God's Tongue

Two weeks had passed since my withdrawal from Advanced Nurturing High School.

During that time, my days had been consumed by absorbing an overwhelming amount of theoretical knowledge—culinary techniques, ingredient pairings, recipe structures, and the history of gourmet cuisine.

But theory could only take me so far.

My father, in his usual way of testing limits, had deliberately restricted me from practical cooking. No actual hands-on experience, no time in a kitchen, nothing.

That meant I would be walking into this examination completely untested, relying solely on my ability to apply theoretical knowledge in real-time.

The only practical experience I had?

A single instance.

The time when Horikita instructed me while I cooked for Amasawa, convincing her to partner with Sudō during our exam.

And yet, despite that lack of experience, I wasn't concerned.

Tōtsuki's structure was peculiar. Through the documents I had reviewed, I confirmed something important—the exam I was taking today was specifically designed for transfer students.

However, it didn't take long to figure out why my father had falsified my records.

It wasn't to help me by starting in the first year. No—it was a necessity.

Because Tōtsuki didn't accept transfers beyond the first year.

One could only enroll in middle school or, at the latest, just before the start of high school.

A restriction designed to ensure that only those who had endured Tōtsuki's brutal curriculum from the beginning could reach graduation.

"What an interesting school." I thought.

I was interrupted by the sudden ringing of my phone.

Glancing at the screen, I already knew who it was before answering.

As I picked up, my father's cold, measured voice came through.

"Kiyotaka. Today is the examination. Don't disappoint me."

His words were devoid of any concern—just an expectation.

"If you fail, you will return to the White Room. If you pass, you will have the opportunity to remain there for three years."

He didn't need to elaborate. Returning to that place wasn't an option.

"Of course," he continued, "your goal will be to aim for the top. No more lurking in the shadows, understood?"

I remained silent for a moment.

Then, I responded with the only words necessary.

"Understood."

The call ended.

Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I turned my gaze ahead.

Tōtsuki Culinary Academy's gates loomed before me.

The sight before me was impressive—massive structures built directly into the mountainside, surrounded by dense greenery. The academy sprawled across multiple levels, with grand staircases leading to various buildings, each one exuding an air of exclusivity.

The campus blended traditional Japanese architecture with modern high-rise facilities. Some buildings had sleek glass exteriors reflecting the sunlight, while others bore the intricate wooden detailing of an era long past. 

And yet, as I took in the grandiosity of it all, a question formed in my mind.

"How have I never heard of this school before? It has the same scale as Advanced Nurturing High School, which was built on an entire island."

A facility of this magnitude, boasting international recognition and producing some of the most influential chefs in the world—yet it had remained outside my knowledge until now.

It was a curious oversight.

Either way, it didn't matter now.

Just as I was about to take my first steps forward into Tōtsuki Culinary Academy, a desperate voice cut through the air, catching my attention.

"No, please! I'll pay ten million—no, twenty million! Just undo my son's expulsion, I beg you!"

I turned my head slightly toward the source of the commotion.

A man, dressed in an expensive business suit, was on his knees before a group of staff members near the academy gates. His desperation was palpable—his hands clenched together in a pleading gesture, his forehead nearly touching the ground.

And he wasn't alone.

A dozen other parents were doing the same, their voices filled with desperation as they begged for their children's reinstatement.

But the staff members didn't even flinch.

Their expressions remained neutral—impassive. It was clear that there was no room for negotiation. The decision was final.

"Twenty million yen, huh," I murmured to myself.

At ANHS, twenty million private points could undo an expulsion or transfer a student between classes—a staggering sum that held immense power within that system.

But here?

Even that amount was meaningless.

This place operated under an entirely different set of rules. If someone was expelled, that was it—no appeals, no second chances, or so my current knowledge told me.

Only 1% of students would successfully graduate, meaning that—unlike ANHS, where weaker students could potentially be carried to the finish line—Tōtsuki had no safety net.

Every year, roughly 1,000 students enter their first year at Tōtsuki, yet by the time they advance to the second year, only about 100 remain.

