The memory faded like smoke in wind, dissolving into the sounds of the festival, the laughter of the crowd, the sizzle of food cooking on distant grills.
Yuuta sat in the parent seating area, his equipment bag at his feet, his hands resting on his knees. His name would be called soon.
He would cook. He would be judged. He would pass or fail. But his mind was not on the test.
A tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away, but the memory still hurt more than he expected.
Erza was the first to notice. She had been sitting beside him, her arms crossed, her face cold, her eyes scanning the crowd.
She disliked crowds and waiting, but the tears on his cheeks drew her attention. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief, white, simple, embroidered with a small flower at the corner.
She held it out to him.
"You do not have to be a crybaby," she said. "I will not criticize you."
She assumed the exam had overwhelmed him. For once, she had no intention of mocking him.
Yuuta looked at the handkerchief. He took it. His fingers brushed against hers, warm and quick, and he smiled.
"Thank you," he said. "I really needed this."
He wiped his tears. The fabric was soft against his skin, soft and gentle, like something that had been made to be kind. He folded it carefully, tucked it into his pocket, and looked at her.
Erza watched him. She did not want to ask. She did not want to care. But curiosity burned in her chest, and the words came out before she could stop them.
"Are you that scared of the test?"
Her voice remained cool, concealing her concern.
Yuuta shook his head. "No," he said. "I am not scared of the test."
His voice was heavy, sad, the voice of someone who was thinking about something else, something far away, something that hurt.
Erza did not like half answers. She pressed, carefully, the way she had learned to press when someone was hurting and did not want to admit it.
"It must be hard," she said, "to think about her."
She said it like a wife who knew her husband's mind, like she understood what he was feeling, like she had caught him thinking about someone he should not be thinking about.
Yuuta did not realize what he was saying. He was still lost in the memory, still seeing Fiona's face, still hearing her voice. He answered without thinking.
"Yes," he said. "I wonder how Fiona is doing."
Erza's expression turned icy. Yuuta felt the shift immediately and slowly turned to meet her violet eyes.
"So," she said, her voice soft, soft as silk, soft as the edge of a blade, "I was wondering why you were having such a hard time. I thought you were nervous about the test. I thought I should encourage you." She paused. "But you were thinking about another woman. Right in front of me."
Yuuta's soul tried to leave his body. He could feel it slipping away, fleeing the cold, fleeing the weight of her gaze, fleeing the certain knowledge that he had said something very, very stupid.
"Don't you think that is unfair?" he managed.
"Unfair?" Her voice did not change. It was still soft, still cold, still terrifying.
He wanted to point out that she had promised to kill him, yet somehow objected to him thinking about another woman. Under her stare, he decided to keep that argument to himself.
"Yuuta Kounari."
The voice came from the speakers, loud and clear, cutting through the noise of the festival. "Please come to the field for your practical test."
Yuuta did not wait. He grabbed his equipment bag, his knives, his tools, everything he had spent weeks preparing. He ran. He ran through the crowd, past the parents and the children and the stalls that smelled of bread and meat and sugar. He ran toward the field, toward the test, toward anything that was not sitting next to Erza with her dying-star eyes.
Erza clicked her tongue. "Tch. He ran away again."
Elena giggled. She was sitting beside her mother, her small hands clasped in her lap, her face bright with amusement. "Mama, Papa runs away like a rabbit!"
Erza smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who had already decided the outcome of the hunt.
"Do not worry, little Elena," she said. "We will catch him. And we will make him pay."
Elena clapped her hands. "Yes! Elena loves catching Papa!"
She did not understand. She did not know why her mother wanted to catch her father, or what would happen when they did, or why Erza's eyes were glowing like dying stars. She only knew that it was a game, and she loved games, and she loved her Papa, and she loved catching him.
Erza watched Yuuta disappear into the crowd. Her handkerchief was in his pocket. Her ring was on his finger. Her daughter was at her side.
She sat in the parent seating area, her arms crossed, her face cold, and waited for the test to begin.
