Leaving the kitchen behind, I bid farewell to Sōma and Megumi, carrying with me my "loot", our first sabotaged attempt, packed neatly into several plastic containers.
Along with my acceptance letter to Tōtsuki, I had also received an official document outlining my living arrangements. Unlike Advanced Nurturing High School, where students were confined to the campus dormitories and contact with the outside world was restricted, Tōtsuki operated differently. Most students either rented apartments nearby or, if they came from wealth, were chauffeured in from luxurious homes.
As for me?
I slid my bank card into the nearest ATM. The screen displayed a balance of 2,000 yen.
That was it. The totality of the funds I had been given.
Clearly, renting my own place was out of the question.
Fortunately, there was a note in my acceptance paperwork—an option for on-campus housing. The Polar Star Dormitory, the only dormitory within the school grounds.
Entry required passing a simple test: prepare a dish good enough to earn the approval of the dorm matron. Straightforward.
Of course, I couldn't count on the dorm kitchen to be stocked. It was possible it had some basic ingredients, but fully banking on that would be reckless. If I wanted to secure a place to live, I had to bring the core ingredients I needed for my dish.
Which meant relying on the last of my funds.
I withdrew the 2,000 yen and made my way to the closest grocery store. Unlike ANHS, which had a full shopping center built into campus grounds, Tōtsuki operated under the assumption that its students lived off-campus, and thus, no such facilities were offered internally.
As I stepped inside the store, the cashier greeted me with a cheerful smile.
"Good day and welcome!"
I gave her a small nod and moved quickly, scanning each aisle. I selected only what was necessary. Gambling, I selected only what was entirely necessary, skipping a few obvious staples.
I carried the handful of items—arborio rice, parmesan cheese, chicken stock, low-moisture mozzarella, ciabatta, and a single bottle of white wine—to the cashier. She offered me another warm, polite smile as she began scanning them, one by one.
Just as her hand reached for the bottle of wine, I spoke casually.
"That shade of lipstick suits you. It's rare to see someone pair it so well with their eye color."
A subtle, well-practiced line, refined over time during my conversations with Karuizawa. After all, she'd made it very clear which compliments hit and which were shallow clichés like "I like your eyes."
Her reaction was immediate. She froze mid-motion for a split second, her cheeks gaining a soft flush. The corners of her mouth pulled into a bashful smile.
"Ah—t-thank you!" she stammered, blinking rapidly as she fumbled to keep her professional tone. Flustered, she unconsciously scanned the bottle of wine without asking for my ID.
"That'll be 1,938 yen. Do you need a bag?"
"Yes, that would be great. Thank you." I gave her a small nod.
Still a bit red in the face, she quickly bagged the items, trying not to make eye contact as she handed them over.
In her brief lapse of self-awareness, her subconscious had filled in the gaps. Caught in the moment of flattery, her executive function gave way to her habitual memory—her auto-memory. The task of scanning items had become so repetitive that it bypassed rational checks, such as verifying age for alcohol purchases. Her cognitive focus had shifted temporarily to emotional response rather than procedural protocol.
With the bag in hand, I gave her one last polite nod and stepped outside into the late afternoon sun.
𓌉◯𓇋
As I made my way through the academy grounds, I quietly took in the scenery around me. Beyond the towering main school building, the campus was dotted with a variety of unique structures, each boasting its own distinct architectural design. It was as if every facility had been built with a specific culinary purpose in mind.
From the front gate, it had taken me nearly forty minutes just to reach the heart of the campus. According to the letter I received, the dormitory would be another twenty minutes from here.
"This path would make for a good morning run," I muttered under my breath, noting the long, winding route framed by trees and the occasional bench. I even spotted a calisthenics park tucked between two buildings—perfect for keeping up my training. Cooking may be the focus now, but that didn't mean I intended to let my physical conditioning slip like I had during my time at ANHS.
After all, it took much work to reach this state, and simply letting my body regress would make no sense at all.
Eventually, after a steady walk, I arrived at a grand, ivy-covered mansion surrounded by a tall gate. A weathered sign beside the gate read: Polar Star Dormitory.
So, this was the place.