And by the end of their third year?

Less than 10 will graduate.

A true battlefield—where even the most talented could be mercilessly eliminated.

Here, those who lacked the skill to prove themselves would be ruthlessly cast aside.

It was a structure reminiscent of the system Nagumo had aimed to implement—one built on absolute meritocracy, where only the strongest would succeed.

The thought was intriguing.

But I had no reason to linger. Ignoring the desperate cries of the parents, I climbed the grand stone stairway leading up toward the main academy grounds.

When I reached the plateau, I was met with an overwhelming sight—a massive crowd of people gathered in front of the examination hall.

Aspiring students.

Many of them had come here to take the transfer examination, hoping to earn a place at Tōtsuki Culinary Academy.

Most of them were dressed in extravagant attire, their outfits screaming wealth and privilege—designer suits, luxury watches, custom-tailored dresses. Sons and daughters of powerful business people, renowned chefs, and corporate elites.

Meanwhile, I stood among them, decidedly underdressed in comparison.

I wasn't wearing anything extravagant—just a black collared shirt, beige pants, and black leather shoes. Simple. Clean. Efficient.

Yet, as soon as I began walking toward the examination hall, I felt several gazes turn toward me.

Whispers. Curious glances. Some were subtle, others blatant.

I could already feel the scrutiny from the students around me.

Some were subtle, merely casting quick glances in my direction before returning to their own conversations. Others, however, were more blatant, openly staring at me as if I were some sort of anomaly among them.

"Sigh..."

"I completely stand out."

Most of them were shorter than me—expected, considering I was two years older than them. The height difference was noticeable, making it clear that I didn't quite fit in with the typical first-year age group.

Then the whispers started.

"Wow..." someone murmured, nudging their friend.

"He looks like a model," a girl whispered excitedly, her voice barely contained.

More murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"Ne, ne, Ai-chan, how about you go talk to him?" Another girl teased her friend, nudging her with a playful grin. "Didn't you say you wanted a handsome boyfriend?"

The girl in question—Ai-chan, apparently—flushed red, waving her hands dismissively.

"Wha—?! Shut up! That's not—!" she sputtered, avoiding eye contact with me as her friends giggled.

It was a conversation I had no interest in.

However, what caught my attention wasn't their gossiping—it was the underlying contrast in how I was being perceived.

Among the elite culinary hopefuls, appearances mattered far less than lineage and skill. The ones whispering were likely just reacting to my height, features, or appearance rather than anything meaningful.

But there were others—students who weren't admiring me, but analyzing me.

A few individuals in the crowd were studying me carefully, their expressions unreadable.

Some had narrowed their eyes, as if assessing whether I was competition.

Others had looks of disdain, likely assuming I had entered through connections rather than skill.

I ignored all of them.

Instead, I focused on what lay ahead—the massive entrance doors leading into the examination hall.

As I was about to step into the examination hall, a sudden thud from behind caught my attention.

I turned my head slightly toward the source of the commotion. My gaze settled on a boy who had been knocked to the ground.

He was a teenager with sharp yellow eyes, filled with barely contained frustration. A thin vertical scar ran through his left eyebrow, a small but noticeable mark on his otherwise youthful face. His spiky dark-red hair gave him a rough, almost rebellious look, though his short bangs softened the intensity of his features slightly.

Above him stood another examinee—his posture arrogant, his eyes filled with contempt. "Filthy peasant." The standing boy sneered, dusting off his sleeves as if he had been dirtied by the very presence of the one he had just knocked down. "Do not presume to sit next to me!"

Mocking laughter followed, spreading through a small group of examinees nearby.

"Hahaha! Did you hear that? The son of some common cafeteria cook wants in here!"

"Now that's a joke!"

"Listen up, you lowborn commoner!" another jeered, looking down at the boy on the ground like he was nothing more than trash. "Peasants like you have no place here."

I watched silently.

This was nothing more than a display of hierarchy—the so-called "strong" exerting dominance over those they deemed beneath them.

