A short note before the chapter begins. I have made a timeline mistake. The exam from Chapter 3 should take place at the beginning of March, but I did it exactly one month later. Just think that it is still April despite the one-month time skip, meaning that this chapter starts at the same time as Y3V1.
***
1 Month Later
April
Tōtsuki Culinary Academy, First Year's Entrance Ceremony
"We will now present the class insignia. First-year representative, Nakiri Erina."
"Ma'am."
A wave of murmurs swept through the assembled students as all eyes turned to Nakiri, watching as the insignia was affixed to her uniform.
The murmurs of admiration and awe rippled through the crowd as Nakiri Erina stood on the stage, the class insignia now adorning her pristine uniform.
"Aaah, Erina-sama is as elegant as usual today."
"Beautiful and the class valedictorian! She's the perfect elite!"
"I heard she took top marks by a mile in all of the advancement tests to get in here."
"One date with her, and I could die a happy man!"
"Shh! Don't say stuff like that, you idiot! You'll get erased!
"You do realize you're talking about the granddaughter of the undisputed don of the food mafia!"
The whispers faded as the announcement continued.
"And now, for the dean's address."
As those words echoed, an imposing presence entered the stage. An older man stepped forward—his long, spiky gray hair framing a stern face marked by a deep scar running diagonally over his right eye. His sharp gaze alone was enough to command silence. Though clad in a simple olive-colored yukata, tied with a white obi, and paired with geta sandals, his powerful, muscular build made it clear—he was not a man to be underestimated.
Nakiri Senzaemon.
The dean of Tōtsuki Culinary Academy.
The very same man who had secretly observed Ayanokoji and Yukihira's exam and ultimately decided their fate.
A wave of whispers rippled through the crowd.
"Oh god, he's terrifying!"
"He's not just the most powerful figure in Tōtsuki—his influence extends across all of Japan's culinary world!"
"He's not just some mafia don..."
"He's the godfather."
"The gastric godfather!"
Skrrch.
A screech from the microphone escaped as the sound gathered the attention of the crowd.
"Everyone," a deep, commanding voice boomed. "Congratulations on advancing to high school."
Nakiri Senzaemon stood tall, his gaze sweeping across the sea of first-years before him.
"In your three years of junior high, you have learned the fundamentals of cooking and developed an understanding of food. You have received hands-on culinary training, alongside rigorous classroom education in culinary science, dietetics, public health, horticulture, management..." He listed off subjects with precision, letting the weight of their past education settle over them.
"But now, as you stand at the threshold of your high school careers, know this—here, we do not test mere knowledge or technique."
"We test nothing less than your strength of will to become a chef."
Then he raised his hand, his finger cutting through the air like a blade as he pointed at the crowd.
"Children, 99 percent of you are nothing but common rocks. You exist solely to grind to perfection the 1 percent among you who are diamonds!"
A hushed murmur rippled through the audience. Then came a pause, deliberate and crushing in its weight.
"Last year's freshman class numbered 812," he continued, his voice unwavering. "And of them, the total number who survived to reach their second year..."
A ruthless smile spread across his face.
"Was only 76."
Gasps and whispers erupted like a tidal wave. Some students looked around in shock, while others stiffened, dread creeping up their spines.
But he wasn't finished.
"The worthless and the average are ruthlessly expunged. 1000 of you will begin this journey. By next year, only 100 will remain."
He let that sink in before delivering the final, crushing blow.
"And those who survive all the way to graduation?" His sharp eyes gleamed. "You could count them on one hand."
He once again pointed at the stunned crowd, his presence alone sending shudders through them. Some students trembled, their faces pale with fear. Others clenched their fists, forcing nervous smiles. And then, there were a few—outliers among the masses—who remained unfazed, their eyes burning with anticipation, excitement, or sheer insanity.
"Devote yourself," he commanded. "Body and soul."
"That is all!"
And with that, his speech ended. He turned, stepping off the stage with an air of finality.
The silence shattered.
