The muffled sound of voices returned to Erina's ears like a gentle wave. She blinked, as if emerging from a deep trance. As her eyes adjusted to the morning light, she found herself surrounded by a crowd. Unfamiliar faces were gathered in front of Damian's booth, astonished smiles and murmurs of admiration lingering in the air like steam rising from hot milk.
"It... smells so good..."
"Even the 'God Tongue' is captivated..."
"Four dishes?! All different?!"
Erina's eyes trembled. Only now did she understand what Damian had meant when he stood at the stove with that serene posture—no rush, no arrogance. Just confidence.
She pushed through the curious onlookers, almost stumbling over her own feet.
"Gray-senpai!" Her voice came out louder than she intended. "I want another serving of each."
Damian looked at her, raising an eyebrow slightly at the size of the line that had already formed. "You and thirty others... but alright, give me a moment."
Erina turned, surprised. The line stretched across the square. And yet, only one dish had been served so far — the Zuppa di Latte. A hush suddenly fell over the crowd, as if the world were holding its breath in unison.
Damian calmly turned the stove knob.
Blue flames flared beneath two cast iron pots. He placed two regular frying pans beside them, wiping them clean with a folded cloth slung over his shoulder. Then he lined up two knives on a wooden cutting board as though they were string instruments about to play a symphony.
Erina swallowed hard. "What... is he going to do now?"
Hisako, standing behind her, answered without taking her eyes off the boy. "I... honestly don't know."
Damian said nothing. The silence around him spoke volumes. He moved with grace, stacking bowls and plates with measured motions, as if time flowed at a different rhythm around him. He began preparing another Zuppa di Latte, this time even more refined, white steam curling through the air and dancing among the curious faces.
"It's so gentle... like a warm hug," an elderly woman murmured beside her.
"Already gone?!" exclaimed a young man, licking his spoon regretfully. "I ate it too fast..."
"Idiot, you're supposed to savor it," muttered another, his eyes misty.
Damian didn't stop.
The smell of butter began to spread through the air, a sweet and warm perfume that drew everyone closer. He poured small amounts into both pans, the fat melting and sizzling with a sound that seemed to sing.
Without losing rhythm, he alternated hands, slicing cured pancetta and shaving parmesan cheese. The other knife glided over fresh sage leaves. Everyone could see — and hear — the choreography of steel, wood, and fire.
Then, he dropped the ingredients into the Crema di Latte pot, stirring in circular motions, as if tracing invisible mandalas. The aroma of nutmeg, milk, and cheese filled the air.
Suddenly, he turned, dropped a layer of polenta onto a marble surface, spread it like a canvas, and with the help of a spatula, brushed on a layer of milk cream and sautéed mushrooms.
Polenta di Latte. Rich, rustic, and absurdly inviting.
People swallowed hard.
Damian didn't even glance at the crowd. His full attention was on the dishes — on the precise texture, the balance of the cream's acidity, the temperature of the polenta's center. He served modest portions, but each one was intense. And each seemed to hold a world within.
Finally, he lifted his gaze, spoons still spinning in the pans.
"Panna Cotta... needs time," he murmured to himself.
And even time itself seemed to obey him. Damian retrieved chilled glasses containing the delicately gelatinous milk pudding, almost translucent. Over them, a crimson thread of fresh strawberry sauce dripped like a strand of silk. He topped it with a mint leaf.
"Please," he said softly, offering the tray. "Buon appetito."
There was no response. The sound of cutlery and spoons filled the space. An absurd calm settled over the crowd. Everyone seemed to partake in the meal as if it were something sacred.
In the private room with the alumni, Dojima watched in silence.
The knife rested on the table. The flame beneath the pan had gone out. Damian breathed with serenity.
Preparing four distinct dishes at the same time wasn't just a technical feat. It was an art. A symphony. And he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Truly a craftsman..." he murmured.
For Damian, the evaluation was only beginning.
For the others — including Erina, now teary-eyed and lips slightly parted before the Panna Cotta — it was impossible not to feel.
The rich and gentle scent of fresh milk hung in the air, like a creamy mist enveloping Damian's booth. It was as if each ingredient, each dish, each pan, was playing a soft and comforting melody — a milky symphony that touched the hearts of those watching.
Erina, wearing a slightly dazed expression, held the spoon delicately. The Zuppa di Latte was still gently warming in her bowl, exuding the rustic aroma of celery root and leek slowly simmered in milk. Her first spoonful had made her close her eyes by reflex, and now she sipped again, in small tastes, as if not wanting it to end.
"It's almost... maternal," she murmured, "like someone turned a hug into soup."
Hisako nodded silently, completely absorbed in the texture of the Polenta di Latte, which melted delicately in her mouth like a warm cloud, buttery and subtly sweet, balanced by the lightly salty touch of freshly grated parmesan that Damian had chosen to incorporate, creating an elegant layer of flavor.
But when the Crema di Latte arrived at the table, in a small ramekin, accompanied by a spoon, the reactions changed. Its surface still trembled, silky, like a mirror of liquid porcelain. When Erina dipped her spoon in, the cream gave way gently — thick, warm, almost alive.
"The milk... isn't just an ingredient here," she said softly. "It's the heart. It's time. It's... him."
And then, like a farewell wrapped in sweetness, came the Panna Cotta al Latte, served on a light plate with a delicate drizzle of wild raspberry syrup and mint leaves. Its texture danced between solid and ethereal, as if defying the laws of matter. Each spoonful was light, refreshing, and yet profoundly creamy. An epiphany in dessert form.
"This is far beyond what I expected..." whispered Hisako, moved.
As the flavors overwhelmed the senses, the movement around the booth began to shift. Other students — and even some of the Totsuki Resort staff — began to approach, drawn not only by the aroma, but by a quiet curiosity: What, after all, was that boy cooking that made time feel slower?
"Hey, do you feel that? It's coming from booth 7!"
"What is that...?"
"There! Look! He's cooking one dish after another!"
Children tugged at their parents, teachers glanced at each other in surprise and found themselves halfway to the booth, caught between professionalism and hunger.
In the monitoring room, Dojima watched in silence, arms crossed. His expression was caught between surprise and admiration.
"He kept the rhythm in every dish. Not a single movement out of time. Not a spoonful too many. The temperature, the doneness, the plating... all calculated with absurd precision," he said, slightly furrowing his brow. "And yet, none of it feels mechanical. Quite the opposite..."
"His cooking is... gentle," Fuyumi added, almost poetically. "It soothes the heart."
"And I'm certain he hasn't revealed the final dish yet," added one of the examiners from the corner of the room. "There's still one more, isn't there?"
Dojima glanced at the timer. There was still plenty of time.
Damian calmly washed the pans, his movements smooth, as if cleaning something precious. Despite all the frenzy around him, his face remained serene, his eyes focused.
(End of Chapter)
Give me some power stones there you go~😉