The atmosphere inside Kitchen 3-C was so heavy it felt as though the air had the density of lead.
There was no joking, no careless clinking of utensils.
There was only a suffocating silence commanded by the single figure standing at the front of the classroom.
Roland Chapelle.
The Head of the French Cuisine Division at Totsuki.
The middle-aged man stood tall in a pristine white chef’s uniform without a single speck of stain.
His face was stern, rigid, and radiated an aura of eternal dissatisfaction.
His moniker, “The Chef Who Never Smiles,” was not mere hyperbole.
It was a historical fact within this academy.
“Today’s menu is Boeuf Bourguignon,” Chapelle’s voice echoed coldly, devoid of any intonation.
“A traditional red wine beef stew from the Burgundy region.
You have two hours.”
His sharp eyes swept across the room, instantly making the students’ courage shrink.
“To me, there are only two grades in this kitchen.
An ‘A’ for a dish worthy of my palate, or an ‘E’ for garbage unfit to touch my tongue.
An ‘E’ means expulsion.
Begin.”
The instructions were simple, yet lethal.
In the corner of the room, a girl with twin braids was shaking violently.
Tadokoro Megumi felt her knees go weak.
Her face was deathly pale, as if the blood had stopped flowing to her head.
One more E…
and I’m expelled, Megumi thought hysterically.
It’s over.
I’m going to fail.
My hands won’t stop shaking!
To make matters worse, no one wanted to partner up with her.
Her reputation as the lowest-ranked student made her avoidable like the plague.
“Excuse me.” A calm voice shattered the panic in Megumi’s head.
Megumi turned her head mechanically.
Beside her stood a youth with auburn hair and calm yet piercing golden eyes.
“Y-You…
Emiya-kun?” Megumi squeaked.
She remembered this boy from the entrance ceremony yesterday—the only “sane” transfer student compared to the other redhead.
“You’re alone, right?
Want to team up?” Shirou offered, placing his tool bag on the workstation.
“Eh?
B-But…
I…
I’m clumsy!
I’ll only drag you down!
My grades are terrible, and I—” Megumi started to ramble, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.
Shirou let out a soft sigh.
He had already seen this girl’s structural data through his observation.
Megumi wasn’t untalented; she was simply defeated by her own fear.
Her posture while holding a knife was actually solid, but her muscles were overly tense.
“Tadokoro-san,” Shirou called out, his voice slightly firmer.
“Y-Yes?!”
“Look at me.”
Megumi looked up, meeting Shirou’s eyes.
Within those eyes, Megumi saw neither panic nor pity.
She saw the deep calm of the ocean.
The tranquility of a veteran soldier who knew exactly what needed to be done on the battlefield.
“This kitchen isn’t an execution ground.
It’s just a place to cook,” Shirou said softly.
“Breathe in.
Hold for three seconds.
Exhale.”
Subconsciously, Megumi complied.
“Good.
Now, I will handle the meat processing and the base sauce.
I need your help to cut the garnish vegetables—carrots, onions, and mushrooms—with a precise mirepoix cut.
Can you do that?”
The instruction was specific.
Shirou didn’t give her an abstract task like “help me,” which would only confuse her.
He gave her a clear mission.
“I-I’ll try my best!”
“Don’t try.
Just do it.
Follow the rhythm of my knife,” Shirou said, picking up the beef on the counter.
Shirou began to cut.
Slash.
Slash.
Slash.
His movements were rhythmic, like a metronome.
The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board created a hypnotic cadence.
Megumi, who had been trembling initially, slowly began to synchronize her movements with Shirou’s rhythm.
Trace, on.
In Shirou’s mind, the structural diagram of Boeuf Bourguignon unfolded.
This dish required a long simmering time for the meat to become tender.
Two hours was actually cutting it extremely close for the traditional method.
But Emiya Shirou possessed Archer’s memories.
He knew how to manipulate heat distribution.
He knew the optimal boiling point of the available red wine to break down the meat’s collagen fibers without ruining its texture.
