The aroma in the room shifted drastically.
The delicate scent of eggs now mingled with something far more intense—a piercing, savory aroma that tickled the olfactory senses with the promise of wild indulgence.
Yukihira Soma placed his bowl in front of Nakiri Erina with a confident clack.
“Here you go,” Soma said with a grin, untying his white headband.
“This is my ‘Transforming Furikake Rice’.”
Erina stared at the bowl, her brow furrowed in disgust.
To her eyes, it was merely ordinary white rice topped with scrambled eggs and small cubes that looked like strange jelly.
No art.
No elegance.
It was the kind of food served at roadside diners for starving construction workers.
“Are you joking?” Erina’s voice was cold, as sharp as a scalpel.
“You expect me to eat this cat food?”
“Just try it first,” Soma remained unfazed.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover, or in this case, don’t judge the rice by its bowl.”
Erina scoffed, reluctantly lifting her silver spoon.
“Very well.
I will crush whatever is left of your pride so you can leave this place in shame.”
She scooped up a spoonful of rice.
But the moment the hot rice made contact with the jelly cubes on top, something happened.
It melted.
The cubes dissolved, coating each grain of rice in a shimmering golden layer.
A rich chicken aroma exploded into the air, wrapping around the fluffy scrambled eggs.
Erina’s eyes widened slightly.
What is this?
Subconsciously, she brought the spoon to her mouth.
BOOM.
Erina’s world spun.
It wasn’t just egg and rice.
The umami that erupted on her tongue was so intense, so profound.
The aspic—congealed chicken broth—melted perfectly, creating a natural, collagen-rich sauce that bound the rice and egg in a startling harmony of flavor.
The soft texture of the egg blended seamlessly with the thick, savory broth.
In her mind’s eye, Erina saw a vision of herself sitting in a meadow, showered by warm golden feathers.
It felt…
delightful.
It tasted…
delicious.
This…
this is commoner food?
her mind screamed, denying the sensation her tongue was experiencing.
How could such a high-level aspic technique be used on a dish as trivial as furikake?
The pleasure was real.
Her God’s Tongue couldn’t lie.
The dish was creative, bold, and delectable.
But then, she saw Soma’s face.
The face of a boy smiling foolishly, the son of a rundown diner owner who dared to challenge Totsuki’s authority.
If she passed this boy, it would be tantamount to admitting that low-class cooking was on par with the haute cuisine she so revered.
Her pride as a Nakiri rebelled.
The walls of her ego shot up, obscuring the honesty of her palate.
Erina slammed the spoon down roughly.
Her face flushed red, not out of anger, but from suppressing the embarrassment of the pleasure she had just felt.
“Disgusting,” she declared.
Soma’s smile faltered slightly.
“Huh?”
“You heard me,” Erina stood up, looking down at Soma with a forced look of disdain.
“The flavor is crude, classless, and boring.
You fail.
Get out of my sight.”
Hisako Arato, the assistant, held her breath.
She knew Erina’s expressions.
That wasn’t a look of genuine disgust.
That was the expression of someone lying through their teeth.
Soma fell silent for a moment, scratching his head.
“Wow, what a shame.
And here I was so sure it tasted great.”
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t throw a tantrum.
Soma merely let out a disappointed sigh and began packing up his tools, accepting the defeat with a sportsmanship that bizarrely infuriated Erina even more.
However, before Soma could walk away, the clink of porcelain echoed from the adjacent station.
“Interesting,” a calm baritone voice shattered the tension.
Erina snapped her head around.
Emiya Shirou approached, carrying a wide, flat plate.
In the center of the pristine white dish sat a single golden object.
“You’re still here?” Erina hissed, venting her lingering frustration onto a new target.
“And what was that comment just now?
Do you think you’re a spectator?”
“I was just thinking,” Shirou said flatly, his eyes staring straight into Erina’s purple irises, as if he could see right through her soul.
“That the God’s Tongue apparently has a fatal flaw.
It can taste flavor, but it cannot overcome its owner’s ego.”
The atmosphere in the room froze.
Hisako’s jaw dropped.
Soma stopped in his tracks.
No one had ever spoken to Nakiri Erina like that.
“Watch your mouth!” Erina snapped, her face now crimson with fury.
“You dare insult me?”
“I’m not insulting you.
I’m testing you,” Shirou set his plate down on the judge’s table, right next to Soma’s empty bowl.
“You said his food was disgusting.
Yet your heart rate spiked and your pupils dilated—the physiological reactions of a body enjoying a delicious meal.
You were lying, Nakiri Erina.”
“Y-You…!” Erina was at a loss for words.
How did this guy know?
“Now,” Shirou gestured to his dish.
“Try this.
And this time, try to lie if you can.”
Erina looked down at Shirou’s presentation.
Simple.
So simple it bordered on the absurd.
It was a boiled egg.
Just a single egg, peeled cleanly, standing upright in the center of the plate, drizzled with a bit of clear, brownish sauce.
No embellishments.
No garnish.
“You…” Erina’s voice trembled with suppressed rage.
“You served me a whole boiled egg?
Do you think this is a joke?!”
“Just eat it,” Shirou commanded.
His tone wasn’t that of a student begging for a grade, but rather a veteran barking an order at a fresh recruit.
Driven by anger and the desire to mentally shatter this arrogant youth, Erina picked up a knife and fork.
“I will prove exactly how much of a fool you are,” she growled.
She sliced the egg right down the middle.
Crack.
No runny yolk spilled out.
No rubbery, overcooked egg white remained.
As the blade cleaved the egg, the aroma that wafted out wasn’t the usual eggy smell.
It was the scent of foreign spices.
The fragrance of ancient deserts, untouched forests, and time brought to a standstill.
The inside of the egg was…
layered.