You will pay, she thought. You will pay, and you will not even know why.
Yuuta placed his equipment on the assigned table, his fingers brushing lightly against the rough wooden surface. The table had been prepared hours ago, each station identical to the next, each one laid out with the same limited set of ingredients.
The exam tested what each student could make with a restricted selection of ingredients.
His eyes moved across the ingredients. Chicken. Tomato purée. Chicken stock. Barley. Rosemary. Potatoes. Milk. Custard paste. Nothing more. Nothing less. The judges had been clear: what you see is what you have. No substitutions. No additions. No help from outside.
This was it.
Yuuta swallowed.
The lump in his throat did not go away. His heart was pounding, faster than it should, faster than he wanted. He had cooked a thousand meals in his small apartment, had fed Erza and Elena through weeks of chaos and uncertainty, had learned to find joy in the simple act of making something with his hands. But this was different.
This was not his kitchen. This was not his family. This was a test, and there were judges watching, and somewhere in the crowd, Erza and Elena were watching too.
His gaze shifted, almost instinctively, toward the distance.
There they were. Erza sat in the parent seating area, her back straight, her arms crossed, her face cold and unreadable. Elena was beside her, her small hands clasped in her lap, her legs swinging, her eyes fixed on him with the particular intensity of a child watching her father do something important.
They were watching him.
Waiting for him.
Believing in him.
The tightness in his chest eased, just a little.
"I cannot mess this up," he muttered under his breath. His fingers curled into a fist, not out of fear, but out of resolve.
He would not fail.
He would not disappoint them.
He would cook something worth eating, something worth remembering, something worth the hours he had spent preparing for this day.
The judges were already in position. They stood at the front of the field, their faces neutral, their clipboards ready, their eyes scanning the rows of students who were waiting for the signal to begin. One of them held a small device in his hand, something like an alarm, his thumb hovering over the button. He was waiting for the exact moment, the perfect moment, the moment when the tension in the field was high enough and the silence was deep enough and the students were ready to burst.
The entire field held its breath.
Yuuta's breathing slowed. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, steady and strong, each beat a reminder that he was alive, that he was here, that he had been given a chance to prove himself. His eyes fixed on his table, on his ingredients, on the knives that were waiting for his hand.
Click.
The alarm rang out across the field, sharp and clear.
"Begin!"
The sound cut through everything. The silence shattered. The students moved.
The chaos erupted. Students rushed to their stations, grabbed their equipment, argued over ingredients, burned their first attempts, cursed under their breath. The field was filled with the sound of chopping and slicing and the frantic energy of people who were running out of time.
Yuuta did not rush.
Yuuta stepped forward. His hand found his knife, the weight familiar, the balance perfect. His mind was racing, not with panic, but with calculation. Ingredients. Timing. Temperature. Balance. He had cooked a thousand meals, but this one needed to be different. This one needed to be special.
He looked at the ingredients again. Chicken. Tomato purée. Chicken stock. Barley. Rosemary. Potatoes. Milk. Custard paste. Limited. But not useless.
He thought about Elena. She loved meat, that much was obvious. A dragon's instinct did not lie. She would eat anything he put in front of her, would smile and call him the best Papa in the world, would ask for seconds and thirds and fourths until the pot was empty. She was easy to please. She was not the problem.
He thought about Erza. She was harder. She pretended not to care about food, ate his meals with cold indifference, criticized his seasoning and his technique and his choice of ingredients. But he had seen her take seconds when she thought he was not looking. He had seen her close her eyes when she took a bite of something she liked. He had seen her reach for more before she remembered to be cold.
She loved it too. She just refused to admit it.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Then I will make something you both cannot deny," he murmured.
His decision formed. A chicken stew, warm, rich, hearty. The kind of dish that filled the belly and warmed the soul, the kind of dish that made you feel safe, the kind of dish that tasted like home. The barley would give it body, the tomato purée would build the base, the rosemary would lift it just enough to make it memorable. On the side, a potato mash, smooth, creamy, simple. Something to balance the intensity of the stew, something to remind them that food did not need to be complicated to be good.