“Tadokoro, salt,” Shirou requested without looking back.
“Right!” Megumi swiftly handed over the jar of salt.
Her hands were no longer shaking.
Shirou’s presence beside her was like an iron pillar holding up a collapsing roof.
……………………………………………………………
Meanwhile, at the furthest station, Yukihira Soma was whistling casually while searing his meat.
He was alone because no one wanted to team up with “Public Enemy Number One.”
“Heh, Boeuf Bourguignon, huh?
Interesting,” Soma muttered.
He left his pot for a moment to grab extra seasonings from the back shelf.
It was a fatal mistake.
Two male students at the adjacent station exchanged a sly glance.
They still harbored a grudge over Soma’s arrogant speech yesterday.
“Take this, new kid,” one of them whispered.
With a swift motion, he dumped a massive amount of salt from a jar into Soma’s boiling pot, then returned to his station as if nothing had happened.
When Soma returned, he tasted his broth.
“Pfft!” Soma spat it back out.
Salty!
It tasted like swallowing water from the Dead Sea.
“This is bad,” Soma scratched his head, currently wrapped in his white headband.
“The meat has already absorbed the salt.
If I start over from scratch, there won’t be enough time to tenderize it.”
The two saboteurs chuckled softly behind his back.
However, instead of panicking, a wide grin bloomed on Soma’s face.
“Well, what can you do.
Time to experiment!”
Soma dashed to the ingredients table, his eyes scanning rapidly until they stopped on a single golden-yellow jar.
Honey.
“Sorry, Mr.
Meat.
You’re going to have to undergo a little plastic surgery,” Soma muttered as he poured honey over a fresh batch of meat.
He knew the science behind it.
Honey contains protease enzymes.
Those enzymes would break down the protein chains in the meat at high speed, far faster than ordinary simmering.
It was an emergency technique, but in the hands of Yukihira Soma, an emergency technique was an art form.
…………………………………………………………………………..
“Time is up!” Chapelle announced.
“Cease all cooking.”
The aroma of wine and beef filled the room.
Yet, Chapelle’s expression remained deadpan as he began his tasting.
“The meat is tough.
E.” “The sauce is too sour.
E.” “The onions are burnt.
E.”
One by one, the students hung their heads in defeat.
Chapelle showed no mercy.
Out of the first ten groups, not a single one received an ‘A’.
The atmosphere in the class grew increasingly bleak.
Finally, Chapelle arrived at Shirou and Megumi’s station.
The dish was placed before the teacher.
Shirou lifted the lid.
Steam billowed upward, carrying an incredibly deep and elegant aroma.
Chapelle’s eyebrow twitched slightly.
This aroma…
it didn’t smell like a dish hastily thrown together in two hours.
It smelled like a stew that had been simmering over low heat in a rustic French countryside kitchen for half a day.
Chapelle picked up a fork and pierced a chunk of the beef.
There was no resistance.
The fork slid through the meat as if cutting through butter.
He placed it in his mouth.
Silence.
Megumi held her breath, her hands wringing the edge of her apron until her knuckles turned white.
Her heart was pounding like a drum.
Inside Chapelle’s mouth, the meat melted.
The savory goodness of the perfectly locked-in beef juices melded with the richness of the reduced red wine, the natural sweetness of the carrots, and the faint yet distinct aroma of thyme.
It wasn’t just tender.
It was a texture achieved through an absolute understanding of heat and muscle fibers.
Emiya Shirou didn’t use chemical tricks like honey.
He used experience.
His experience of seeing millions of dishes across various eras gave him the instinct to regulate the fluctuations of that cheap gas stove’s flame to mimic the heat of a traditional wood-fired hearth.
He manipulated the convection inside the pot so that every side of the meat received identical heat.
It was Structural Analysis applied to culinary thermodynamics.
Slowly, the corners of Chapelle’s lips lifted.
His rigid facial muscles, which seemed to have been petrified for decades, softened.
A smile—genuine, gentle, and slightly incredulous—was etched onto his face.
The entire class gaped.
