Sister Mary bowed her head, her hands clasped before her, her voice soft but steady. The weight of years spent guarding secrets showed in her expression.
"Forgive me, my Queen," she said. "My real identity is Velthiriel Sylvarion. A Fallen High Elf from the Sylvarion Kingdom."
Erza's eyes widened. The name struck her like a physical blow, dragging her back through centuries of memory, of court politics, of wars that had been fought in shadows and whispers. Velthiriel Sylvarion. She remembered. The elf who had challenged her own queen, raised an army, and nearly seized the throne.
Her mind raced. She recalled the reports that had come to her court, brought by her own officials who had traveled to the Sylvarion Kingdom to observe the conflict.
The tension between Velthiriel and Queen Aerisyl Sylvarion had simmered for decades. What had started as a disagreement over succession had grown into something larger, something darker, something that threatened to tear the kingdom apart.
Velthiriel had been alone at first. A single elf standing against the might of the Sylvaris throne. But she had been brilliant, cunning, and utterly ruthless.
She had gathered allies, forged alliances, brought powerful beings under her command. She had proven, again and again, that she was worthy of wielding power.
But her pursuit of forbidden power had undone her. Zareth's magic carried consequences that twisted the mind and corrupted the soul, and Velthiriel had paid the price.
She had fallen before she could kill Queen Aerisyl. She had been captured, tried, and sentenced to execution. But she was here. On Earth. Alive. That meant something had changed. Something had spared her.
Sister Mary continued. "I suppose news of my rebellion reached the royal halls of Atlantis."
Erza's voice was quiet. "Yes. I have heard of your deeds. Your wickedness. The court of Atlantis spoke of you often."
Sister Mary bowed her head. "Yes, Your Highness. I am aware of my reputation and my sins."
"Continue."
Sister Mary took a breath. "I was defeated after using Zani Cina, one of Atlantis's secret arts. The damage it caused left me vulnerable, and I was captured."
Erza listened without interrupting.
"The High Elves caught me," Sister Mary said. "They threw me in a cell. They blocked my mana, drained my strength, left me to weaken as the days passed. My execution was scheduled. I was ready to meet my fate."
She paused. Her eyes drifted across the garden, toward the field where Yuuta was still cooking, where the festival was still bright, where the world was still turning. Her voice softened.
"Then Queen Aerisyl came to me. She stood outside my cell, her face unreadable, her hands folded before her. She said, 'Your punishment has been decided. You will not die today.'"
Erza's brow furrowed. "What did she mean?"
Sister Mary's voice was barely a whisper. "She gave me a mission. She told me that I would raise a boy. That I would give him a good life. That I would protect him until my dying breath."
Erza's mind raced. A boy. A human boy. The elf queen had given a fallen High Elf a human child to raise.
"She brought him to me," Sister Mary said.
She paused again, her voice softening.
"For a human to survive in the land of the elves is unbelievable. And for the queen to touch him as if he were her own child, it was ridiculous. It was impossible. But it was happening. Right in front of me."
"He was five years old, small and pale, with red eyes that held no light. He trembled at every sound and could barely stop crying. He clung to the queen's leg as though she were the only person he trusted."
Erza's chest tightened. She thought of Yuuta. Of the way he smiled when he was sad. Of the way he laughed when he was afraid. Of the way he held Elena like she was the only thing keeping him alive.
Sister Mary looked at Erza, her green eyes wet.
"The queen comforted him as though he were her own child. Then she entrusted him to me."
She took a breath. "Before the royal court, she decreed that I would take him to the human world—to the cursed planet called Eldoria. I was to raise him, protect him, and give him a good life."
Earth. The cursed planet. Erza had heard that name before. It was what the beings of the Nova world called this place, a world without magic, without mana, without any of the things that made life worth living. A prison planet. A place where the unwanted were sent to be forgotten.
"And so I came to this cursed world," Sister Mary said. "My oath forbids me from revealing his true identity. I was told only that he is an unnatural child, born from the sin of the world. That is why the queen hid him and sealed his memories."
Erza's voice was sharp. "What does that mean? Sin of the world? What sin?"
Sister Mary shook her head. "I do not know, my Queen. I was never told what that meant. My duty was to raise and protect him." She hesitated. "His soul was shattered beyond repair. Sealing his memories was the only thing keeping him alive."