"YEEEEEEAAAAAAH!" A chorus of cheers and cries erupted, some students hyping themselves up, others screaming in sheer panic.
The battle for survival had begun.
Nakiri Erina sat with poise, her arms crossed, as she observed the sea of first-years below. A light smile tugged at her lips as she mused to herself.
"This is the true power of the Tōtsuki brand name—the ruthless, complete competition to create an elite, chosen few."
Her purple eyes flickered with quiet satisfaction.
"Simply attending is a mark of prestige for any chef. But clawing your way to graduation guarantees a lifetime of culinary stardom."
Her gaze swept over the crowd, watching the varying reactions—some filled with dread, others with burning determination.
"Honestly, I pity you all."
She closed her eyes for a moment, then reopened them, sharp and resolute.
"You were all born to compete for second place."
Lifting her chin ever so slightly, she allowed herself a small, confident smirk.
"Because the only one destined to stand at the very top of Tōtsuki... and by extension, the entire Japanese culinary world... is me."
"Nakiri Erina."
"In closing..."
The announcement resumed, pulling Nakiri from her thoughts.
"A few words from the first of two transfer students."
"Two transfer students?" Nakiri mused, her brow furrowing slightly. "So, there were other transfer exams aside from mine..."
Her thoughts drifted back to that day—the day she had failed Yukihira and Ayanokoji.
Sigh.
A quiet breath escaped her lips. That moment when they all sat together, sharing a meal, had been... different. For a brief time, she had forgotten about judging, forgotten about analyzing flavors with her divine tongue. She had simply enjoyed the food, something she rarely allowed herself to do.
It was an unfamiliar, almost unsettling experience. Yet it lingered in her memory, resurfacing unexpectedly, as if her mind refused to let it go.
"Maybe I should ha—"
Just as the thought began to take form, an image of Yukihira's smug, teasing face crashed into her mind.
"No!" She clenched her fists, shaking her head. "Simply thinking about him irritates me!"
Just as she finished that thought—
"Ah, well. Wow, uh... it's real high up here, ain't it? Aha ha..."
"So, um, a keynote address? Me? Geez, do I have to? I always feel awkward up on stage..."
"HURRY UP AND GIVE YOUR SPEECH!!!" The announcer shouted.
"It's not like we'd ever cross paths again." Nakiri thought dismissively.
"Okay, okay. I'll keep it brief then."
Casually, Nakiri glanced at the speaker—only for her entire body to freeze in place. Her eyes widened, nearly popping out of their sockets, and her mouth agape in sheer disbelief.
"Uh, hi. My name's Yukihira Sōma."
The moment he introduced himself, Nakiri's breath hitched.
"Honestly, no one was more surprised than me that I actually got in. That other guy was insane to be so confident... but somehow, he was right."
The audience exchanged confused glances, having no clue what he was rambling about. Some were already growing restless.
"But anyway," he continued, a cocky grin creeping onto his face. "I've got no intention of losing to a bunch of amateurs who've never served real customers before. So now that I'm here..."
He let his words hang for a moment, his carefree gaze sweeping over the stunned crowd.
"...this school is just a steppingstone for me."
With that, he raised his right index finger toward the sky.
"I'll be taking the top spot."
The crowd fell into stunned silence.
"Oh! I hope we all get along for the next three years." He said so while taking a short bow.
Nakiri's mind went blank. Her body remained frozen, her mouth slightly open as if struggling to process what she had just witnessed.
"That idiot... that complete, utter fool—!"
Meanwhile, the rest of the crowd erupted in chaos.
"Did he just say steppingstone?!"
"Who does this guy think he is?!"
"Taking the top spot? Has he lost his mind?!"
To put things into perspective.
Imagine dedicating three grueling years of your life to culinary school, pushing yourself to the absolute limit, honing your skills, and finally advancing to high school, a coveted spot at the prestigious Tōtsuki Culinary Academy. You arrive, filled with pride, standing among the best of the best, believing you've made it—only to have some transfer student, someone who never went through the same trials, step onto the stage and completely dismiss everything you've worked for.
