The final list of sixty participants for the Fall Selection was officially confirmed after a thorough review by the Elite Ten Council.
Naturally, familiar names dominated the roster—Alice Nakiri, Soma Yukihira, Ryo Kurokiba, Akira Hayama, Hisako Arato, and Ikumi Mito. These students were already known quantities, widely recognized for their extraordinary talent or prestigious backgrounds.
Yet, amid these renowned names stood the so-called underdogs—students who had made it through the grueling preliminaries against all odds. One such name stood out quietly: Megumi Tadokoro.
While some questioned how someone as timid and "average" as Megumi had earned her place, the truth was clear to those who had witnessed her journey. As Satoshi Isshiki put it, those who survived the brutal selection process had nothing left to prove—their dishes had spoken for them. Whether a student had a flashy reputation or not, those with subpar skills had long been weeded out.
In the end, the Fall Selection wasn't just a contest of culinary prowess—it was an examination.
Totsuki Academy was, above all else, an educational institution. It was not the FIFA World Cup or the NBA Finals. Ranking held some significance, of course, but true evaluation went beyond numbers.
Did the difference between the First Seat and the Second truly matter?
No—because being the First didn't necessarily mean you were the best at everything. And being the Second didn't mean you lacked personality, charisma, or skill. Totsuki's philosophy ran deeper.
Take Kuga Terunori, for instance.
Back during the hellish residential training camp, Megumi had modified Kuga's assigned recipe, technically violating the rules of the assignment. Kuga, as the task supervisor, could have failed her on the spot. But he hadn't. Her dish had resonated with him—evoking memories of his childhood, the warmth of home-cooked meals, and the flavors of his hometown.
In that moment, Kuga realized something essential: Totsuki wasn't about strict obedience or win-loss records—it was about seeing each student's true culinary heart.
The Fall Selection followed the same principle.
It wasn't just a fierce battlefield for fledgling chefs—it was a carefully crafted stage. A proving ground where young talent could shine under pressure, expressing themselves fully through their cuisine.
That evening, at 7 PM, the tavern was alive with activity. The warm lights inside contrasted with the cool dusk outside, casting a golden glow over the kitchen.
At the workstation stood Taki, the newest addition to Zane's growing team. Her face was set with seriousness, lips tight, brows lightly furrowed in focus. She wore a pristine white chef's uniform, the cuffs and collar crisp and unmarred.
In her grip was a heavy crescent-shaped chef's knife, its curved blade gleaming ominously under the overhead lights.
She exhaled once, centering herself—then began.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The rhythmic sound of her blade dancing across the cutting board filled the space. She moved swiftly, gracefully—parsley falling like green confetti under her blade. The scent of fresh herbs rose into the air.
When she was done, she straightened with a small smile, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.
Behind her, Zane clapped slowly. "Being able to handle a crescent knife that well… you really were the former Second Seat of the Elite Ten."
Taki crossed her arms, her mouth quirking into a smirk. "Not bad, huh? I'm still a little rusty, though."
Zane picked up the knife she had set down.
"Now it's my turn."
His demeanor shifted subtly. The air seemed to grow sharper, denser.
He didn't waste a second. The blade flew in his hands, pounding down on a thick cut of beef.
Bang!
The thud echoed like a war drum, followed by rapid, clean strikes—shhk-shhk-shhk—each precise, calculated, but elegant. The beat of his chopping was hypnotic, rising and falling like a conductor's baton.
Taki's eyes widened.
"He's faster than me…?"
Even with her experience, Zane's technique always managed to catch her off guard. He was a specialist in Chinese cuisine, but she knew firsthand that his expertise extended far beyond—to Nordic, Spanish, and even ancient forgotten culinary arts.
She said nothing further, simply watching him with newfound respect.
The tavern itself had changed in recent weeks.
A second renovation had added a cozy café section, increasing seating capacity and ambiance. Its operating hours had been extended until 2 AM. Most importantly, Zane had taken on his second official staff member—Taki.