Erza went still. A shattered soul, and memories sealed to keep a five-year-old alive—what could possibly have happened to him?
What could possibly have happened to a child so young that his soul would be shattered? What kind of sin could produce a child who appeared human? And why would the Queen of the Elves care enough to hide him, to seal his memories, to send one of her own to raise him in a cursed world?
She had more questions now than when she started.
She had thought Yuuta was nothing. An insect. A mortal who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But now she knew the truth. He was something else. Something she did not understand. Something that the Queen of the Elves had deemed worthy of saving.
Erza had ruled Atlantis through wars and intrigues, yet Sister Mary's account left her with more questions than answers. She needed time to consider what the elven queen had done—and what it meant for Yuuta.
"Sister Mary," she said, her voice quiet, distant, as if she were speaking from somewhere far away. "Please look after Elena for me. I need time to rethink all of this."
She did not look at the elf. She could not. Her eyes were fixed on something else, on the field where Yuuta was presenting his dish, on the judges who were tasting his food, on the man who had no idea that his entire life had just been laid bare before her.
Sister Mary nodded.
Erza lowered the soundproof barrier, and Sister Mary stepped away.
Sister Mary replaced her blindfold and walked toward Elena.
The child was still watching her father, her small hands clasped in her lap, her legs swinging, her face bright with excitement.
She did not know that the woman approaching her was an elf. She did not know that her father's godmother had once tried to destroy a kingdom.
She only knew that Sister Mary was kind, and that she made Papa happy, and that was enough.
Yuuta stood before the judges, his heart pounding so hard he was certain they could hear it. The stew sat on the table between them, steam curling up from its surface, carrying the scent of rosemary and tomato and slow-cooked chicken.
Beside it, the potato mash waited, pale and smooth, a quiet companion to the richer dish.
He had done everything he could. He had relied on years of practice and the meals he had prepared in his tiny apartment. Now it was up to them.
The first judge was a small woman with sharp eyes and gray hair pulled into a tight bun. Her name was Chef Amara Voss, and she had been judging culinary competitions for thirty years.
Her face revealed nothing as she lifted her spoon, dipped it into the stew, and brought it to her lips. She chewed slowly, her eyes half-closed, her expression unreadable. Then she opened her eyes. She looked at Yuuta. She took another bite.
"My goodness," she said, her voice carrying across the quiet field. "Mr. Kounari, are you certain you used only the ingredients we provided?"
Yuuta nodded, his throat dry. "Yes, Chef Voss. Nothing more. Nothing less."
She set down her spoon and made a note on her clipboard. "Remarkable."
The second judge was a large man with a thick beard and kind eyes. His name was Chef Marcus Thorne, known throughout the culinary world for his warmth and his unshakable fairness. He tasted the potato mash first, closing his eyes as the smooth texture coated his tongue. Then he tried the stew. Then the mash again. His spoon scraped against the bottom of the bowl, searching for more.
"Oh my," he said, shaking his head. "I never expected a dish this good in a practical exam, Mr. Kounari."
Yuuta allowed himself a small breath of relief. But he knew better than to celebrate. The third judge had not yet spoken.
The third judge was different from the others. His name was Chef Aldric Vane, and he was known throughout the industry as the hardest judge in the country. He was older than the others, thinner, his face sharp and angular, his eyes cold and calculating. He did not reach for his spoon immediately. He studied the dish, turning the bowl slightly, examining the presentation, the color, the way the steam curled up from the surface. He leaned close, inhaling the aroma. Then, finally, he tasted it.
His expression did not change.
"However," he said, setting down his spoon, "there is something troubling about this dish."
Yuuta's heart clenched. Chef Voss and Chef Thorne exchanged glances. The parents in the seating area, who had been cheering and recording, fell silent. The other students, who had finished their own presentations, watched from their stations.
Chef Vane leaned forward, his cold eyes fixed on Yuuta's face. "Let me ask you something, Mr. Kounari. When you decided to cook this dish, what were you thinking about? Because I felt" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I felt that this dish was not meant for us. It was meant for someone else."
Yuuta's breath caught. He had prepared for questions about ingredients, about technique, about the origin of the spices and the history of the dish. He had memorized facts about the Maillard reaction and the proper way to temper an egg. He had not prepared for this.