The creaking of the old gates behind me echoed faintly as I stepped onto the stone path that led to the entrance of the Polar Star Dormitory.
There were no other students around. Either they were already inside, or the dorm simply didn't have many residents. That worked to my advantage.
I approached the large wooden door and gave it two measured knocks. No response. I waited a few seconds longer before reaching for the handle and gently pushing the door open.
The door creaked open, groaning on its hinges, as I stepped into the dormitory. The interior surprised me. Despite the weathered exterior and overgrown greenery, the inside was remarkably well-maintained. A grand staircase stood just beyond the entryway, leading to the upper floors. The wooden floors were polished, the air carried a faint scent of aged cedar, and everything had an almost nostalgic charm to it.
However, the silence was immediate and unusual. The sun had already begun to set, and without any lights turned on, the space felt dim and strangely eerie. Shadows stretched along the walls, and the atmosphere was heavy with stillness.
A thick cloud of smoke suddenly billowed down from the staircase above, curling along the ceiling like a fog bank.
Was it a fire? No, not quite... it smelled more like wood chips and char, not burnt walls.
Smoking?
Before I could continue to ponder about it, a sharp voice cut through the air like a cleaver.
"Room 208! You turned one of the empty rooms into a smokehouse again, didn't you?!"
There was no response. Only silence and more smoke.
"How about I string you up and smoke you with your own wood chips this time?!" the voice snapped again.
Before I could react to that, the true madness began.
A stampede of animals burst through the corridor ahead of me. Chickens flapping their wings, rabbits darting between furniture, and even a goose honking indignantly as it waddled past. A girl followed close behind them, sprinting barefoot through the corridor in a mild panic. Her amber hair was tied into two neat buns on either side of her head, and her teal eyes were wide with concern and hurry.
"Usako! Kamosuke! Shikanoshin! You have to stop getting out of your cages!"
Before the absurdity could sink in further, the same elderly voice thundered once more through the building.
"Room 118! Stop raising wild game in your room! Do it again, and you'll be the one getting skinned and hung up to dry!"
So... this was the Polar Star Dormitory.
I couldn't help but blink slowly.
Interesting.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled me from my thoughts. To my right, an older woman entered the hall, her gray hair spiked back and held in place by a red headband. Her posture was confident, her gaze sharp, like someone who had long since claimed dominion over this place.
"You're Ayanokoji Kiyotaka, right? The transfer student looking for a room, right?"
I gave a small nod in response.
A knowing smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I'm the dorm matron for this Polar Star Dormitory. Name's Fumio. You'll call me Miss Fumio... also known as the Maria of Polaris," she added with theatrical flair.
I chose not to acknowledge that last part.
She squinted slightly. "You brought ingredients, yeah?"
I lifted the bag in my right hand to show her.
"Good. I'll take you to the kitchen. Though I must say, you really took your sweet time getting here. And without even a word about the other transfer student."
My eyes narrowed slightly. "You mean Yukihira Sōma?"
"Exactly. That noisy brat." Her tone held a trace of amusement.
So Sōma would be living here too. It was unexpected... but not unwelcome.
Fumio led the way through a narrow corridor, her pace brisk despite her age. Finally, we reached the kitchen. It stood in stark contrast to the rest of the vintage mansion—sleek countertops, modern appliances, and a professional layout.
"Alright, kid—well, maybe not quite a kid from the way you look and carry yourself, but still—you're in front of me now, so you're a kid like the rest."
She crossed her arms, a brow raised in anticipation.
"So, tell me—what're you going to cook to earn your place in this dorm?"
Without saying a word, I began unpacking the contents of my bag, placing each item methodically on the counter, including the bottle of white wine.
The moment her eyes landed on the wine, she squinted. "Wine?! How'd a high school kid like you get their hands on alcohol?"
"It was a gift from my father," I said smoothly, lying on the spot. "He gave it to me specially for this dish; he trusts me to use it responsibly, for its intended purpose."
That seemed to appease her curiosity for now.
"I'll be making a full-course Italian meal," I stated, voice calm and even. "Bruschetta for the appetizer, risotto for the main, and Zabaglione for dessert."