Not flashy.
But honest.
He picked up the knife.
The world blurred. His earlier nervousness did not disappear, but it settled, transformed into focus. The blade moved through the chicken with clean, controlled precision, each cut deliberate, each piece uniform.
He had done this a thousand times, in his small kitchen, with Erza watching from the doorway and Elena asking when dinner would be ready.
He let the rhythm carry him, let his hands remember what his mind did not need to think.
The fire came next, small but steady, carefully protected from the wind that swept across the field. He had learned to cook on a stove that barely worked, had learned to adjust the flame with patience and practice, had learned that heat was not something to control but something to understand. The pot rested over the flame, and soon, the soft sound of cooking began to rise, a quiet sizzle that marked the beginning of something more.
He did not rush. He let the chicken sear properly, watched the surface change from pale to golden, allowed the flavor to build. He had learned that rushing was the enemy of good food, that patience was not passive but active, that the best meals were the ones that took time. When the chicken was ready, he added the tomato purée and the stock, the mixture deepening into a rich, warm color as steam curled into the air.
The barley followed, sinking into the liquid, beginning its slow transformation.
"Good," he whispered, almost unconsciously.
The rosemary was crushed between his fingers before he added it, its fragrance releasing instantly, subtle, but enough to shift the entire dish. Even in the open field, even with the wind trying to steal it away, the aroma held its ground.
On the side, he worked the potatoes. He boiled them until tender, drained them, and mashed them with milk.
The texture was not perfect, it did not need to be. What mattered was balance. What mattered was that the stew and the mash worked together, complemented each other, became something more than the sum of their parts.
Everything he did had a purpose.
Every movement carried intent. He was not cooking for the judges anymore. He was cooking for Erza and Elena. He was cooking for the family he had found, the family he had not asked for, the family he would do anything to protect.
The stew simmered. The mash waited. The judges watched.
Yuuta smiled.
MEANWHILE IN PARENT SEATING SECTION
The parent seating area overlooked the outdoor cooking stations, giving families a clear view without interrupting the exam.
Erza sat in the center of the second row.
Not because she wanted to be seen. Not because she cared about the other parents, or their whispers, or the way they glanced at her white hair and elegant dress and murmured behind their hands.
She sat there because it gave her the clearest view of the cooking floor below.
Of Yuuta.
She watched him in silence.
Her arms were crossed. Her posture was relaxed. To anyone watching, she looked bored, disinterested, even, like someone who had been dragged to an event they had no desire to attend.
But her eyes never left him.
They followed his movements across the kitchen floor. The way he washed his hands before touching any ingredient. The way he arranged his station, each tool in its place, each ingredient within reach. The way he moved, efficient, practiced, certain, like someone who had done this a thousand times.
Around her, other parents chattered.
Some cheered when their children finished a task. Others filmed with their phones, capturing every moment, every chop, every sizzle. A few sat in tense silence, their hands clasped, their lips moving in silent prayer.
Erza neither cheered nor recorded anything. She simply watched the mortal whose cooking had become strangely difficult to ignore.
Elena sat beside her, her small legs swinging beneath the seat, her face pressed against the glass.
"Mama! Look!" She pointed with an excited finger. "Papa is cutting chicken! He is so fast! Faster than the other humans!"
Erza glanced at the other students. Their movements were slower, more hesitant. One boy had dropped his knife twice. Another was staring at his cutting board like he had forgotten what to do next.
Yuuta's knife moved in a steady rhythm. Chop, chop, chop. Even. Precise. Unhurried.
"Yes," Erza said. "He is."
Elena bounced in her seat.
"Mama! Mama! Look! Papa is beating Mr. Potato!" She giggled, covering her mouth with both hands. "Poor Mr. Potato! He did nothing wrong!"
Erza looked at her daughter.
At her bright eyes. Her flushed cheeks. The way she watched her father like he was the most precious thing on earth.
She smiled.
