The text message from Frau Schmidt's assistant had landed with the explosive force of a small, custom-tailored grenade. Kichisen. A one-day, private internship. It wasn't an opportunity; it was a death sentence. Kenji was a man whose culinary repertoire began and ended with scrambled eggs, and he was being sent to the epicentre of Japanese haute cuisine, a place where a misplaced grain of rice was considered a declaration of war on beauty itself.
"I can't do this," he said for what felt like the seventeenth time.
He was pacing the length of Sato's tiny janitor's office, a cramped space that felt more like a prison cell with each passing second.
"Sato, this is not a mission; this is a public execution. They are sending a man who cannot swim to perform synchronized swimming at the Olympics. Master Chef Yoshikawa is a 'Living National Treasure.' He can probably smell my incompetence. He probably thinks cholesterol is a moral failing."
Sato, perched calmly on an overturned bucket of industrial-strength floor wax, didn't look up from the small toolkit she was cleaning.
"He is also, according to my research, notoriously reclusive and has not taken on a private apprentice in over a decade. Frau Schmidt must have paid an astronomical sum for this 'cultural immersion.' You cannot back out. It would be an insult to her, and it would make Ayame suspicious. You are supposed to be a prodigy, remember? Prodigies do not get stage fright."
"This isn't stage fright!" Kenji insisted, his voice rising to a near-hysterical squeak.
"This is a deeply rational, well-founded terror of being exposed as a complete and utter fraud in front of a man who can probably julienne a single water molecule! What am I supposed to do when he asks me to do something? Anything?"
"You do what you always do," Sato said, finally looking up.
She held up a small, gleaming piece of metal. It was a lockpick disguised as a collar stay.
"You fail upwards. You lean into the Takahashi Paradox. You will stare at a fish until he thinks you are communing with its soul. You will chop a vegetable so badly he will declare it a new school of culinary philosophy. You will spill something and he will praise your Jackson Pollock-esque approach to plating. It is your only viable strategy."
"It's a terrible strategy!"
"It's the only one you have," she countered, her voice softening slightly.
"But, you do have a point. You cannot go to Kichisen unprepared. Not in terms of skill—that ship has sailed, crashed, and sunk—but in terms of presentation. You need to at least look the part of a serious apprentice. And that," she said, standing up and pocketing her tools, "means we are going shopping."
An hour later, Kenji found himself in a part of Osaka he had only ever seen in travel documentaries. It was a narrow, ancient street lined with traditional shops, their wooden facades weathered by centuries of history. This was the city's famed Kitchen Town, a paradise for chefs and a circle of hell for Kenji. Sato led him to a specific shop, a building so old and unassuming it seemed to be held up by sheer force of will. A simple wooden sign above the door read, in elegant, carved calligraphy, "Aritsugu."
"This is it," Sato said, consulting her phone.
"Established in 1560. They originally made samurai swords. Now, they make the best kitchen knives in Japan. A chef's status is often judged by the quality of their hocho. You will enter Kichisen with a sword worthy of a master."
"I don't need a sword, Sato, I need a miracle," Kenji muttered, but he followed her in.
The inside of the shop was small, quiet, and smelled of oiled steel and ancient wood. It was less a retail store and more a shrine. Hundreds of knives, of every conceivable shape and size, were displayed in minimalist glass cases like priceless artifacts. There were long, slender yanagiba for slicing fish, heavy, rectangular nakiri for vegetables, and formidable, thick-spined deba for butchery. They looked less like kitchen tools and more like elegant, deadly weapons.
An ancient, wizened man, who looked as old as the shop itself, emerged from a back room. He had a long, white beard and eyes that seemed to see not just Kenji, but his entire lineage of culinary failures.
"Irasshaimase," the old man rasped, his voice like the sound of a sharpening stone. He bowed his head slightly.
Sato, ever prepared, stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"Konnichiwa. My… younger brother," she said, gesturing to Kenji, "is about to begin an apprenticeship at a prestigious restaurant in Kyoto. He requires a blade befitting his new station."
The old man's eyes settled on Kenji. Kenji, feeling profoundly awkward, attempted a bow that was too stiff and ended up looking more like he was dodging a low-flying bird.
The old man's gaze was intense.
"A chef's knife is not a tool," he said in slow, deliberate Japanese.
"It is a lifetime partner. It is an extension of the soul. Let me see your hands, boy."
Kenji, feeling like he was about to be judged by a martial arts master, reluctantly held out his hands. The old man took them. His own hands were surprisingly strong, his fingers calloused and hard. He turned Kenji's hands over, examining the palms, the fingers, and the knuckles.
"These are not the hands of a cook," the old man stated, his eyes narrowing.
Kenji's heart plummeted. This was it. The mission was over, foiled by an ancient knife-maker.
"They are the hands of a martial artist," the old man continued, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
"A swordsman, perhaps, from a past life. There is strength here. But it is undisciplined. Unfocused."