But in reality, it had nothing to do with strength.

It was about heritage. Lineage. Prestige.

To these so-called "elites," being born into culinary royalty was everything. It determined who had the right to step forward and who had the right to even attempt to belong at Tōtsuki. Skill? Hard work? Talent? None of that mattered to them—not unless it was paired with the right family name.

One might assume that in the twenty-first century, outdated notions of class superiority would have faded, that merit would have taken precedence over bloodline.

But human nature doesn't change so easily.

In an environment like this, where the privileged are gathered together, their true instincts emerge. The need to establish dominance, to define the weak and the strong based on their own arbitrary standards.

And in this case?

It wasn't their own power they relied on. It wasn't their own abilities they flaunted.

It was their background.

They leaned on the wealth of their families, the achievements of their ancestors, as if those accomplishments were their own. They paraded around, boasting about legacies they had yet to contribute to—convinced that the success of their bloodline somehow made them superior.

Pathetic.

But there was one truth they would all eventually learn.

Status means nothing if you can't back it up.

And from what I had seen, many of them wouldn't last.

Their wealth wouldn't cook for them.

Their family names wouldn't protect them here in this institution.

At Tōtsuki, the weak would eventually be expelled—whether they were a commoner or the child of a world-renowned chef.

It was just a matter of time.

Just as I was about to shift my focus away from the scene and step into the examination hall, the red-haired boy suddenly sprang to his feet.

His movements were fueled by anger, his body tense with frustration. In a swift motion, he grabbed the noble by the collar, yanking him forward with unexpected force.

"Shut up!" he snapped, his yellow eyes burning with intensity. "Don't go badmouthing Yukihira when you've never even tasted our food!"

Yukihira.

If his family restaurant bore that name, then it was likely his surname as well.

The so-called "noble" barely had time to process what had happened before his personal bodyguards sprang into action.

"Miscreant! Unhand the young master at once!" One of them barked, stepping forward as if preparing to intervene.

For a brief second, I considered whether I should step in.

But before the guards could act, the red-haired boy released his grip, dropping the noble as if he were nothing more than an afterthought.

The noble stumbled back, adjusting his now-wrinkled collar with an expression of pure outrage, but the red-haired boy didn't even spare him another glance.

Instead, with a low growl of irritation, he stormed forward—his steps heavy with frustration—before brushing past me and heading straight into the examination hall.

I watched him for a moment.

Interesting.

His anger wasn't just from being humiliated. It was personal.

Which meant one of two things—either he was reckless, or he was confident enough to believe he could prove them wrong.

Either way, this exam just became more entertaining.

Without further hesitation, I stepped forward and entered Tōtsuki's examination hall.

𓌉◯𓇋

"My name is Nakiri Erina. I have been given the duty of overseeing today's transfer exam."

Nakiri, huh?

That name had come up frequently in the books I had studied over the past two weeks. The Nakiri family was a cornerstone of the culinary world, a dynasty with immense influence.

Nakiri Senzaemon, the director of Tōtsuki Culinary Academy, was regarded as one of the most respected culinary figures in the world. His name carried weight, prestige, and authority.

And standing before me was his granddaughter—Nakiri Erina.

Despite her young age, she was already a widely recognized prodigy in the culinary world. A chef whose mere presence commanded the attention of professionals twice her age.

But her fame wasn't just due to her lineage.

She was known to possess the so-called "God's Tongue"—a one-in-a-generation talent, possessing an unparalleled sense of taste.

With just a single bite, she could detect even the slightest imperfection in any dish.

It was documented that she was once blindfolded and successfully identified and differentiated eight distinct varieties of salt with absolute precision.

If even half of what was written about her was true, then this exam just became more interesting—and also more difficult.

At the moment, she was dressed in what appeared to be Tōtsuki's standard school uniform.

Her long blonde hair cascaded elegantly down her back, stopping just above her waist. Her piercing purple eyes held a sharp, commanding presence—an unshakable confidence that came not just from status but from sheer ability.