Her brow lifted, impressed by my choice. "Italian? Do you have family from there or similar? Maybe your parents run a trattoria?"
Her guess was logical, especially with how fluently I pronounced each dish. But just the mental image of that man in an apron, lovingly swirling pasta in a pan, ran a slight shudder through my spine.
"No," I said flatly. "It's just a cuisine I've found interesting. More importantly, the ingredients were affordable and versatile enough for a complete meal. That's all."
"Alright then, kid. Show me what you've got."
"Do you have Marsala wine or any kind of liquor wine?"
Fumio raised an eyebrow at my question. "Marsala wine? Liquor wine? Kid, all we've got here is regular red wine. And I've only known you for five minutes, but so far, all I've gathered is you've got a serious thing for cooking with wine."
"..."
Setting her comment aside, I returned to the task at hand. Since I didn't have the proper wine, I'd need to adjust the dessert slightly.
I began by filling a pot with water and setting it over medium heat.
Next, I separated five egg yolks into a large mixing bowl and added sugar along with the tiniest dash of vanilla essence to enhance the flavor. Taking up a whisk, I beat the mixture with a steady rhythm until it began to thicken, turning pale and lightly creamy.
Once ready, I set the bowl atop the simmering pot, letting the steam from the water gently heat it from below. Carefully, I continued whisking without pause, adjusting the angle and speed so the mixture wouldn't curdle. Gradually, it thickened into a smooth, thick cream.
Satisfied with the texture, I removed the bowl from the heat.
I reached for a clear wine glass and poured the warm Zabaglione into it, letting it settle into silky folds. Then, after a quick sweep through the kitchen, I found a few blueberries. I added them atop the dessert, a touch of color and contrast.
Zabaglione can be served either warm or at room temperature, which is precisely why I started with it. With the dessert now complete and cooling, I turned my attention to the appetizer, bruschetta. Fortunately, my earlier gamble had paid off—cherry tomatoes, garlic, and fresh basil were available. Had they not been, I would've changed the appetizer entirely or omitted it altogether.
I began by slicing the cherry tomatoes. First halving them, then cutting those halves once more, and finally lining them up to make a final, clean pass through the whole batch. This technique kept the pieces small and bite-sized, ensuring a more pleasant eating experience.
After repeating the process with the rest of the tomatoes, I gathered everything into a bowl and drizzled a modest amount of olive oil over them.
Next, I pressed a clove of garlic directly into the bowl, its sharp aroma quickly joining the growing medley of flavors. A handful of finely chopped basil leaves followed.
Finally, with a small pinch of salt, I stirred everything together with a teaspoon, letting the mixture sit, so the flavors could meld and develop.
All that remained was to prepare the ciabatta and the risotto.
𓌉◯𓇋
Ayanokoji sliced the ciabatta into even portions, placing them neatly onto a tray before sliding them into the oven to toast. Without missing a beat, he turned his attention to the shallots, finely dicing them with swift, practiced motions. Next came the garlic, minced with precision until it reached a near-paste consistency.
He moved efficiently, grabbing another pot and pouring in the chicken stock he had purchased earlier. Placing it on the stove, he set the heat to high, bringing it gradually to a simmer.
Meanwhile, he placed a pan on a separate burner and drizzled in a layer of olive oil, waiting patiently until it began to shimmer. Once it was ready, he added the diced shallots and minced garlic, sautéing them gently for about three minutes until they softened, and their aroma filled the kitchen.
Just then, the quiet rhythm of his cooking was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. A young man entered, curly, medium-length brown hair framing his face. He walked up beside Fumio and glanced toward the counter.
Fumio glanced at the newcomer with a familiar air. "Isshiki, what brings you here?"
"I followed the smell," he said with a relaxed expression. "I didn't expect anyone to be using the kitchen this early. Usually, people start drifting in much later."
At the stove, Ayanokoji remained unfazed, calmly adding the arborio rice to the pan. The grains hissed softly, and he began to roast them, stirring with deliberate, rhythmic motions.
Then he reached for the bottle of white wine, uncorked it with ease, and poured in just about half a cup. The liquid hissed as it met the heat, the scent of wine rising into the air. Once it had mostly evaporated, he adjusted the heat and, without pause, dipped a ladle into the simmering chicken stock. He added half a ladleful into the pan, stirring again—slow, controlled, without waste or haste.
