14. The Slice of Freedom

The next day arrived with a haze of routine and hushed murmurs hanging in the air. In the same corner of the grand dining hall, Lytharis sat once more, her hands folded neatly on her lap, her eyes casting occasional glances toward the arched doorway.

Just in time, Dante burst through with his usual stride—bold, untamed, full of fire.

"Hey, Lytharis!" he called out across the tables.

She looked up and blushed slightly. "H...hi, Dante," she replied, brushing a lock of silvery hair behind her pointed ear.

The two settled into their usual corner, and soon, their conversation spilled into hobbies, favorite music from their seperate realms, and even into more intimate aspects—like their races and culture.

"So you're saying this... shared magic," Dante leaned forward, trying to make sense of it, "is like... a male and female elf linking up permanently? Like a bond?"

Lytharis nodded thoughtfully. "Kind of, yes. It's deeper than mere emotion or attraction. When two elves perform a ritual to intertwine their magic, it's... intimate. Their mana either clashes, or it flows. If it weaves together naturally, like threads forming a single tapestry, then it's believed to be fate. A perfect union."

Dante blinked. "You make it sound like... love is literally magical."

A soft laugh escaped her. "In our realm, it is."

Before Dante could form another question, a groan escaped from Lytharis as she lifted her fork. She stared down at the slop served on their trays. "Lirae's mercy," she muttered, chewing slowly before grimacing. "This tastes like mashed sand... without the spice."

Dante looked around. Most of the students—elves, dwarves, even orcs—wore the same defeated expressions as they picked at their food. But one table, seated near the center like royalty, laughed and dined with golden utensils. The nobles—Taka among them—were served elegant portions of steaming meat, golden-crusted bread, and glowing vegetables.

Something inside Dante snapped.

He poked at his own food. It was slimy and oddly elastic, more paste than nourishment. He pinched a piece between his fingers, squinted at the texture... then suddenly flinched.

His eyes widened. "No way," he muttered.

He shot up from his seat.

"Dante?" Lytharis blinked, concerned.

"Don't worry," he said, his voice brimming with certainty. "Stay right there. I'm about to show this place what real food tastes like."

He marched up to the serving counter, facing the round-bellied caterer whose stained apron spoke volumes.

"Hi. I'm Dante. Can I use the kitchen to cook something myself?" he asked, direct and unfazed. "I'll pay for the ingredients I use."

The caterer raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Well, simple," Dante said, loud enough for others to hear. "Because the food here sucks."

One student nearby spat water from his mouth in shock, coughing with laughter.

The caterer squinted. "Oh really? And you think you can cook better than me? You're what—ten?"

The other staff snorted and chuckled behind him.

"Wanna put your gold coins where your mouth is?" Dante grinned.

"You're a cocky little runt," the caterer said, arms folded. "Alright. You cook. But if you lose, you'll eat whatever I cook—the worst of it—until you graduate."

"Deal," Dante said, then raised a finger. "But if I win—you'll relearn how to cook. Properly. For everyone. No more giving the nobles gourmet meals while the rest of us eat trash. Got it?"

Gasps and whispers spread.

The caterer's face flushed red. "Fine! But only the Headmaster, the Discipliner, and another chef get to judge."

"You're on."

Dante stormed into the kitchen. He washed his hands thoroughly, rolled up his sleeves, and tied a clean rag around his head. He wiped down a smooth wooden table, clearing it of grime and dust.

He began.

Two cups of all-purpose flour went into a large wooden bowl. He added a teaspoon of salt, a tablespoon of sugar, a pinch of dry yeast, and a tablespoon of olive oil. Carefully, he poured in warm water—not hot, not cold—and stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon until it formed a sticky dough. He kneaded it, folding and pressing it again and again until it turned soft and elastic. Then, he covered it with a damp cloth and let it rest in a warm spot.

Outside, word of the event spread like wildfire.

Teachers whispered. Students ran to the hall. Dragons perched by the windows. Elves and dwarves abandoned their studies. Even a few senior mages peeked in with curiosity.

In the Headmaster's office, an instructor knocked urgently.

"Sir Danio! There's a… situation in the dining hall."

"What now?" the Headmaster sighed.

"It's... Dante Ruthwilfer. He's challenged the caterer. Says the food is inedible and he's going to make something better."

The Headmaster's face raised a brow. "Dante… Ruthwilfer? From the Ruthwilfer Ballroom Demon Raid last year?"

"Yes, sir."

The Headmaster stood. "I'm going down."

Back in the kitchen, the dough had risen.

Dante punched it down, rolled it into a perfect ball, then flattened it with expert hands into a circular disk. He tossed it into the air with practiced flair. The dough twirled, catching the firelight. Students gasped. Even the stern teachers leaned forward.

Lytharis watched in awe, eyes wide with admiration.

Dante mixed crushed tomatoes, garlic, herbs, and a dash of salt into a thick, red sauce. He spread it evenly on the dough. Next, he grated fresh cheese until the surface was generously covered. He added pieces of chicken ham, and after a brief pause, he chopped and scattered pineapple chunks.

"Not traditional," he muttered. "But I like it with or without it."

He brushed the crust with a mixture of beaten egg, olive oil, and melted butter. Then, he slid the whole creation into the blazing oven.

The smell began to bloom.

Aromas of roasted cheese, savory sauce, and warm bread danced through the hall like invisible magic. Mouths watered. Even the Headmaster, now standing among the crowd, raised his brows in quiet astonishment.

After forty minutes, Dante pulled out the dish.

It gleamed golden-brown with bubbling cheese and perfect charred edges. He cut it into even slices with a clean blade and began plating them.

Everyone assumed he'd present the first slice to the judges.

Instead, he walked straight to Lytharis and placed a steaming plate before her.

"Here," he said, smiling. "Enjoy it, Lytharis."

She blinked, touched by the gesture. Slowly, she picked up her fork and sliced off a bite. The moment it touched her tongue, her breath caught.

Her eyes welled with tears.

"Lirae's mercy," she whispered. "This... this tastes like peace. It's like a mother's embrace, wrapped in warmth and salt and sweetness... I feel safe."

Gasps echoed around the hall.

Dante returned to the counter and presented the remaining slices to the Headmaster, the Discipliner, and a fellow chef—not the caterer.

Each took a bite.

"What is this sensation!?" the second chef cried out with a laugh.

"I feel like I'm floating!" the Discipliner whispered, hands trembling. "I want more!"

The Headmaster, eyes narrowed in judgment, took a careful bite.

His eyes widened.

Then he slowly placed his fork down and looked directly at Dante.

"Young man," he said, voice deep and commanding. "What is this dish called? Never in my 70 years as a mage who eaten many dishes over and over again felt like this. It's really.... refreshing."

The crowd fell into complete silence.

Dante stood tall, eyes unwavering. In this moment, he wasn't just any kind of student.

Knowing this dish was from his previous life.

He was about to change his fate from here on out.

"I call it... the Pizza."

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Chapter 14 — End.