The silence in the kitchen is absolute. It is the silence of a battlefield after a chemical attack.
Their mother culture, the heart of their entire rebellion, is dead. Murdered by a packet of Blue Raspberry Blast. The jar, which had glowed with a warm, living light just moments before, now holds a murky, lifeless sludge of an unholy blue-green hue. The tangy, vibrant scent of fermentation has been replaced by the cloying, fake-sweet smell of a children's birthday party gone wrong.
Lucien looks like he's just witnessed a snuff film. "You… you killed it."
Nyra stares at the dead culture, her hands clenched at her sides. She is not sad. She is incandescent with a cold, pure rage. She finally understands what Caelan meant. This isn't food. It's poison.
Caelan takes the dead jar and places it carefully in the center of their prep station. It is no longer an ingredient. It is Exhibit A.
"The challenge is at dinner tonight," he says, his voice a low, steady instrument of focus. "That gives us six hours to prepare a three-course funeral."
They work not with the happy, collaborative energy of the last few days, but with the grim, silent efficiency of a black ops team. Every movement is precise, every word is necessary. They are not just cooking anymore. They are building a case.
Course One: The Lie.
Caelan tasks Lucien with preparing a consommé. But instead of using their vibrant, living vegetables, Lucien uses only the most perfect, soulless ingredients from the rejected Elysian Fields delivery, which they retrieve from a communal dorm fridge. Carrots with no flavor. Celery with no snap. Onions with no story. He simmers them into a technically perfect but utterly boring broth. It is the taste of corporate mediocrity.
Then comes the moment of execution. Caelan carefully strains a small amount of the blue, dead jello liquid. With an eyedropper, he places a single, perfect blue sphere into the bottom of each consommé bowl, where it sinks like a beautiful, toxic pearl.
"When the hot broth hits the bowl," Caelan explains, "the jello will partially dissolve, releasing a plume of blue. They will taste the bland, corporate broth first. Then, the overwhelming, artificial sweetness of the raspberry. They will taste the exact moment that real food is corrupted by the lie."
Course Two: The Victim.
Nyra's fury is channeled into her knife work. She takes one of Talia's most beautiful, quirky heirloom tomatoes—a 'cat-faced' marvel bursting with concentrated, sun-drenched flavor. She slices it into paper-thin carpaccio, arranging it on a chilled plate. It is a portrait of natural, rustic perfection.
Her weapon is the garnish. She takes a portion of the dead jello sludge and dehydrates it under a low heat lamp, creating thin, brittle shards of a terrifying, glassy blue. It looks like sea glass, or a broken-off piece of a chemical bottle. She will sprinkle these shards over the perfect tomato.
"The first texture they feel will be the soft, life-affirming flesh of the tomato," Nyra says, her voice like ice. "The second will be the crunch of this… this plastic. It will be an unnatural, grating sensation. A violation. They will taste the purity of the tomato, and then they will taste it being shattered."
Course Three: The Ghost.
The finale is Caelan's. It is the most audacious, conceptual, and dangerous part of the plan.
He takes nothing. His final plate will be an empty bowl.
But before service, he will heat a small amount of the pure, concentrated blue jello powder in a dry pan until it begins to smoke. The smoke is acrid, smelling of burnt sugar and hot plastic. It is the death-rattle of the product. He will trap this smoke in a glass cloche.
The empty bowl will be presented to the judges, covered by the smoke-filled cloche.
"For the final course, they will taste nothing," Caelan says, his expression grim. "They will only smell the ghost of what was lost. The artificial sweetness. The chemical burn. It is a portrait of the soul after the soul-eater has finished its meal."
It is a three-course menu of breathtaking, intellectual violence. It follows every single rule of the challenge. It celebrates the "flagship product" by making it the undeniable star. It just does so in the most damning way imaginable.
Dinner service. The grand refectory has been repurposed for the Sponsor Spotlight. A single, long table is set for the judges: Provost Holt, Chef Maillard, and a stern-looking woman in a business suit—the representative from Marche Corp, Ms. Evelyn Reed.
Zadie and Milo are broadcasting from a respectful distance, their voices hushed, as if narrating a funeral. The entire academy is watching on their devices, holding their collective breath.
The three courses are presented.
The consommé is served. Ms. Reed from Marche Corp raises her eyebrow at the dramatic plume of blue, taking it as a clever bit of brand integration. Then she tastes it. Her polite, corporate smile freezes. Her palate, accustomed to focus-grouped mediocrity, is suddenly forced to experience the violent, real-time corruption of flavor.
The tomato carpaccio arrives. Ms. Reed compliments the artistic look of the "blue sugar glass." Then she takes a bite. The grating, unnatural crunch of the jello shard against the tender tomato flesh makes her visibly flinch.
Finally, the third course. Caelan himself places the smoke-filled cloche in front of each judge. Provost Holt looks at him with utter contempt, expecting a final, pathetic trick.
"For the finale, a celebration of the lasting impression of Marche's Insta-Jello™," Caelan announces to the silent room.
He lifts the cloches. A puff of thin, acrid blue smoke rises, carrying the ghostly, chemical scent.
Chef Maillard inhales. He does not weep this time. His face is a mask of profound, academic sorrow. He understands the genius. He understands the tragedy.
Ms. Reed breathes in the smell of her own product's incinerated soul. Her corporate composure finally cracks. A look of genuine, nauseated disgust flashes across her face before she can hide it behind her hand.
Provost Holt inhales the smoke, and his rage finally boils over. He knows exactly what this is. A perfectly executed, rule-abiding declaration of war. An insult so sublime it is almost a work of art.
He stands up, his chair scraping violently against the floor.
"This is an outrage!" he roars, his voice echoing in the silent hall. "This is a mockery of our sponsor, a perversion of the challenge! This is not cuisine, it is a… a manifesto!"
Caelan meets the Provost's furious, crimson face with a look of utter, unshakable calm.
"Yes," he says simply. "It is."