Tōtsuki Academy.
Within this sprawling citadel of gastronomy, where glass towers pierced the sky and talent bloomed like spring flowers, a modest structure nestled on a quiet mountainside seemed out of place. Unlike the cutting-edge facilities of Tōtsuki, this small wooden house barely spanned a hundred square meters.
But it wasn't humble—it was intentional.
Lush herbs and flowers blanketed every inch of its surroundings. Vibrant roses, elegant orchids, towering stalks of lemongrass, and delicate hanging vines flowed seamlessly into one another like an aromatic tapestry. Every corner was filled with life, the air thick with a fragrant blend of mint, jasmine, and crushed bay leaves. Each plant was flourishing, meticulously cared for by someone who didn't just study spices—they revered them.
This was the headquarters of the Shiomi Research Society.
Inside, the space was equally thoughtful. Artful but uncluttered, with abstract paintings on the walls and shelves overflowing with jars labeled in elegant calligraphy: cumin, fenugreek, mace, clove, star anise, and more. The wide window provided a breathtaking view of the terraced landscape below, where the rest of Tōtsuki gleamed like a culinary utopia.
At the heart of it all stood one of the most gifted students the academy had ever produced—Akira Hayama.
Akira wasn't just a prodigy—he possessed an olfactory sense that bordered on divine. His refined sense of smell, sharp as a blade honed on stone, was now focused entirely on perfecting his latest dish for the upcoming Autumn Selection.
Today, he was preparing a South Indian-style curry chicken.
In the open kitchen, he grated fresh ginger and garlic, letting the earthy aroma fill the room before mixing them with turmeric, chili powder, and unsweetened yogurt. He massaged the mixture into trimmed chicken wings, each coated evenly in the golden marinade.
Unlike Southeast Asian curries that relied on coconut milk for richness, Indian recipes—especially from the south—often used yogurt for depth and tenderness. It was a detail that showcased Akira's dedication to authenticity.
As the chicken rested, he began the curry base. He finely chopped onions and tomatoes, then heated a generous swirl of mustard oil in a copper pan. First, he tossed in the onions and stirred until they turned translucent, then added the tomatoes and continued cooking until they softened into a paste.
Turmeric, garlic powder, curry powder, and salt followed. As he stirred the vibrant mixture, the room filled with the intense perfume of toasted spices, the scent wrapping around him like a cloak.
He added more oil, enhancing the bloom of the spices, before introducing the marinated chicken wings. The sizzle was immediate. He seared them on all sides, then covered the pot and allowed it to simmer slowly. When the wings began releasing their own fat, he added a splash of water and let it finish cooking under low heat.
As the flavors melded, the aroma of the dish seemed to dance through the kitchen, spicy and deep with warm notes of cumin, cardamom, and something floral—
A quiet voice broke the silence.
"Hayama, how much of a chance do you think this curry has in the Autumn Selection?"
Jun Shiomi, head of the Shiomi Research Society, was sprawled on a couch in a lab coat three sizes too large, hair slightly disheveled. She didn't even look up from the dying iris plant she held in her lap.
"Who knows. It'll either win or it won't."
"…I shouldn't have asked."
Akira scratched his head awkwardly.
Normally, Shiomi-sensei would at least taste-test and give him notes. But today, her mind was somewhere else entirely. He set down the plated curry and pulled up a chair.
"How's the iris project going?" he asked gently.
"They're dying. Every last one of them."
Her voice was flat, but her eyes were rimmed with frustration. "The leaves are browning, the stems are brittle. I've adjusted everything. Light, nutrients, watering schedule—nothing's working."
Akira blinked. "Is it the soil mix?"
"Absolutely not." Her tone sharpened. "I used sandy soil, leaf mold, and garden soil in perfect balance. I even added decomposed organic fertilizer. The problem isn't the medium—it's something else."
She exhaled sharply, shoulders slumping. For someone who had published globally recognized papers on spice plant extraction, being thwarted by a flower felt like a cosmic joke.
The iris was no ordinary plant.
Since ancient times, it had been a symbol of French royalty—graceful, noble, and fragrant. But unlike most flowers prized for their petals, the iris held its treasure underground.
Its roots.
The rhizome of the iris, once dried and aged, produced irone—a fragrant compound used in the world's most luxurious perfumes. The scent was earthy, powdery, with a violet-like sweetness that lingered on the skin. Extracting true iris essential oil took years—literally.
Planting in fall, blooming by the third year. After that, the roots had to be harvested, peeled, sliced, and dried for another three years before the precious irone compound formed. Only then could it be ground and distilled into orris butter, and later into pure iris essential oil.
The yield? So minuscule that even a single kilogram could cost over 50 million yen.
And yet, Jun Shiomi wasn't deterred.
In fact, she had set her sights on something even more ambitious: bioengineering microbial fermentation to produce irone at scale. A true breakthrough for the spice and fragrance industry.
But first, she had to keep the flowers alive.
And right now, she couldn't even manage that.
While Akira was refining spices in pans, Jun Shiomi was drowning in scientific papers and irrigation experiments. The stress had taken a toll.
"Ironic, isn't it?" she muttered, watering a near-withered iris on the windowsill. "An expert in spices… defeated by a flower."
Akira didn't reply. He respected her too much to offer empty encouragement. Instead, he served her a plate of curry, hoping it might restore some of her energy.
She ignored it completely.
Elsewhere, in the lively chaos of Zane's tavern—
The mood couldn't have been more different.
"Zane, isn't it ready yet?!" Mana whined, practically bouncing in her seat. Her eyes locked on the sizzling lobster in the fryer like a cat stalking prey. "I'm drooling here!"
Zane sighed. "Calm down. It's almost done."
He gave the oil one final stir, watching the golden breading darken to perfection.
As he removed the pieces, the shrimp gleamed under the lights—golden, crisp, and utterly mouthwatering.
"This," he announced with pride, "is the Cloud Dragon Fried Shrimp."
The shrimp curled into perfect arcs, plated like fine art. At the base where the tails had been, Zane had filled them with crushed walnuts, pine nuts, and salted egg yolk for a rich, savory crunch.
Mana couldn't wait any longer. She grabbed a piece and shoved it into her mouth.
Crunch!
Her teeth cracked through the nut coating. Then the soft tofu skin underneath gave way—releasing a warm, lemon-sweet sauce that exploded on her tongue. Finally, she reached the firm, bouncy lobster meat at the center.
It was a three-layered miracle.
Crispy on the outside.
Soft and juicy in the middle.
Firm and succulent at the core.
Each bite made her eyes roll back in joy.
"This sauce… it's inside the shrimp?"
Anne blinked in awe. "How did he…?"
Zane nodded. "Tofu skin was used as a natural capsule. During high-temperature frying, it seals the sauce inside and prevents it from leaking. It's like biting into a flavor bomb."
Mana didn't even hear them.
She was already on her second piece, cheeks bulging with shrimp, her eyes glimmering with delight.
This wasn't just fried shrimp.
It was art.