It was a small smile. Unnoticed by anyone but herself.
Erza turned her gaze toward her daughter for a brief moment. Elena's happiness was pure, simple, untouched by doubt or hesitation. To her, Yuuta wasn't just someone participating in an exam, he was someone important.
That alone made Erza pause.
She looked back at Yuuta, and without warning, her heartbeat shifted. It was faint, almost subtle, but enough for her to notice. A thought slipped into her mind before she could stop it, quiet yet persistent.
What if he fails?
Her fingers curled slightly against her arm.
Will he be disappointed?
The thought lingered longer than it should have, refusing to fade. Her brows drew together faintly as another followed, more intrusive than the last.
Will I have to say something to him?
For a brief moment, she said nothing.
Then realization struck.
Erza tapped her forehead in frustration. "What the hell am I thinking?" she muttered. Elena heard her and turned curiously.
"Mama? Why did you hit yourself?"
Erza did not answer.
Her face was red. Her heart was pounding. Her mind was racing through centuries of experience, searching for an explanation, searching for a reason, searching for any framework that could make sense of what she was feeling.
"There's something wrong with me," she concluded, her tone steady now, controlled. Her fingers moved to her lips, biting lightly against her nail as she searched for a logical explanation.
Then she found one.
"It must be a human trick," she said, her voice dropping, gaining certainty. "These mortals create meaningless emotions. Attachments that cloud judgment. Temporary feelings meant to weaken others, so that when the time comes, I will not be able to kill him. Dragons do not forget easily. He is using that against me."
Her gaze returned to Yuuta, sharp and cold.
"He's trying to exploit that."
The conclusion settled easily in her mind, replacing the earlier confusion.
"Pathetic."
And yet, even after dismissing it, she did not look away. Her eyes remained on him, watching him work with quiet focus, completely unaware of the thoughts directed at him. The same man who stumbled through simple things, who looked lost more often than not, and who lacked the composure expected of someone with any real intelligence.
She exhaled slowly.
"There's no way," she murmured. "He's not capable of something like that."
The thought of him being anything more than what he appeared to be felt almost laughable.
"Idiot."
Leaning back slightly, she allowed the tension to leave her body, dismissing the entire matter as nothing more than a passing thought.
"Fine," she said quietly, her tone calm but carrying a faint edge. "If you want to struggle this hard just to survive, then I'll let you survive."
A cold smile spread across her face. She imagined him in a cell, alone, forgotten, begging for mercy that would never come. She imagined his face when he realized that she was not going to kill him, that she was going to keep him alive, that she was going to make him suffer.
Yes, she thought. That is what he deserves.
On the field, Yuuta shivered. A cold sensation crawled up his spine, settled in his chest, made his heart stop for just a moment. He looked around, confused, searching for the source of the chill. He saw nothing. Only the other students, cooking. Only the judges, watching. Only the crowd, cheering.
He shook his head and returned to his stew.
Erza's eyes flickered.
A faint, concealed aura caught her attention near the edge of the festival. It was weak, but distinctly out of place.
Her eyes narrowed. She turned her head, slowly, casually, the way a predator turns when it has sensed prey. Her gaze swept across the crowd, across the stalls, across the field where Yuuta was cooking. And then she found it.
A figure stood at the edge of the festival, half-hidden in the shadow of a large oak tree. It was not tall, not short, not remarkable in any way. It wore ordinary clothes, the kind that would not stand out in a crowd. His face was turned toward the field, toward Yuuta, toward the being who did not know it was being watched.
Erza's hand curled into a fist.
She did not know who he was or why he was watching Yuuta, but she had no intention of ignoring him.
She rose from her seat. Her movement was smooth, fluid, the movement of someone who had spent centuries learning to be dangerous. Elena looked up, confused.
"Mama? Where are you going?"
Erza did not answer. Her eyes were still fixed on the figure in the shadows.
"Stay here," she said. "I will be back."
She walked toward the edge of the festival, toward the oak tree, toward the Being who was watching her husband cook.
To be continued...