Tokyo, Minato District.
Inside a luxurious penthouse overlooking the twinkling lights of the city that never sleeps.
The room was dimly lit, dominated by minimalist black and gray furniture.
The room temperature was kept constant at 18°C, the perfect temperature to keep vintage red wine in prime condition, yet cold enough to make an ordinary person shiver.
Nakiri Azami sat on an Italian leather sofa, slowly swirling his Burgundy glass.
The blood-red liquid spun, reflecting the dim light from outside the window.
On the glass table before him lay the profile photos of the current Elite Ten Council members of Totsuki Academy.
Tsukasa Eishi.
Kobayashi Rindo.
Down to the tenth seat, Nakiri Erina.
“The pieces are in place,” Azami muttered, his voice smooth yet laced with a terrifying fanaticism.
“Senzaemon is too old.
He has let Totsuki become a playground for mediocrity.
True culinary arts do not need democracy.
True culinary arts require a dictator.”
His plan was perfect.
He had planted the seeds of his ideology in several members of the Elite Ten.
It was only a matter of time—perhaps after this year’s Autumn Election—to launch the coup.
He would reclaim his beloved daughter, Erina, and wash away the “trash” that tainted her palate.
Azami offered a faint smile.
Victory was practically within his grasp.
However, just as he was about to take a sip of his wine, his eyes caught something out of place on his desk.
Amidst the pile of classified documents regarding the Elite Ten lay an envelope.
The envelope was ivory white, thick, with a rough yet luxurious texture.
There was no stamp.
No return address.
There was only a silver wax seal on the flap.
The seal bore the crest of an Iris flower entwined in chains.
Azami’s smile vanished instantly.
His hand holding the wine glass stopped mid-air.
His heartbeat, usually calm and measured, skipped a beat.
He recognized that crest.
Anyone who moved in the uppermost echelons of the world—not just the culinary world, but the world that controlled the flow of global money and power—would recognize that crest.
“Einzbern…” he hissed.
The aristocratic family from Germany.
The Witches of the North.
How could this letter be here?
His penthouse’s security was the best in Japan.
No CCTV had caught an intruder.
No alarms had gone off.
The letter seemed to have simply appeared out of thin air, or been delivered by a ghost.
With slightly clammy hands, Azami set down his glass and picked up the envelope.
A faint scent wafted from it—the fragrance of winter flowers and aged paper.
He broke the wax seal.
He pulled out a piece of letter paper written in an incredibly beautiful and elegant cursive handwriting.
To the ambitious Nakiri Azami,
The opening line was polite, yet its condescending tone was palpable.
Azami continued reading.
I hear you are currently busy formulating your little plan to take over your father-in-law’s toy.
What is it called?
‘Central’?
An interesting concept, if a bit antiquated and…
barbaric.
Azami’s eyes widened.
“How…” his voice caught in his throat.
“How does she know?!”
He hadn’t even officially named his organization “Central” yet.
It was merely a concept in his head and a few encrypted documents on his private server.
Were the Einzberns wiretapping his very thoughts?
He resumed reading with trembling hands.
I care nothing for the power struggle in that little sandbox called Totsuki.
Feel free to play to your heart’s content.
However, there is one minor variable you must pay attention to.
My son, Emiya Shirou, is attending school there.
He is a sweet boy, but he does not like commotions.
And I, as his mother, absolutely detest it when filthy adults disturb his youth with their rotten politics.
So, consider this a friendly warning from me: Carry out your revolution if you must, but if a single hair on my son’s head is harmed because of your plans, or if you attempt to touch him with your pathetic ‘true culinary arts’ ideology…
I will ensure that every asset you have built, your entire reputation, and your very existence in this world are erased.
Not just in the culinary world, Azami.
But in the human world.
Azami gulped.
His throat felt parched.
The threat wasn’t written in red ink or all capital letters.
It was written in a calm black ink, which made it infinitely more terrifying.
Because Azami knew the Einzberns were capable of it.
Long ago, when he was still young and researching the history of the World Gourmet Organization (WGO), he discovered the organization’s founding documents.
