2:00 a.m.
The once-lively tavern had quieted down. The laughter, the clinking of bowls, the shuffle of chopsticks—all had faded into memory. Only one customer remained.
Leonora Nakiri sat at the bar, holding a half-empty glass in one hand, her golden hair gently brushing her shoulders. Her cheeks were tinged a warm crimson, not only from the alcohol but also the lingering heat of the earlier Mapo Tofu feast.
She leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction and murmured, "Phew~ This potato wine is really good…"
Her voice was lazy, unguarded—the kind of tone that only came after good food, better drinks, and no deadlines.
She swirled the glass and stared into the pale golden liquid, pleasantly surprised.
"When I first came in tonight, I was hoping for something like smoked salmon… maybe a touch of blood duck. You know, the usual Northern European treats I crave. But potato wine? In a place like this?"
She chuckled, genuinely impressed.
"This tavern really has everything…"
As the name suggested, potato wine was distilled from fermented potatoes—a humble yet incredibly versatile ingredient.
Just like sorghum, rice, or corn, any starchy crop could serve as the raw material for fermentation. But potatoes? People often underestimated them. They saw them as simple. Cheap. Unworthy of complexity.
And yet, in Nordic countries, potato wine wasn't just a drink—it was a lifeline.
Despite their high education levels, social safety nets, and international rankings as some of the best places to live, Nordic citizens had one pressing issue:
They couldn't get enough alcohol.
The winters were long, the nights even longer. The isolation seeped into the bones. So, the Nordic people did what they always had: they brewed their own.
From wild berries and malt to potatoes, they turned the cold into fire in their throats.
And while drinking helped stave off the chill, it often brought complications—social strain, addiction, regulation.
But banning alcohol entirely was impossible. So the government did what it could.
Meanwhile, the people just… adapted.
They developed a cultural affection for potato wine—a liquor strong enough to make your spine warm and your cheeks red after a single glass. It was their version of Erguotou—Nordic-style.
Leonora licked her lips and poured herself another.
Zane, having finished cleaning and locking up, walked behind the counter with a steaming cup of jasmine tea in hand.
"You're the last one," he said, taking a seat beside her.
"Closing soon?" she asked, glass to her lips again.
"Pretty much. You've had a long night."
"So have you."
Leonora exhaled, the warmth of the alcohol softening her voice. "Mind if I stay a bit longer?"
"Not at all."
"I just don't want to go home yet… I'm not busy like Alice. She's been tied up with preparations for the school festival," she added, a wistful smile tugging at her lips.
Zane blinked. "School festival?"
She nodded, setting her glass down carefully.
"This year's Moon Banquet Festival. Totsuki is taking it extremely seriously. The General Manager is even inviting celebrity chefs. Alice has been working non-stop just to stay ahead."
Zane leaned back, thoughtful. "Didn't the field training just end?"
"Mm-hm. And now comes the next mountain to climb."
He exhaled slowly. "No rest for the wicked at Totsuki…"
Indeed, the life of a student there was a constant pressure cooker. From the harsh entrance exams to the grueling residential training, then the Autumn Election, field training, and now the Moon Banquet Festival.
It was no longer just a school—it was a crucible that forged culinary warriors.
And this year's Moon Banquet Festival was shaping up to be historic.
Thanks to aggressive promotion by the General Manager and full participation from the Elite Ten, the event drew attention from across Japan and beyond.
Soma Yukihira had set his sights on challenging Terunori Kuga, who occupied the dominant sales spot in the Central Area—a section designed to give freedom to chefs who wanted to run full-scale restaurants.
Kuga, commanding the Chinese Cuisine Research Society, had started strong. His shop held the #1 sales ranking for three days straight.
But then came the shocker—on Day Four, Soma Yukihira's booth overtook him.
And that wasn't the only twist.
Even the first seat of the Elite Ten cooked publicly, drawing praise from critics and gourmet industry giants.
But the true shock came at the festival's closing days, when none other than Mana Nakiri made a sudden appearance.
With the support of more than half the current Elite Ten, she was officially instated as the new General Manager of Totsuki Academy.
The impact? Immediate and powerful.
The Moon Banquet Festival, once a symbol of competition, became the spark that ignited Totsuki's institutional reform—and whispered the arrival of future conflict.
Meanwhile… in a pristine, high-tech kitchen glowing under recessed lights…
Erina Nakiri, wrapped in a tailored white chef's coat, stood motionless. The marble counter gleamed. Behind her, shelves were lined with ingredients of the highest pedigree: black truffles, foie gras, Kobe beef, sea coconut.
And yet, she hadn't moved.
Her golden hair shimmered under the ceiling lights, her brows furrowed slightly. She was deep in thought.
Finally, she turned to Hisako, her ever-loyal secretary.
"What do you feel like eating right now?"
"Monjayaki."
Erina blinked at the immediate reply. Then… she smiled. "Alright. Let's make Monjayaki."
Though it shared a griddle with Okonomiyaki, Monjayaki was often overlooked.
Where Okonomiyaki formed a pancake, Monjayaki remained a gooey, lava-like mass, often made from humble ingredients. Originally considered a cheap snack for children, it evolved over time with new variations and became a comfort staple.
Erina had once turned her nose up at it—too low-class, too inelegant. But now…
She heated the griddle, added oil, and worked with quiet precision.
She shaped the mixture into a ring, poured the batter into the center, and waited for it to bubble. Then she stirred it into a molten delight.
"Here, Hisako. Eat all you want."
Removing her chef's hat, Erina placed the plate in front of her friend. Her eyes twinkled with unspoken hope.
Hisako took a small bite. Her eyes widened.
"It's… delicious!"
"The texture starts with soft eggplant, ends with tender beef, and has layers in between! Crispy outside, gooey inside—it's magical."
Erina blushed slightly at the praise.
Then… her smile faded.
Hisako paused. "I know, Miss Erina."
"Since the Autumn Election… no, since your internship at Zane's tavern, you've been different. You've been tinkering with recipes, especially sweets."
"You're planning something… aren't you? A dish you want Zane to taste at the festival?"
"W-What nonsense!"
"I am a Nakiri! Why would I lower myself to—"
Hisako grinned. "It's okay. I understand."
Erina slumped, her voice soft. "Even if I want to cook something for him… would he even come?"
Silence.
She didn't say it. But she hoped.
More than anything, she wanted him to see her grow.
Elsewhere, in the heart of a neon-lit city…
There was a new culinary hotspot: a restaurant named Subway.
No, not the fast food chain people thought of. This was an upscale dining venue inspired by American street culture—split into two zones:
Inside, it resembled a cozy lounge, with red sofas, wooden tables, and ambient lighting. Outside, you could sit by the open air, watching the hustle of the streets.
Every dish here elevated street food to gourmet heights.
Even the sandwiches were experiences.
Take the ribeye combo, for example:
Thick-cut steak, sautéed with onions and mushrooms in butter, then smothered in cheddar cheese.
The bread? Soft on the inside, crispy on the outside—freshly baked, not store-bought.
One bite, and the flavors exploded:
Juicy beef
Creamy cheese
Savory sautéed vegetables
A light touch of sweet Chinese-style sauce
Crunchy cabbage for contrast
Every layer created a symphony of textures and tastes.
At a quiet booth, a lone figure took a massive bite of a sandwich.
He chewed slowly, eyebrows knit in thought.
Then, he swallowed.
"…Is this the work of their chef?"
It was Saji, one of the Midnight Chefs.
His eyes gleamed—not just with curiosity, but with rising tension.
Because somewhere deep inside… he could taste it:
A new battlefield was opening.
And this sandwich?
Was the first cannon shot.