Compared to the bright and bubbly Sonoka, Taki had a tougher edge. Her sharp gaze and occasionally irritable tone made her less suited for customer interaction, but she was perfect for Western desserts, complex preparation work, and exotic entrées.
Sonoka, by contrast, handled customer service and cashier work with grace and warmth. The balance worked.
Only one key figure was missing now—Erina Nakiri.
Her presence had once brought both chaos and color to the tavern. Now, without her, the atmosphere felt slightly duller, less unpredictable.
Just then, the automatic glass door slid open.
Zane turned toward the entrance, only to see a familiar figure step inside.
"Mr. Zane!"
It was Megumi Tadokoro.
She looked radiant—eyes bright, cheeks rosy from the evening chill. But tonight, she wasn't wearing her signature Totsuki uniform. Instead, she wore a simple, flowing white dress, cinched at the waist, giving her a graceful, almost ethereal presence.
Her smile was shy, warm.
"I just got back from home," she said. "I stopped by to drop these off for you!"
She reached into her bag and began placing items on the counter:
Kiku Fuku pastries—soft mochi stuffed with creamy fillings like matcha and edamame.
Sayama tea—delicate leaves harvested in the spring from Saitama, full of subtle flavor.
And four varieties of red bean paste—made with Tokachi red beans, Niigata Murakami tea, and a touch of black sesame.
Zane's brows rose.
"These… must've been a pain to carry."
"They're specialties from home," Megumi said, looking down. "I wanted you to try them."
Zane accepted the gifts without hesitation. He knew Megumi's heart—and to refuse would be to insult her sincerity.
"You must be starving after the trip," he said. "I've been working on a new dish. Want to be the first to try it?"
Megumi's eyes lit up. "I-I'd love to."
Back in the kitchen, Zane got to work.
Tonight's special: Sapporo Miso Ramen.
A dish born from the cold climates of Hokkaido, meant to warm the soul and body alike. Traditionally, the broth took ten hours to perfect—but Zane had long since mastered ways to accelerate the process without losing depth.
He brought out his secret weapon—a professional-grade pressure cooker.
In went dried mushrooms, kelp, ginger, shiitake, and matsutake. He simmered it in spring water and carefully added his handcrafted miso paste—thick, savory, slightly sweet.
Next came the noodles, boiled for exactly two minutes.
In a wide ceramic bowl, he layered the miso paste, ladled in the broth, and placed the noodles with care. Then came the toppings: blanched bean sprouts, narutomaki, nori sheets, leafy greens, thick slices of chashu pork, bamboo shoots, and a perfectly marinated soft-boiled egg—its yolk glowing like amber.
Zane placed the bowl in front of Megumi.
"Enjoy."
Megumi inhaled deeply.
Her eyes widened. The aroma—rich, earthy, comforting—made her heart flutter.
She started with the soft-boiled egg. The creamy yolk melted on her tongue, followed by the thick chashu, and the al dente noodles that carried the miso broth like silk.
"Mmm!"
Her cheeks flushed. "This tastes like home…"
She continued eating with gusto, every bite a silent compliment. Zane stood by, watching in quiet satisfaction. Moments like this were what made cooking worthwhile.
Once she finished, she reached into her bag again.
"By the way, Mr. Zane… I brought a photo to show you."
She handed him a small photograph. It depicted Megumi in a pale blue kimono, smiling brightly beside a woman with similar features—but older, elegant, and radiant.
"That's my mom," Megumi said softly. "She's very gentle… and loves me the most."
Zane stared at the photo. The woman's aura reminded him faintly of Mana or Leonora—noble, yet soft.
Megumi began speaking rapidly, her words tumbling out as she described her hometown, the people she met, the things she ate, and most of all, her mother's warmth.
At Totsuki, the pressure often made her feel alone and uncertain. But her mother always made her feel safe, loved, and whole.
Zane listened, silently.
And in that moment, watching Megumi talk about her world with shining eyes, he realized something else:
To her, the tavern had become a second home.
Maybe… he had, too.