There, written plain as day, was a list of eternal donors that allowed the WGO to wield worldwide authority.
The Einzbern name sat at the very top.
They were the shadow architects.
If the WGO was the god of the culinary world, then the Einzberns were the entity that created that god.
Azami moved on to the final paragraph.
Oh, one more thing.
Don’t bother asking for help from your wife, Mana-chan, at the WGO.
I already called her this morning for tea (virtually, of course).
Mana-chan agrees that the education of children should not be meddled with by organizational politics.
Therefore, the WGO will remain neutral—or more accurately, blind—to your fate should you cross this line.
Warm regards, Irisviel von Einzbern.
The letter slipped from Azami’s grasp, landing softly on the carpet.
Azami slumped back into his sofa.
His handsome face was now deathly pale, as if the blood had been siphoned from his body.
He felt naked.
He felt watched.
“Irisviel…” Azami whispered the name with pure dread.
“That woman…
she is a demon.”
His plan for a coup was slated to happen after the Autumn Election.
It was still months away.
But Irisviel already knew about it, had anticipated his moves, cut off any avenue of WGO assistance from his own wife, and placed a blade to his throat before he had even drawn his sword.
“Nakiri Mana…
even you bow to them?”
His wife, the leader of the WGO, the woman who possessed the true “God’s Tongue,” the woman Azami himself respected, had been silenced with just a single tea session.
That demonstrated the true hierarchy of power.
Azami stood up, his steps slightly unsteady.
He walked over to his desk, opened a drawer, and searched for the data on the first-year students who had entered via the transfer exams.
He found the photo.
Emiya Shirou.
An auburn-haired teenager with a calm gaze.
In the photo, Shirou looked utterly ordinary.
There was no intimidating aura, no arrogance.
Just a high school student who looked…
normal.
“So this is…” Azami stared intently at the photo.
“This is the prince of that family of monsters.”
Suddenly, everything made perfect sense.
Why Senzaemon had accepted this boy.
Why this boy had managed to get in despite Erina being his examiner.
There was a colossal power standing behind this boy’s back.
A power that made “Central” look like an amateur organization.
Azami laughed bitterly.
His plan wasn’t canceled, no.
His ambition was far too great to be halted by a mere letter.
But now, the game had drastically changed.
Previously, he had intended to completely wipe out any element that opposed him at Totsuki.
But now, he had to walk a tightrope over an abyss.
He had to seize Totsuki without disturbing Emiya Shirou.
“You are a dangerous variable, Emiya Shirou,” Azami whispered to the photo.
“If I touch you, your mother will destroy me.
But if I leave you be…
you might become a thorn in Central’s side.”
Azami retrieved a lighter from his suit pocket.
He burned Irisviel’s letter over a crystal ashtray.
He watched the elegant paper blacken, curl, and turn into ash.
The smell of burning paper filled the room, mixing with the aroma of expensive wine.
“Very well, Lady Einzbern,” Azami said to the remaining ashes.
His eyes sharpened once more, his fear gradually replaced by the cold calculation of a cornered predator.
“I will play by your rules.
For now.”
He pressed the intercom button on his desk.
“Prepare the car.
And find out everything you can about Emiya Shirou’s activities at Totsuki.
Do not disturb him, do not speak to him.
Just observe him from afar.
I want to know what that young master of the Einzberns eats, does, and cooks every single second.”
“Right away, Sir,” his assistant’s obedient voice replied.
Azami looked back out at the Tokyo nightscape.
The city lights looked like the eyes of a thousand monsters peering out from the darkness.
His revolution was not dead.
But now, a dark shadow from the north had blanketed his chessboard.
And Nakiri Azami knew, one wrong move would cost him everything.
“We shall see, Emiya Shirou,” he muttered, downing the rest of his wine in a single gulp.
“Whether you will be a well-behaved spectator…
or an obstacle I must remove in a very, very subtle manner.”
In the distance, lightning flashed across the night sky, as if the universe itself was warning Azami of the danger he had just dared to challenge.
“Like my work?