Isshiki's eyes narrowed slightly with interest. "So that's Ayanokoji Kiyotaka, huh? One of the two transfers..." he murmured, folding his arms. "Things might get even more entertaining here in the dorm now."
Fumio smirked faintly. "You're speaking as if he's already earned his spot here. I still have to pass judgment, you know."
Isshiki chuckled under his breath. "Fumio-san, you can tell, can't you? Look at the way he moves, no excess effort, no wasted motion. Every stir is exact. It's not too fast, not too slow. Just right. You don't see that kind of skill every day."
Fumio allowed herself a small nod of agreement. "If you're that taken just by his stirring, then you really should've seen his knife work earlier."
Isshiki chuckled softly, his eyes still locked on Ayanokoji as he worked with fluid precision. "Now I'm even more curious. A transfer student with that kind of control in the kitchen?"
Fumio remained where she was, arms folded across her chest, eyes focused. "There's something unusual about him. No boasting, no mistakes. The way he moves... it's not like he's cooking, it's like he's executing a plan."
Isshiki's lips curled into a curious smile. "So, strategic cooking? That's interesting... most students wear their emotions on their sleeves, pouring their hearts into every dish. But he's like the opposite, a still pond hiding deep water."
Just as Ayanokoji finished incorporating the last ladle of chicken stock, he examined the risotto's texture. Seemingly satisfied, he reached for a pat of unsalted butter, dropping it into the pan and gently stirring until it melted into the risotto.
Isshiki, still observing from the side, remarked quietly, "He hasn't looked away once. Not at the clock, not at anything."
Fumio gave a small nod. "Not since he started. It's like he has the entire process already mapped out in his head."
Knock. Knock.
A sudden knock echoed through the hallway.
"Hm?" Isshiki tilted his head, puzzled. "Who'd be stopping by the dorm at this hour?"
Fumio chuckled under her breath. "That would be the other transfer student. Took his sweet time getting here."
Isshiki stifled a laugh. "This dorm is going to get even noisier... in the best way possible.
With that, he slipped out of the kitchen, while Fumio turned to head for the front entrance, leaving Ayanokoji alone as he approached the final touches of his meal.
𓌉◯𓇋
As Fumio and the student Isshiki, as I'd heard from their conversation, stepped out of the kitchen, I turned my full attention back to the stove.
The risotto had reached perfect consistency. I sprinkled in the grated Grana Padano and stirred until the cheese melted smoothly into the rice, giving it a creamy, rich finish.
With that done, I took the pan off the heat.
At that exact moment, both the mental timer in my head and the oven timer chimed in unison. The ciabatta was ready.
I pulled the golden, crisp slices from the oven and began assembling the bruschetta—layering the vibrant tomato, garlic, and basil mixture onto each piece. Once done, I plated a portion of risotto onto a clean, flat dish, tapping the underside gently to allow the rice to spread naturally into a neat circle.
As a final touch, I added a fresh dusting of Grana Padano and a pinch of black pepper across the top.
And just like that, the full course was complete.
As the final details of my dish settled into place, a loud voice echoed from the hallway outside the kitchen.
"Isn't it obvious?! Anyone who wants to stay here has to pass our famed entrance challenge!"
"The rule is simple," Fumio's voice followed sharply. "Dorm applicants must cook a meal, and only those whose cooking passes will be allowed to reside in the dorm."
Sōma's familiar voice rang out, filled with disbelief. "Wait, no one told me anything about that!"
"Then you fail by default," Fumio ruthlessly declared. "I won't let anyone of unknown talent cross the threshold here."
"...Then what the hell am I supposed to do tonight?" Sōma asked in disbelief.
"Sleep outside, I guess." She nonchalantly replied.
"You've gotta be kidding! Do you have any idea how cold April nights are?!"
"Too bad, kid. You came unprepared. The other transfer student planned ahead. There are only a handful of leftovers and mostly-used ingredients left rattling around the kitchen."
There was a pause before Sōma's voice shot back, surprised, "Wait... other transfer student? You mean Kiyotaka's staying here?!"