The egg white was as soft as silk, yet held its shape.
The yolk wasn’t solid, but rather a perfectly creamy custard, possessing a core that was ruby-red—not yellow.
Erina hesitated for a second.
What is this?
She cut a small piece and placed it in her mouth.
Time stopped.
If Soma’s dish was a boisterous, fun explosion of pleasure, Shirou’s dish was a symphony.
The texture of the egg white crumbled against the roof of her mouth, releasing a delicate, savory flavor, as if it had been slow-cooked in an herbal broth for hours.
Then, the yolk custard followed.
It was rich, creamy, yet not heavy.
But what truly made Erina freeze was the red core in the center.
It was a concentrate of flavor.
An exotic combination of salty, sweet, and a hint of spice.
A flavor that reminded her of history.
A taste that transcended eras.
“This…” Erina couldn’t move.
Her mind drifted.
She didn’t see meadows or castles.
She saw an old kitchen with a hearth.
She felt loneliness, but also warmth.
She felt the dedication of someone who had cooked millions of times, someone searching for perfection amidst ruin.
His cooking technique…
it was impossible.
How could he create three distinct textures within a single, intact eggshell?
How did he inject the spice flavor into the yolk’s core without damaging the egg white?
This wasn’t mere molecular gastronomy.
This was the manipulation of ingredients at a microscopic level.
This was on the level of her grandfather, Nakiri Senzaemon.
No, perhaps it was on par with Saiba Joichiro, her childhood idol.
Erina’s body reacted without her permission.
Her legs grew weak.
Her breathing turned ragged.
Her cheeks flushed a deep scarlet, far redder than when she tasted Soma’s dish.
The sensation of ecstasy surged from the tip of her tongue through every nerve in her body, making her tremble.
“Erina-sama?!” Hisako panicked, seeing her master looking as though she was about to faint from the sheer rapture of taste.
Shirou stood silently, his arms crossed.
He had used Structural Analysis to understand the egg’s anatomy, then utilized the precise heat control from Archer’s memories to cook each layer at different temperatures simultaneously.
The red core was a special sauce reduction from a recipe he had learned in the Middle East during his time as a Guardian, injected using a surgical technique without breaking the shell.
This dish was named Avalon’s Morning.
Simple on the outside, but a miracle of technique on the inside.
“Well,” Shirou’s voice snapped Erina out of her trance.
“Tell me, Nakiri Erina.
Is it disgusting?”
Erina was panting.
She wanted to scream “Yes!”.
She wanted to throw the plate.
She wanted to kick this insolent boy out.
But her mouth…
her mouth was still savoring the lingering aftertaste.
A flavor so beautiful it made her want to weep.
A profound respect for the ingredients radiated from the dish.
As the possessor of the God’s Tongue, insulting a dish this perfect was the ultimate sin.
It was tantamount to spitting on the god of culinary arts itself.
Erina’s lips quivered.
Cold sweat rolled down her temples.
The internal war between her ego and her culinary instincts reached its climax.
“D…
D…”
Soma leaned in, curious.
“D what?”
“D…
Delicious,” Erina whispered.
Her voice was incredibly faint, like the squeak of a mouse.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Shirou pressed, utterly merciless.
Erina threw her head up.
Her eyes were welling with tears born of frustration and confusing pleasure.
She glared at Shirou with a mixture of hatred and awe.
“DELICIOUS!
ARE YOU SATISFIED?!” she screamed, her voice echoing throughout the empty hall.
“This…
this is the most perfect dish I have ever tasted from someone your age!
Your technique defies logic!
This flavor…
this flavor shouldn’t even be possible!”
Erina slumped back into her chair, as if uttering that confession had drained her of all her strength.
Hisako covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide with shock.
Erina-sama…
Erina-sama had just admitted defeat?
And openly praised someone?
Meanwhile, behind a wooden paneled wall on the side of the room, a burly old man in a traditional kimono listened intently.
Nakiri Senzaemon, the Culinary Demon King, Director of Totsuki.
His sharp eyes widened.
He knew his granddaughter better than anyone.
Erina never praised.
Erina only judged.
But just now…
that wasn’t a judgment.
That was a surrender.
“Yukihira Soma…
and Emiya Shirou…” Senzaemon murmured, his deep voice trembling with excitement.
“This year…
monsters have arrived at Totsuki.”
Back in the exam hall, Shirou offered a faint smile.
Not an arrogant smirk of victory, but the satisfied smile of a craftsman whose work had been acknowledged.
“Thank you for the meal,” Shirou said politely.
He turned to Soma, who was still standing there dumbfounded.
“Let’s go.
I think we’re done here.”
“Eh?
Wait, so did I pass or not?” Soma asked in confusion.
“You?” Erina glared at Soma, still panting.
Her anger hadn’t subsided, but that confession had cracked her iron mask.
She could no longer act tyrannically after being so thoroughly “destroyed” by Shirou.
“Your matter…
will be decided by my grandfather.
But you…”
She pointed at Shirou with a trembling finger.
“Emiya Shirou.
I will not forget this.
I will pay you back.
One day, I will make a dish that will bring you to your knees!”
Shirou merely shrugged, then casually strolled toward the exit, his cooking bag slung over his shoulder.
“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Shirou replied without looking back.
As the hall doors closed behind them, Shirou let out a long sigh.
His legs were shaking slightly.
Using a Trace On level of concentration to cook an egg turned out to be far more exhausting than he had anticipated, as his physical body was still unaccustomed to Archer’s memories.
Well, at least I got in, he thought to himself.
The culinary world might be peaceful, but its chefs were more savage than Dead Apostles.
And Emiya Shirou had just awakened the sleeping dragon at the top of her ivory tower.
“Like my work?