Not only does he brush off the school itself, but he calls you—yes, you—a mere steppingstone. A warm-up. An obstacle in his personal path to greatness.
The weight of that insult would hit like a truck. It wouldn't just be arrogance—it would be an outright challenge, a declaration of war against every single first-year present.
"Tch... he's just as infuriating as before," Nakiri muttered under her breath, yet her fingers clenched into a fist at her side.
"This idiot really transferred into Tōtsuki?! How did this happen?!"
"And what's wit—"
A sudden sigh cut through her thoughts.
Nakiri turned, startled—only to find a young man calmly seated beside her, as if he had been there the entire time.
He rested one arm casually on the bench, his gaze fixed on the stage with detached amusement.
"What a speech," he muttered, his voice cool and unreadable. "Way to become the public enemy of the entire student body in under a minute."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"You—"
Before Nakiri could fully process his sudden appearance and before she could form the whole sentence—
The announcer's voice cut through the lingering uproar, attempting to restore order.
"Ahem... now we will welcome the second transfer student."
The crowd, still rattled from Yukihira's bold declaration, barely had time to react before the young man beside Nakiri rose from his seat with quiet composure.
Brushing a bit of imaginary dust from his clothes, he exhaled softly.
Like Yukihira before him, he hadn't donned the standard school uniform. Instead, he wore his own attire—simple, clean, and formal. In fact, it was nearly identical to what he had worn during the transfer examination: a black collared shirt, the top button left undone, paired with beige trousers and polished black shoes.
Two transfer students, dressed differently, walking their own paths.
And now it was his turn to speak.
"Time to become the second public target," Ayanokoji Kiyotaka said, almost to himself, with a faint trace of dry amusement in his voice.
Then, without so much as a glance back, he stepped forward onto the stage, all eyes beginning to turn his way.
As Ayanokoji stepped forward, Yukihira passed by him on his way back, the grin on his face growing by the second.
He offered a casual nod, his voice low but playful.
"Good luck out there, partner in crime."
Ayanokoji said nothing and only met his gaze with a faint, unreadable look as they crossed paths—two anomalies moving in opposite directions.
Back in the audience, Nakiri's eyes remained fixed on Ayanokoji's back. For a brief moment, something tugged at the corners of her lips.
A small smile. Subtle, fleeting—yet undeniably real.
An expression even she didn't realize had surfaced.
The mere presence of those two—so unorthodox, so contrary to everything Tōtsuki stood for—had stirred something in her.
But just as quickly as it came, the smile faded. Her features returned to their usual composed elegance.
Unaware of the momentary shift in herself, she sat quietly... but something inside her had already begun to change.
𓌉◯𓇋
Delivering a speech wasn't exactly part of my plans for today—but here I am.
My thoughts briefly drifted to that man's words. "Your goal is to aim for the top. No more hiding in the shadows."
But those words wouldn't be the foundation of what I was about to say.
For two years at ANHS, I played the role of the average student—blending in, keeping my head low, and moving the pieces from the background.
Now, that game is over.
This time, I'll walk the opposite path. I'll stand out. I'll be the one everyone sets their sights on. Hated. Targeted. Challenged.
All in an environment where, for once, I'm not the strongest from the start.
Let them try to take me down.
Let them all come for me.
Let this school life begin.
I stood at the podium, surveying the crowd. Most of them glared at me with blatant hostility, but my eyes remained indifferent as I quietly took note of each face—especially the ones that seemed worth remembering.
Some wore expressions of pure anger, but a few were simply observing, studying me rather than despising me outright.
And yet, the speech had not even begun.
I tapped the microphone, hearing a faint crackle that confirmed it was functioning.
I leaned in slightly, allowing a brief hush to settle over the hall. Whatever rage, confusion, or curiosity they directed at me mattered little; I would deliver what needed to be said.
"Good morning," I began, my voice echoing through the speakers in a steady, measured tone. "I'll keep this short."
