Director's Residence – Totsuki Academy
The residence of Senzaemon Nakiri stood atop a quiet hill, away from the bustle of the academy. Within its grand halls, the soft pop of a champagne cork echoed like a ceremonial trumpet—announcing the start of something far greater than just a quiet conversation between two men.
Gin Dojima raised the crystal glass to his lips, letting the pale golden liquid touch his tongue.
Sweet.
Slightly bitter.
A crisp acidity danced along the edges, counterbalanced by an aromatic bouquet of stone fruits and citrus. Tiny bubbles exploded with flavor on his tongue, giving it a vibrant liveliness. The taste wasn't just refined—it was layered, alive, evolving with every second.
He held the glass up to the light, the champagne catching the sun like a prism.
"…Exquisite," he finally muttered, the glow in his eyes revealing a deeper admiration.
Across from him, Director Senzaemon Nakiri chuckled, a deep, knowing sound that reverberated through the room like a low drumbeat. "It's good, isn't it?"
"It's exceptional. One of the best I've had, and I've toured the finest cellars across Europe. It's… alive." Dojima paused, then narrowed his eyes. "But… there's something oddly familiar about it."
"Ah, you caught that?" The Director's smile turned nostalgic. "This vintage was brewed by none other than Joichiro Saiba."
Dojima's eyes widened. His grip on the glass tightened. "What? Saiba brewed this?"
"Yes," Senzaemon said, swirling his own glass. "He gave me a few bottles when we met during the residential training."
For a moment, Dojima was silent, staring into the golden swirl of the drink. "It's hard to imagine. I always knew he was a genius, but this…"
"He hasn't lost his edge," the Director said quietly. "In fact, he may have sharpened it."
Dojima leaned back slowly. "It's been nearly twenty years since he dropped out. Sometimes it feels like yesterday."
"It's the same for me," Senzaemon said, voice somber. "And yet… time changes everything."
After a pause, the Director placed his glass down gently. "Gin, I didn't just invite you here to reminisce."
"I figured," Dojima said, straightening.
"It's about the Fall Selection," Senzaemon continued. "The Elite Ten should manage it, but they're scattered—tied up in their own affairs. They lack the experience needed for the logistics: building venues, hosting judges, managing suppliers. We need someone who knows how to run events on a grand scale."
"You want me to manage the selection?"
"Exactly. Assist the Elite Ten, oversee the planning. Your involvement is essential."
Dojima smiled faintly. "It would be my honor."
"Good." Senzaemon refilled their glasses. "We're counting on you."
As the wine's fragrance filled the room again, a contemplative silence settled over them—until Dojima broke it with a question that had lingered since Saiba's name had surfaced.
"Director… how is Joichiro, really?"
Senzaemon's face turned more solemn. "He's changed. When I saw him again, I barely recognized him. But he still carries the fire."
He hesitated. "Before visiting the academy, he stopped by a certain tavern."
Dojima raised a brow. "The tavern?"
"He tasted a dish there. Prepared by Zane."
"And?"
"He was impressed—said Zane had the potential to usher in a new era of cuisine."
For a moment, Dojima could almost see it: the unshakable Joichiro Saiba, the once peerless icon of Totsuki, staring in amazement at a dish crafted by a new generation.
"…That's no small praise," he whispered.
But the conversation was far from over. The Director's expression darkened, the lines on his face casting shadows across his features.
"There's something else."
Dojima's senses sharpened.
"The Night Chefs," Senzaemon said slowly.
Dojima's eyes snapped wide. "They've returned?"
"I'm not sure. But Joichiro mentioned them during our meeting. He believes they're stirring again. You remember what happened to SHINO'S?"
"How could I forget?" Dojima muttered. "Shinomiya barely recovered."
Senzaemon's voice dropped. "I fear what they're planning next."
Meanwhile – Totsuki Dormitory Kitchen
Yuuki Yoshino stood at the edge of her counter, her brow furrowed deeply.
"Curry…"
She muttered the word over and over, her fingers tapping the edge of her knife absentmindedly. Game meats were her strength—venison, rabbit, wild duck—but curry? That wasn't a comfort zone. Yet the more she thought about it, the more the challenge began to excite her.
She recalled the origin of curry—how it evolved as a blend of spices to tame strong, gamey flavors. It was practically made for someone like her.
"If I get the right cuts… fresh fat… the early autumn season is perfect…"
She stood up suddenly, determination flaring in her eyes.
"Ryoko! Megumi! I'm heading to the wild game market!"
Megumi Tadokoro sat silently, a thoughtful frown on her face.
"Curry…" she murmured.
Her thoughts drifted to the monkfish curry hotpot she'd tasted at the tavern. The rich, warming spice. The subtle layers. Could she replicate that emotion? That impact?
She didn't know—but she wanted to try.
Research Kitchen – Alice Nakiri
Clad in a clean white lab coat, Alice looked more like a surgeon preparing for a complex operation.
Curry was foreign to her usual style of molecular gastronomy, but she was never one to back down from a challenge. Her solution: sous vide curry chicken with molecular components.
Capsules filled with concentrated curry sauce. Lemongrass foam. Delicate plating. A scientific approach to a traditional flavor.
With surgical precision, she pierced one of the capsules. A burst of thick, fragrant sauce spilled onto the chicken breast.
She tasted.
The flavor was bold—at first. Then gone.
"…Vanished?" she whispered.
She frowned, mentally recalibrating. Had she sacrificed flavor for technique?
Evening – The Tavern
As night fell, the tavern filled with life again. Laughter, clinking glasses, and the warm glow of hanging lanterns gave it the feel of a safe haven from the world.
For poor students, tired salarymen, lonely housewives—this was a sanctuary.
Zane stood behind the counter, serving dishes with ease. After last night, even Takumi no longer avoided his gaze. A small step. A good one.
Then the door creaked open.
A tall figure in a suit stepped inside. Arrogant, composed.
Etsuya Eizan.
Zane's gaze met his. "Welcome."
Eizan glanced around the cozy interior, unimpressed. "You serve anything?"
"Anything," Zane replied, already turning toward the kitchen.
Inside, he prepared five meats:
Pig ears
Rabbit
Mountain deer
Beef kidney
Lamb rump
Each was handled with different care:
Kidneys and lamb were minced with salt, starch, ginger, and cumin.
Pig ears were lightly salted.
The rest were treated with star anise, fennel, and carefully balanced spices.
Zane simmered peppercorn water, then cooled and slowly mixed it into the meat paste, stirring in a single direction until the mixture was soft and elastic.
The aromas in the kitchen began to build. Smoky. Spiced. Layered.
Outside, Eizan sat back, arms crossed—but his expression had shifted.
"What is this guy…?"
He wasn't ready to admit it. But something about this place… and this chef… was different.
Something dangerous.