I stepped silently out of the kitchen, catching Sōma's eye. With a small wave, I greeted him. "Yo."
"..."
He blinked, stared for a second, and then let out a short laugh. "...Please don't do that again, hahaha!"
Fumio let out a chuckle. "There we already go."
Sōma turned back to her. "You mentioned leftovers, right? If there's anything usable, I'll take the challenge."
He rolled his sleeves up, grin widening. "Doesn't matter what's left—I'll make something out of it."
With that, I made my way back into the kitchen, Fumio and Sōma following behind.
The moment Sōma stepped inside and caught sight of the finished dishes arranged neatly on the counter, his eyes lit up in surprise.
"Whoa! Another non-Japanese dish? This is Italian cuisine, right?" he asked, turning toward me with genuine curiosity.
"Yes," I confirmed, keeping it brief. "A complete Italian course. Bruschetta for the appetizer, risotto for the main dish, and Zabaglione for dessert."
As I gave the short explanation, Fumio stepped up beside us. The moment her eyes landed on the food, she pushed past Sōma without hesitation, clearly eager to taste.
Caught off guard, Sōma stumbled a step back, blinking in disbelief. "This old lady has got some energy, huh?" he muttered, letting out a light chuckle.
His eyes began wandering across the kitchen for the first time, taking in the layout and tools.
"Wait a minute... this is actually a pretty nice kitchen. Not something you'd expect to find here, given the looks of the place."
I glanced over at him. "Do you already have something in mind?"
He paused, scanned the remaining scraps and leftovers still sitting around, and then, a confident grin broke across his face.
"Yeah," he nodded. "This'll be plenty! I know exactly what I'm gonna make."
Yukihira Sōma.
A young man from a small restaurant, yet he carries himself like someone who's stood at the center of a stage far bigger than his surroundings would suggest. From what I've observed, he's likely been working in his father's kitchen since he was old enough to hold a knife. Experience isn't something he flaunts; it's simply embedded into the rhythm of his movements.
From what I've observed so far, beneath his cheerful and energetic demeanor is a confidence rooted in something real. He trusts his skill, his instincts, and unlike most students here who cling to tradition, Sōma cooks with freedom that borders on reckless. But it works brilliantly.
He's flexible, inventive, and unbound by conventional methods. Rather than following rigid procedures, he adapts, improvises, and carves out his own path to a solution. It's this creative edge that allows him to act decisively when others hesitate.
That was clearly seen in today's class. With time stacked against us, he didn't panic, instead, he used honey as a tenderizer without a second thought. An unconventional approach, but incredibly effective.
And then there's his... other side. The one responsible for dishes that can only be described as culinary crimes. Diabolical creations, made with the same enthusiasm as his more refined fare. That alone shows how uninhibited his cooking truly is.
Something that I yet miss.
Sōma doesn't need ideal conditions. Even now, with scraps and leftovers, he's already chosen a dish and is working with full conviction. His mind is always moving forward.
Yukihira Sōma.
I am looking forward to spending the next few years with someone like him at this academy.
Coming to Tōtsuki and leaving ANHS behind...
It was the right choice.
...
As I turned back to the present moment, I caught sight of Sōma tying on his apron and slipping his signature headband over his forehead, the familiar ritual he followed whenever he got into the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Fumio had already reached for the first piece of bruschetta. She took a bite.
Her eyes widened immediately. Then her mouth parted slightly.
No. Please no.
I silently pleaded.
Not like Nakiri.
But it was already too late.
A look of bliss overtook her face as she chewed, her expression melting into sheer ecstasy.
God, no.
Without a word, she snatched up a fork and dove straight into the risotto. One bite. Then another. Her features contorted further in delight as she switched back and forth between the two dishes, like she couldn't decide which one she wanted more.
Then, at last, she reached for the dessert. A spoonful of the zabaglione paired with the blueberry garnish.
"Aaahhh... brilliant," she moaned with pleasure.
Did she just... moan, like Nakiri?
Before I could confirm or deny it, her eyes fluttered shut, and she threw herself forward, arms wide.
"Hold me!"