A collective wave of murmurs swept through the crowd. Some were bracing themselves for another outrageous speech like the one Yukihira had just given. Others already wore hardened expressions, as if daring me to shock them.
"My name is Ayanokoji Kiyotaka. Unlike many of you, I haven't spent years of training under Tōtsuki's curriculum," I continued calmly, my gaze drifting across the rows of students. "That means I'm stepping into an arena where you have the advantage—at least for now."
"However," I continued, allowing my voice to resonate with an unwavering calm, "I'm not here to flatter you or earn your respect. In truth, I don't really care whether you think I belong here or not. Tōtsuki prides itself on excellence, on forging the best of the best..." My gaze swept across the assembly, capturing the dismissive sneers and doubtful stares. "...yet so few actually make it to the top."
I heard someone in the back snort, and a wave of irritation rippled through a section of the crowd. Good. They were listening.
"You boast about your lineage, about the years of specialized training you've put in—maybe you've studied under famous chefs or come from families with Michelin-starred restaurants. Congratulate yourselves." My words were biting, and I knew it. "But I wonder... how many of you are confident enough to say you'll still be here next year?"
A collective bristle went through the hall. The tension was tangible. I sensed the anger rising, but I pressed on, undeterred.
"Because if all you've got is your family name, your so-called high pedigree, you won't last long. Tōtsuki discards the weak and the unremarkable. And to be frank, I see a sea of faces—" I flicked my fingers dismissively across the crowd "—most of which will be gone before the year is up."
A low rumble of voices ignited, some outraged, some disbelieving. My heart rate didn't spike in the slightest.
"I don't have a famous mentor or the specialized training you all received here. By that logic, I'm the easiest target among you." I sensed the crowd's attention intensify.
"If you truly believe I'm beneath you, then by all means—come and crush me. Prove that your prestigious training and your years at Tōtsuki's junior high have made you superior in every way. I welcome it. Because if I am as weak as you think, it shouldn't take you long to send me packing."
"This academy," I said, my gaze wandering from one doubtful face to another, "claims to be the pinnacle of culinary excellence. It boasts it can polish the finest gems, discarding any who don't make the cut. Well then..."
I allowed the hush to stretch a heartbeat longer.
"I'm here to see whether that's true—or if Tōtsuki's claims are just as hollow as your self-righteous pride. And if it is true—if the top here really is as high as everyone says—then I'll simply climb it. Step by step. Dish by dish."
Anger flared in the eyes of many. A handful wore twisted smiles, eager for the prospect of tearing me down.
"I have no intention of asking for anyone's approval," I concluded. "But remember this: if you aim to knock me out early, make sure you're ready. Because I have no problem returning the favor."
"That's all I have to say. Enjoy the rest of the ceremony. To those who plan to remain standing by next year..." My gaze scanned the crowd. "...I'll be waiting."
The moment I stepped back from the microphone, the entire crowd erupted. Shouts rang out from all corners. A few students pushed forward, nearly crowding the makeshift stage, their eyes burning with hostility.
And then, off to the side, stood Yukihira—arms casually thrown behind his head, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. His gaze shifted back and forth between the agitated crowd and me, unmistakable amusement dancing in his eyes as if he were one second away from bursting into laughter.
He'd already stirred the hornet's nest with his own speech. But now I'd raised the stakes.
With the crowd shifting and churning around me, there was no doubt—I'd just become the number one enemy of this school.
𓌉◯𓇋
As Ayanokoji made his way toward the tent, Yukihira couldn't hold it in any longer. He burst into laughter, doubling slightly as he grabbed at his stomach, practically wheezing.
By the time Ayanokoji reached him, Yukihira had barely composed himself, swiping a hand across the corner of his eyes to wipe away the tears of laughter.
"Damn, hahaha—" he chuckled, voice still cracking, "you're the most insane person I've ever met."
"That speech—that speech—you pulled that off completely straight-faced? On the spot? No notes, no hesitation? You didn't even blink!"
He let out another fit of laughter and raised his hand up with a grin, calling for a high five. Without saying a word, Ayanokoji met it with a crisp clap.