“He…
he’s smiling?!” “Impossible!
Chapelle-sensei is smiling?!” “The world is definitely ending!”
Chapelle set down his fork, gazing at Shirou with a new light in his eyes.
The look of a master acknowledging the presence of a monster before him.
“Extraordinary,” Chapelle said, his voice sounding lighter.
“The level of doneness is perfect.
The seasoning has permeated to the deepest core of the fibers.
The taste is classic, yet not antiquated.
It is as though you have cooked this dish thousands of times.”
He turned to Megumi, who was still stunned.
“And the garnish vegetables…
the cuts are consistent and they were cooked at the exact right time so their texture perfectly complements the meat.
Excellent teamwork.”
“The two of you,” Chapelle picked up his grade book.
“Grade A.”
“Waahhh!” Megumi collapsed to the floor in relief, her tears spilling over.
“Thank goodness…
thank goodness…”
Shirou merely gave a polite bow.
“Thank you, Chef.”
As Shirou went back to tidy up his station, Chapelle muttered softly, barely audible, “That boy…
his technical skills might even surpass my own.”
Before the class’s shock could subside, Chapelle moved on to Soma.
“You are alone, Yukihira?” Chapelle asked, his face returning to its deadpan state, though the ghost of his smile was still faintly visible.
“Yep, pretty much.
But the food is ready!” Soma presented his plate.
Chapelle tasted it.
This time, his eyes widened in surprise.
“Incredibly tender…
How is this possible?
In such a short amount of time?” Chapelle smacked his lips.
There was a faint yet pleasant sweetness.
“Honey?”
“Spot on!” Soma replied with a grin.
“Honey breaks down the meat’s proteins super fast!”
“A bold improvisation,” Chapelle commented.
“Although the flavor deviates slightly from the traditional recipe, the tenderness of this meat is worthy of praise.
Turning a disaster into a success…
you have guts.”
“An ‘A’ for you as well, Yukihira.”
Soma pumped his fist into the air.
“Osu!
Glad you liked it!”
Class ended.
The students poured out with mixed feelings—most were relieved to not have been expelled, while others were in awe of and envious of the two new students.
In the corridor, Megumi walked beside Shirou, her head bowed shyly.
“Emiya-kun…” she called out softly.
“Hm?”
“Thank you so much!” Megumi bowed a full 90 degrees.
“If it weren’t for you, I definitely would have been expelled today.
The way you took the lead back there…
it felt so calm.
I was actually able to focus.”
Shirou smiled faintly.
“You have talent, Tadokoro.
You just need to stop thinking that you’re going to fail before you even start.
A knife will dull if its wielder hesitates.”
Megumi flushed, clutching her chest.
Those words felt so profound.
“Oi, Emiya!
Tadokoro!”
Soma ran to catch up with them, throwing a friendly arm around Shirou’s shoulder.
“You guys were amazing back there!
I saw Chapelle smile!
That was crazy!
What’s the secret?”
“A kitchen secret,” Shirou answered briefly.
“Stingy,” Soma teased.
“By the way, which dorm are you guys staying at?
I’m just about to move into the school dorms today.”
Shirou checked the orientation paper in his pocket.
“The Polar Star Dormitory,” Shirou replied.
Megumi’s face turned pale again.
“The P-Polar Star?
You too, Emiya-kun?”
“Too?” Soma raised an eyebrow.
“I’m heading there as well!
What a coincidence!”
Megumi laughed awkwardly, cold sweat trickling down her temple.
“A…
terrifying coincidence.
That dorm…
it’s a den of demons.”
Shirou stared up at the afternoon sky, which was beginning to turn red.
His intuition told him that Roland Chapelle’s test just now was merely a light warm-up.
In Archer’s memories, the dwellings of heroes were always filled with eccentric people.
And it seemed the Polar Star Dormitory would not be much different.
“Let’s go,” Shirou said, stepping forward.
“I’d like to get some rest soon.”
Even though he knew that, at Totsuki, the word “rest” was nothing but an absolute myth.
“Like my work?