Chef Vane continued, his voice cold. "It tastes as though I am eating someone else's portion—as though this meal was never meant for us."
The field was silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Yuuta thought for a moment. His mind drifted to Erza, to Elena, to the small apartment where they ate together every night. He thought about the way Elena's face lit up when he placed a plate in front of her, the way her wings fluttered with excitement, the way she always asked for seconds before she had finished her first serving. He thought about the way Erza pretended not to care but always finished everything on her plate, always reached for more when she thought he was not looking, always closed her eyes when she took the first bite.
He took a breath. He met Chef Vane's cold eyes.
"Yes, sir," he said. "You are right. I made this dish thinking of someone else."
Chef Voss's hand froze over her clipboard. Chef Thorne's eyebrows rose. The parents in the seating area leaned forward. Yuuta could feel their eyes on him, hundreds of them, all watching, all waiting.
Chef Vane's eyes narrowed. "You understand what you are admitting, Mr. Kounari?"
Yuuta did not waver. "Yes, sir. I made it while thinking about my wife and daughter."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Chef Vane's expression did not change.
"May I ask why?" His voice was louder now, almost challenging. "Then why present it to us? This is an examination, not a family dinner."
Yuuta felt his hands shaking behind his back. He clasped them together to still them. He thought about Erza's cold voice, about Elena's bright smile, about the way they sat at his small table every night and made him feel like he was not alone.
"With respect, Chef Vane, I do not know your tastes. I only met you today. But I know what makes my family happy, and thinking of them helped me cook with confidence."
Chef Vane opened his mouth to respond, but Yuuta continued. The words were coming now, flowing out of him like water from a spring.
"Cooking is not just about ingredients and technique. It is about love. It is about making something for someone you care about, someone you want to see smile, someone who will appreciate the effort you put into every chop, every stir, every taste." He paused, his voice softening. "My family waits for me to cook for them. Every night, they sit at the table, hungry and patient, and they eat what I make, and they tell me it is good, and I believe them because I can see it in their faces. My daughter, she is four years old, and she thinks I am the best cook in the world. She does not know about Michelin stars or culinary awards. She only knows that her Papa makes food that makes her happy."
His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed forward.
"My wife is harder to please. She criticizes my seasoning and pretends not to care, but sometimes she takes a second helping when she thinks I am not looking. I know when she enjoys something, even if she never says so."
He looked down at the dish, at the stew and the mash, at the food he had made with his own hands.
"I imagined them tasting this stew—my daughter smiling, my wife trying not to show that she liked it. If I had focused only on impressing the judges, I might have let my nerves ruin everything. Thinking of them helped me remember why I love cooking."
He bowed his head.
"I am sorry if that sounds disrespectful, sir. Technique matters, and I know I am here to be judged on it. But cooking with love gives those techniques a purpose. That is what I wanted to put into this dish."
The field was silent.
Chef Voss had tears in her eyes. Chef Thorne was nodding slowly, his hand over his heart. The parents in the seating area were clapping softly, some of them wiping their eyes, some of them holding their children a little tighter. The other students looked at Yuuta with new respect.
Chef Vane was silent. His face was unreadable. His cold eyes had softened, just slightly.
He reached for his spoon. He took another bite of the stew. He closed his eyes. He chewed slowly, deliberately, as if he was tasting something he had never tasted before.
When he opened his eyes, he was smiling. It was a small smile, barely visible, but it was there.
"You remind me of someone, Mr. Kounari," he said. "A man I met long ago. A man who tried to lift a fallen beam because he believed his children were trapped beneath it. He could not move it alone, but he refused to give up until help arrived. His love did not replace his strength; it gave him the resolve to keep trying."
He set down his spoon.
"You cooked with your family in mind, Mr. Kounari, and your technique did not suffer for it." He paused. "You passed."
Yuuta blinked. "What?"
"You passed," Chef Vane repeated. "The dish is balanced, well prepared, and memorable. And now I understand the feeling behind it."
Chef Voss burst into applause. Chef Thorne followed. Soon, the entire field was clapping, parents and students and teachers alike, their hands coming together in a wave of sound that washed over Yuuta like sunlight.
He stood at his station, his hands still shaking, his heart still pounding, and he smiled.
He had passed.
To be continued...