Beside her stood another girl, also clad in the Tōtsuki uniform.

She had short pink hair, a stark contrast to Nakiri's golden hair. From the way she positioned herself slightly behind Nakiri and the way she quietly observed the room, it was evident—she wasn't just another student.

She was Nakiri's assistant.

A moment later, Nakiri's voice rang out, clear and authoritative.

"What are the guidelines for this test?"

The girl behind her stepped forward, answering promptly.

"As follows, Miss. First, interviews will be conducted in groups of ten based on application. Next, each candidate will prepare two or three trial dishes. Those who pass this stage will then—"

The assistant's explanation was cut off.

"Hmph! How tedious," Nakiri scoffed, her arms crossing in clear disapproval. "I know...."

Her sharp gaze swept across the room before she made her decision.

"Bring me the ingredient counter."

At her command, a mobile ingredient station was swiftly wheeled out in front of her. Various fresh ingredients were neatly arranged—herbs, meats, vegetables, grains, and spices.

Without hesitation, she reached out and selected an egg, holding it up for everyone to see.

The hall fell into a heavy silence.

"The egg will be your main ingredient," she declared. "Each of you will prepare one dish. Those who can satisfy my palate will earn the right to enter Tōtsuki Culinary Academy."

A simple test, yet the weight behind her words made it anything but.

Then, she paused, lowering the egg slightly.

Her tone darkened.

"However..."

A suffocating pressure filled the air as her expression turned colder.

"For the next one minute only, I will accept any withdrawals from the test—without question."

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.

This was a warning.

For those who weren't confident, those who even had a sliver of doubt in their abilities, this was their chance to walk away.

Because if they stayed and failed?

Tōtsuki wouldn't just reject them.

It would humiliate them. A place where even the sons and daughters of culinary elites couldn't afford to be complacent.

But, it wasn't just their pride at stake—their entire culinary future was on the line.

Presenting a flawed dish to the God Tongue, someone renowned for her unforgiving palate, wasn't just a momentary embarrassment.

It was a career-ending mistake, one that could permanently stain their reputation in the culinary world.

And just as anticipated, it happened.

The reaction was instantaneous—though even I was slightly surprised by the sheer scale of it.

Within seconds, the examinees scrambled in a panic, shoving and pushing past each other like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

Students who had moments ago been boasting about their lineage, their prestige, and their so-called inevitable success, were now tripping over themselves in their desperate rush to escape.

The scene unfolding before me was almost comedic.

Their once proud and dignified appearances had completely crumbled—now, they looked anything but elite.

Some practically stumbled over their own feet, nearly falling to the ground in their haste. Others shoved aside their peers, no longer caring about decorum or appearances—only about their own survival.

For a group so obsessed with status, they had abandoned their pride alarmingly fast.

And Nakiri Erina?

She simply watched them go, not even sparing a glance at the ones who fled.

Because, in her eyes, they had never been worth her attention to begin with.

In less than half a minute, the examination hall was empty.

Everyone had fled—except for me and the boy from before, Yukihira.

I observed the scene in silence, my mind briefly shifting to something else. How far did Nakiri Erina's influence truly extend within this school?

For her to alter the exam format on a whim, with no resistance from the staff, meant one thing—her authority within Tōtsuki was high.

Her standing was certainly not low—if anything, she was one of the most powerful figures in this institution.

Meanwhile, the two girls in front of us—Nakiri and her assistant—seemed completely unaware of our presence.

They were too engrossed in their own world, fully expecting that there were no "leftovers" left in the room.

"Miss, was this wise? I doubt anyone will stay," the assistant said hesitantly.

"You saw them," Nakiri responded without an ounce of concern. "They were nothing more than a pack of talentless incompetents. My time is far too precious to waste on the worthless."

She then let out a soft sigh.

"This clears my schedule for the day, correct? Then I will return to my private kitchen and work on a new recipe."

The moment those words left her lips, I noticed her assistant stiffen.