I instinctively sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the incoming impact.
Unfortunately, someone else wasn't so lucky.
The someone in question had just finished forming a patty made from mackerel, minced onion, panko, and egg, and was carefully searing it in the pan. He turned around at the last second, alerted by the noise, only to be met with a flying matron.
"Hold me! Warm me up!" she cried, clinging to him.
"Augh! Lemme go, you old hag!" Sōma shouted, struggling to shake her off like she was some wild animal.
Sōma looked disheveled and wide-eyed.
Eventually, he managed to peel her away, and Fumio stumbled backward with a contented sigh, seemingly snapping back to normal as if nothing had happened.
She cleared her throat as if trying to recover from the outburst. "Ahem. Well done. I think I'll assign you to... room number 304."
She turned to me, holding out a key. "Ayanokoji Kiyotaka, I officially approve your admittance to the Polar Star Dormitory."
I simply nodded, taking the key without much ceremony.
While I pocketed it, Sōma was already wrapping up his own cooking. On the counter before him was a neatly plated trio: a golden-brown patty, a bowl of shimmering egg-drop soup, and a serving of rice.
Fumio's eyes narrowed with interest as she stepped up to inspect it. "There wasn't even a gram of ground beef or pork in this kitchen. So tell me, what kind of sorcery is this?" Her tone was curious. "How did you manage to make a hamburger this thick and juicy?"
Sōma wiped his hands, grinning. "That's a Mackburger. I didn't use beef or pork. It's canned mackerel."
Her brow shot up. "Canned mackerel? Are you trying to kill me with fish stench? No one in their right mind would like—" She stopped mid-sentence, the moment a bite of the burger hit her tongue.
Her eyes went wide.
No, please, not again.
That expression again.
Then came the soup. One cautious sip, and her face lit up in stunned delight, followed by a look of disbelief.
"What on earth is this?! Where did you get this, kid? I know there isn't a scrap of kelp or bonito or anything you could use for dashi in this kitchen!"
"Oh, that?" Sōma nonchalantly asked. "I just happened to have some on hand." He popped a piece of dried cuttlefish into his mouth, flicking it lightly between his fingers.
Fumio's jaw slackened. "You made soup stock... from cuttlefish jerky?!"
"Yep," Sōma said with a grin. "I call it the Yukihira Original Mishmash Mackburger Special!"
I took a few steps back, already anticipating what was about to happen.
And just as expected, Fumio let out a cry of delight and hurled herself at Sōma once again.
Sōma's face twisted in horror as he staggered back, arms flailing. "W-Wait, not again!"
He turned towards me. "Kiyotaka, help me!"
I met his panicked gaze with an unreadable expression.
"...You'll be fine," I replied calmly.
Sōma's eyes widened in betrayal. "What kind of partner abandons his comrade in the heat of war?!"
"I believe in your ability to handle elderly affection," I said flatly, folding my arms.
"Th-this isn't a test of ability, it's a test of survival!" he yelled, trying to pry Fumio off his torso as she clung to him like a starving koala discovering bamboo for the first time.
I turned away, letting the chaos play out as if it were none of my concern, though inwardly, I did spare a flicker of sympathy for Sōma's ongoing ordeal.
Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity of clinging and pleading for personal space, he managed to wriggle himself free from Fumio's iron grip. He stood there, hunched and disheveled, looking like a soldier just back from war.
Sōma groaned in disbelief, "I'm gonna need therapy after this..."
Fumio cleared her throat, brushing back her hair like nothing had happened. "Ahem. You've passed the test," she declared, her tone official now. "Welcome to the Polar Star Dormitory. You'll be staying in room number 303."
Sōma straightened up, then, with a grin, he untied his headband and wrapped it around his wrist. "Happy to serve," he said with a light smile.
He shot me a look, half glare and half grin. "Next time, I'm dragging you into that hug too, just so you know."
Then, with enthusiasm, he stretched his arms overhead. "All right! First and foremost, before anything else... a bath!"
Then, with a grin, he turned toward me.
"Let's go, Kiyotaka!"
He said, already heading toward the hallway with a bounce in his step.
With a quiet sigh, I followed. A bath didn't sound too bad.