Off to the side, Nakiri stared at the two of them like they were from another planet. Her mouth was slightly agape, eyes wide in pure disbelief.
What kind of maniacs were just let into this school?!
She stared at Ayanokoji, eyes narrowed in exasperated disbelief.
"And here I thought you were the sane one!" she snapped, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction. "Based on how you acted last time, I actually believed you had a sense of reason!"
Her voice rose slightly, frustration bleeding through.
"But you're even more insane than Yukihira-kun!"
Yukihira snorted with laughter. "Ouch. That's gotta sting a little, huh?"
Ayanokoji, meanwhile, offered no defense—just his usual unreadable expression, hands in his pockets, as if he hadn't just declared war on the entire school.
Unbeknownst to the trio, just a short distance away—hidden behind one of the support beams near the tent—stood Dean Nakiri Senzaemon.
Arms crossed over his broad chest, he listened in on their conversation with quiet amusement. As Nakiri's exasperated voice echoed and Yukihira's laughter rang through the air, a wide, satisfied grin slowly stretched across the old man's face.
"Hoh... how interesting," he muttered under his breath, the scar over his eye tugging as his expression deepened into something between pride and anticipation.
So these are the sparks that will light the fire... He mused. Let the new era begin.
𓌉◯𓇋
As the crowd began to scatter, drifting away from the stage and toward the looming gates of their new academic lives, a lone figure remained seated on the edge of the courtyard.
A girl with dark blue hair, styled in two braided pigtails that hung neatly over her shoulders, sat quietly on a chair beneath a tree. A small flower-shaped hairpin adorned the right side of her head—one of the few cheerful things about her appearance.
Her name was Tadokoro Megumi, and her expression was anything but bright.
Eyes glossy with the beginnings of tears, she clutched her hands in her lap, her shoulders slightly hunched. The entrance ceremony was over, but the weight on her chest remained heavy. She hadn't just barely passed the advancement exam into high school—she had done so as the very last successful candidate.
If things continued like this... she knew what was coming.
Expulsion.
Tōtsuki didn't tolerate dead weight. If her performance didn't drastically improve, it was only a matter of time before she'd be shown the door.
But she couldn't let that happen.
Not after everything her village had done to support her.
She took in a shaky breath, wiping the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.
"I'm already clinging to the very bottom. I have to be careful... quiet. No mistakes. No attention." Her eyes darted anxiously toward the fading figures of Yukihira Sōma and Ayanokoji Kiyotaka—two names already infamous before classes had even begun.
"Especially not the wrong kind of attention... like those two caused!"
Gritting her teeth, Megumi pushed herself up from the chair, balling her fists tightly at her sides.
"Y-yeah! No matter what... I've got to stay as far away from those two as possible!" she declared to herself.
And with that, she marched off toward her first lesson of the day—completely unaware of the destiny that had already decided otherwise.
10 minutes later...
"Good. Has everyone now paired up?" the instructor called out, clapping his hands once to draw attention. "This will be your partner for preparing today's recipe."
For a moment, silence reigned—followed immediately by a ripple of murmurs and a wave of shifting glances.
There was one spot in the center of the room that drew every bit of attention.
Hostile stares. Whispers. Tension.
All of it was directed at a trio standing awkwardly close together.
At the center of it stood Ayanokoji Kiyotaka, his expression as unreadable as ever, quietly surveying the unfamiliar classroom, unaffected by the pressure. Next to him, Yukihira Sōma leaned on one foot, whistling a carefree tune as if none of the glares were even worth acknowledging.
And then there was the third.
Tadokoro Megumi, whose complexion had drained of all color. Her trembling hands cupped her cheeks as her knees buckled ever so slightly.
"No... no... no..." she whispered, each word weaker than the last, spaced apart like the dying ticks of a countdown clock.
Just ten minutes ago, she had made a heartfelt vow to avoid the two transfer students at all costs.
Now?
She was standing between both of them.
Fate, it seemed, had a sense of humor—and it was very, very cruel.