Her expression shifted instantly—her eyes locked onto Nakiri, and then, unmistakably, her mouth began to water.

She was drooling.

"My, my... what a greedy look on your face," Nakiri chuckled, clearly amused.

The assistant immediately flinched.

"Er—I-I, Ah...!"

"Do you want the privilege of tasting my newest dish?"

As she spoke, she gently ran her fingers along the girl's lips, teasing her. The assistant's face burned red, her eyes glistening—not from embarrassment, but from pure joy.

She was practically on the verge of tears—tears of happiness.

"Y-yes, Miss, please!"

"Heh heh... What an eager girl you are."

"I-I'm sorry, Miss."

"But first," Nakiri continued, returning to her usual composed tone, "we must report the results of today's test."

She let out a small breath, then elegantly turned to face no one in particular.

"Out of all the applicants, zero were accepted."

That was when I decided to speak.

"Is that so?"

At the sound of my voice, both Nakiri and her assistant froze.

Nakiri's playful amusement vanished in an instant, replaced by mild surprise. Her assistant, still red-faced from the previous exchange, visibly stiffened as her gaze snapped toward me. 

Neither of them had expected anyone to still be here. 

Slowly, Nakiri turned, her sharp purple eyes locking onto mine, analyzing me for the first time.

"Oh?" she mused, tilting her head slightly. "You're still here?" 

Yukihira, also stepped up beside me, his posture relaxed as he casually asked, "So, we can make anything we want, right?"

Nakiri, however, didn't even spare him a glance.

Her attention remained solely on me, as if he didn't exist.

The brief flicker of surprise she had shown moments ago was already gone, replaced by her usual air of unshakable superiority.

"I see." Her lips curled into a smirk, one that carried nothing but amusement and disdain. "Two strays who didn't know when to run away."

Her assistant, finally recovering from her earlier flustered state, quickly composed herself and stepped forward, standing dutifully at her mistress's side.

"Very well. Since you two are so eager to waste my time, I suppose I should at least grant you the courtesy of introductions."

She folded her arms, exuding a presence of unquestionable authority and condescension.

"Tell me, who are you?"

I met her gaze evenly. 

"Ayanokoji Kiyotaka." 

I left it at that. No unnecessary words. No explanation. 

Nakiri's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She was expecting more. 

She was used to people boasting about their heritage, about their famous family names, about their culinary background. 

And yet, I gave her nothing. 

There was a beat of silence. 

Then, she shifted her gaze toward Yukihira. 

"And you?" 

He grinned, placing a hand on his hip. 

"Yukihira Sōma." 

I was right

Nakiri's gaze flickered between the two of us, her sharp purple eyes scrutinizing every detail.

I could tell—she was already judging.

Her world was one of heritage, prestige, and cultivated talent passed down through generations of renowned chefs. She was accustomed to hearing names that carried weight in the culinary world, names that spoke for themselves before a single dish was even presented.

Yet, when I introduced myself, I gave her nothing.

No titles. No lineage. No claim to any prestigious culinary background.

And from Yukihira?

It was worse.

A grin, a casual stance, a complete disregard for the aura of formality she expected.

She had already dismissed him before he even opened his mouth, but now that she had heard his name—

"Yukihira... Sōma?"

Her lips pursed slightly as if she were mentally sorting through relevant information.

"Hisako."

It seemed that was the name of her assistant.

"Yes, Miss."

Without hesitation, Hisako turned to a stack of documents, flipping through them with practiced efficiency. Her fingers moved swiftly across the pages, scanning each entry with sharp precision.

Within moments, she pulled out one application, setting it aside before continuing her search. A few seconds later, she placed two applications neatly in front of Nakiri.

She adjusted her posture and turned toward her mistress.

"Miss, this one—" she gestured toward Yukihira, who stood beside me. "His family runs a small restaurant in a shopping district near the train station. Nothing extraordinary."

A low scoff escaped Nakiri's lips.

"A classic second-rate cook," she remarked dismissively, not even bothering to look at him.

Yukihira merely smirked, clearly unfazed by the remark.

