatly at Soma.
“Not a dinner for you.
A dinner for them.”
The double doors behind Sekimori swung wide open, and instantly, it felt as though a heatwave of pure muscle had crashed into the room.
A line of giant men whose bodies bulged out of their tight t-shirts began pouring into the room.
“Who are those people?!” Yoshino Yuki let out a small shriek, taking a step back.
“Members of the Jowan University bodybuilding club who are holding a training camp nearby,” Sekimori explained calmly.
“The national rugby and wrestling teams are also present.
They have just finished a twelve-hour physical training session, and they are…
very hungry.”
Shirou observed the line of athletes.
He could see the evaporating sweat, the muscles trembling from exhaustion, and a metabolic rate that demanded an instant, massive intake of protein.
“The menu for tonight’s dinner is steak,” Sekimori continued.
“Every single one of you must prepare 50 servings of steak with a uniform level of doneness and quality.”
“50 servings?!” shrieked the other Totsuki students.
“Right now?!” Yoshino Yuki clutched her head.
“Sekimori-senpai, what about our dinner?”
“Once you finish 50 servings for these athletes, only then will you be granted permission to cook your own dinner,” Sekimori answered in a tone that brokered no argument.
“Cook it ourselves?” Yoshino looked as if she had just been betrayed by the entire world.
“What about room service?
What about the luxurious dinner?
This hotel has five-star chefs, right?!”
“Such things do not exist for students undergoing training,” Sekimori stated.
“And for your information…
all breakfasts and dinners during this training camp will be cooked by your own hands using the ingredients we provide.
If you want to eat, work for it.”
“I can hear the sound of Yuki’s heart breaking,” Ryoko Sakaki whispered sorrowfully, looking at her friend who had now dropped next to Marui, who was still on the floor.
“And one final rule,” Sekimori raised his watch.
“If you cannot finish 50 servings within 60 minutes meeting the quality standard I have set…
you will be expelled immediately.
Now…
begin!”
Chaos erupted instantly.
Hundreds of students bolted toward the massive kitchen located behind the lobby.
The sound of clanging pans, the roar of stove flames igniting simultaneously, and the smell of caramelizing meat fat filled the air.
Emiya Shirou did not run.
He walked with a steady pace toward one of the workstations.
To him, this task was not about creativity, but about absolute efficiency—something ingrained deep within his memories.
Before him lay a stack of high-quality sirloin beef.
Shirou took a deep breath.
His eyes flashed golden.
Inside his head, the kitchen transformed into a battlefield of calculations.
He calculated the distance between the pans, the position of the salt, the temperature of the stoves, and the resting time of the meat.
He “projected” the sequence of movements within his mind.
Sizzle!
The first piece of meat hit the hot pan.
Shirou did not use a thermometer.
Through his sense of touch, honed far beyond that of an ordinary human, he could feel the vibration of the meat fibers as they made contact with the heat.
He knew exactly when to flip it, when to add butter, and when to baste it with rosemary.
He moved like a well-oiled machine.
His hands danced over the pans, flipping five steaks simultaneously with millisecond precision.
The bodybuilding athletes began lining up in front of the serving counters.
They didn’t care about art; they wanted fuel.
However, the moment the first steak from Shirou’s plate entered the mouth of a giant rugby athlete, the man suddenly stopped chewing.
His eyes widened in shock.
He stared at the piece of meat on his fork, then looked at Shirou.
Shirou was indeed holding back.
He had intentionally lowered his flavor standard, not cooking with the same quality as when he faced Erina or Chapelle’s exam.
He was using his instincts for one thing only: efficiency.
However, even while holding back, Shirou’s absolute precision ensured that the mass-produced steaks were cooked to the most optimal point of medium-rare doneness, locking in the meat’s juiciness and savory flavor to the maximum.
“Hey…
this is crazy.
It’s so good,” the athlete muttered, simply an honest reaction from a hungry stomach filled with a quality dish.
He immediately chewed ravenously, finishing the rest of the steak on his plate in just three massive bites.
“Chef, give me another portion!”
“Your individual quota is only one portion each.
The others are still in line,” Shirou replied flatly, his hands continuously moving to flip the meat on the pans.
Hearing their friend’s enthusiastic reaction and smelling the appetizing aroma of grilled meat, the other athletes immediately surged forward.
They quickly grabbed plates from Shirou’s counter and ate ravenously, letting out murmurs of satisfaction—it was just a long line of starving athletes now being served with perfect speed and rhythm by Shirou.
Shirou kept moving.
Plate after plate slid off his workstation.
10 portions…
20 portions…
35 portions…
His movements were so rhythmic that the students around him started to get distracted.
They saw a young man who didn’t look the least bit sweaty, while they themselves were drenched in sweat facing the heat of the stoves.
Right at the 25-minute mark, Shirou placed the final plate on the serving counter.
“50 servings.
Done,” Shirou said calmly.
Sekimori, who had been observing with a notebook in hand all along, walked closer.
He took the last steak Shirou had cooked, cut it, and tasted it.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
A perfect medium-rare doneness.
An even distribution of seasoning on every piece of meat.
And the most surprising part was that the temperature of the meat was maintained as if it had just been taken off the fire, despite having been on the plate for a few moments.
“Emiya Shirou,” Sekimori closed his notebook.
“Completion time: 25 minutes.
Quality: Perfect.
You are the first to finish.
Please clean your station and go cook your own dinner.”
Soma, who had only just reached his 40th portion, looked up in shock.
His sweat-drenched face beamed with a competitive smile.
“So fast!
You really are a monster when it comes to speed, Emiya!”
Shirou merely gave a slight nod to Soma and Sekimori.
Without saying much, he began cleaning his workspace with the exact same level of efficiency as when he was cooking.
Amidst the kitchen’s uproar, filled with shouts of panic and smoke—with Soma laughing as he challenged the clock, Megumi beginning to find her calm rhythm, and Yoshino cooking while crying over the tragic fate of her ruined luxury vacation—Emiya Shirou untied his apron.
Fifty perfect portions of steak in twenty-five minutes.
This hell training camp had only just begun, but Shirou had already proven that on this culinary battlefield, his speed was an absolute truth.
“Like my work?