Hisako, having finished her first report, reached for the second application.

But the moment her eyes scanned the document, her movements stopped.

A flicker of hesitation.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she examined the lack of information before her.

It was subtle, but Nakiri noticed immediately.

"What is it, Hisako?"

Hisako hesitated for a second before answering.

Her gaze lifted to me.

"Miss... This applicant, Ayanokoji Kiyotaka, has zero recorded culinary background. There is no mention of his middle school, no listed affiliations, no previous experience in any cooking institution."

She briefly glanced at the paper again, as if hoping to find something she might have overlooked.

"The only information present is his name, address, and date of birth."

Silence.

For a fraction of a second, I saw it—a flicker of confusion in Nakiri's expression.

Not annoyance. Not disdain.

Confusion.

Because for someone with her influence, there should never be a person she cannot categorize.

Yet here I was—a blank slate.

Hisako's voice remained even, but I could sense the underlying uncertainty.

For the first time in this exchange, Nakiri Erina didn't know what to make of someone standing before her.

Even Yukihira, standing beside me, cast a surprised glance in my direction.

Even he hadn't expected my application to be so empty.

As for Nakiri, I could already tell what she was thinking—how had the academy even approved my application with such a lack of information?

Then, as if realizing something else, Hisako turned to me, her gaze scrutinizing.

"Are you really 15 years old?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied without hesitation.

No.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Have people told you that you look older than you are?"

"Yes, always," I answered smoothly, lying as easily as I breathed.

No, never. In fact, this is the first time. 

"I turned 15 in October and recently completed my homeschool mid-grade graduation," I affirmed smoothly.

Hisako studied me for a moment, her sharp eyes scanning my expression for any sign of hesitation.

There was none.

Still, the lack of information in my application clearly bothered her. Tōtsuki was an institution that valued pedigree and documented excellence, yet my records contained almost nothing.

"Homeschooling, huh?" Hisako murmured, tapping a finger lightly against my application. "That would explain the lack of academic records, but..."

She didn't finish the sentence.

She didn't need to.

Her skeptical tone made it clear—it wasn't just the missing school history that bothered her.

It was the lack of culinary background.

Even self-taught chefs had some traceable history—past competitions, restaurant apprenticeships, mentors, something. Yet my file contained none of it.

For a moment, Nakiri remained silent, simply watching.

Then, she let out a small scoff, a bemused smirk forming on her lips.

"How amusing."

Her assistant turned toward her. "Miss?"

Nakiri ignored the question, instead stepping forward.

Her gaze on me was different now—less like she was looking at an unworthy insect, and more like she was examining an anomaly.

"You're an interesting one," she said, tilting her head slightly. "No history, no credentials, no training... and yet, you still had the audacity to apply."

Her voice carried an almost entertained curiosity, but beneath it was pure condescension.

"Do you think cooking is something so simple that just anyone can succeed without proper foundation?"

Before I could answer, Yukihira chuckled beside me.

"Man, you sure talk a lot for someone who hasn't even tasted our food yet."

Nakiri's gaze snapped to him, her amusement vanishing into a look of mild disgust.

"And you talk far too much for someone whose only claim to this academy is a family diner," she shot back.

Yukihira smirked, unfazed. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Nakiri sighed dramatically, rubbing her temple as if she were already exhausted by our existence.

"Very well," she muttered, clearly done entertaining the conversation. "If the two of you insist on embarrassing yourselves, then let's get this over with."

She turned toward Hisako.

"Prepare their stations. The transfer exam will proceed immediately."

Hisako swiftly moved into action, arranging kitchen stations with impeccable efficiency. Stainless steel counters gleamed under the academy's pristine lighting, the scent of fresh ingredients filling the air as trays were brought out.

Nakiri turned back to us, arms crossed.

"Your task remains unchanged," she stated. "The egg will be your main ingredient. You are free to prepare any dish you wish—though I doubt it will make a difference."

Her purple eyes gleamed with unshaken confidence.

"Now, entertain me."