"He is a prodigy," Sato interjected smoothly.
"His talent is… intuitive. Raw. He has not yet been constrained by formal training."
The old man grunted, a sound of skeptical acknowledgment. "Intuition is a wild horse. It must be tamed by technique. What does he cook?"
Kenji opened his mouth to say 'scrambled eggs,' but Sato cut him off. "He deconstructs," she said simply.
The old man's eyebrow shot up.
"Hoh. A deconstructionist. A brave path." He released Kenji's hands and turned to one of the cases. "Then he will need a blade that can both create and destroy with equal grace."
He brought out a knife. It was beautiful and terrifying. The blade was long and elegant, forged from what looked like layered, Damascus steel, the patterns shimmering like water in the dim light. The handle was a simple, octagonal piece of dark, polished wood.
"A 270mm gyuto," the old man said, his voice filled with reverence.
"The chef's sword. Forged by Master Tanaka the Third. The steel was folded ten thousand times. It can slice a falling cherry blossom in half, yet it is strong enough to part the flesh from the bone. In the hands of a master, it is an artist's brush. In the hands of a fool, it is a very expensive way to lose a finger."
He offered it to Kenji, handle first. Kenji took it. It was perfectly balanced, lighter than it looked, and it seemed to hum with a latent energy. He held it the only way he knew how to hold a bladed object—in a defensive, ready stance he'd learned in special forces training.
The old man's eyes widened. He let out a sharp, indrawn breath.
"Masaka…" he whispered.
"What is it?" Sato asked.
"That stance…" the old man said, staring at Kenji with a new, wild intensity.
"It is the Crane's Wing grip. A lost form, known only to the Mizuryu school of swordsmanship from the Edo period. My great-grandfather was said to be the last man to see it. It is a grip that prioritizes precision and speed above all else."
He bowed deeply to Kenji, his forehead nearly touching the wooden floor.
"Forgive my impertinence, young master. I did not realize who you were. I see now. You are not a chef who practices swordsmanship. You are a swordsman who has deigned to practice cooking. It is a profound honor. For you, this blade is not enough."
He scurried to the back of the shop and returned with a long, silk-wrapped object. He unwrapped it with the care of a priest unveiling a holy relic. The knife within was even more magnificent. It was a sujihiki, a slicing knife, but its blade was longer, thinner, and seemed to shine with an inner light.
"Forged from a fallen meteorite," the old man whispered.
"It is said the blade will never dull and will guide the hand of a true master. It is not for sale. It is a treasure. But for the heir to the Mizuryu school, it is not a purchase. It is a birthright."
He pressed the knife into Kenji's hands.
Kenji and Sato stood there, stunned into silence. He had just been mistaken for the heir to an ancient, lost school of sword fighting and been gifted a priceless, possibly magical, space-knife. The Takahashi Paradox had officially reached a new, terrifying level of power.
As they were leaving the shop, the priceless meteorite knife wrapped in silk, a well-dressed woman and her teenage son entered. The son looked at Kenji, then at the wrapped knife in his hands, and scoffed.
"Look, mother," the boy said loudly in Japanese.
"It's another one of those anime kids. He probably thinks buying an expensive knife will make him a culinary ninja overnight. You have to actually practice, you know," he said patronizingly to Kenji.
Before Kenji could respond, Sato stepped in front of him, adopting the air of an exasperated but loving older sister.
"Kenshin, be polite," she said, using a deliberately childish name for him.
"You know you're not supposed to play with your new toy until we get home. Honestly, ever since he started watching that show 'Food Wars,' he's been impossible. Come on, little brother, let's go get you an ice cream before your big day tomorrow."
She grabbed Kenji by the arm and dragged him out of the shop, leaving the woman and her son staring after them.
"Kenshin?" Kenji muttered as they walked down the street.
"It was either that or let you try to explain that you're a 41-year-old spy who was just gifted a magic space-knife because you hold it like a 17th-century assassin," Sato retorted. "Now, about that ice cream…"
She led him to a small stall, and he ordered a simple vanilla soft-serve. He took a bite. The flavor was perfect, creamy, and uncomplicated. He took another bite, and a wave of relief washed over him. It was just ice cream. It hadn't scrambled. It hadn't been deconstructed. It hadn't morphed into a commentary on the cold, fleeting nature of joy.
Then he looked down. The heat of his hand, combined with the afternoon sun, was causing the cone to melt faster than he could eat it. A drop of melted vanilla ice cream landed squarely on the silk wrapping of his new, priceless meteorite knife.
He stared at the white drop on the dark silk. It looked… It looked just like a bird dropping.
Sato followed his gaze.
"A powerful statement, senpai," she said, her voice completely deadpan.
"A commentary on how even the purest joy can be defiled by the mundane realities of the world. Very profound."
Kenji closed his eyes and sighed. Tomorrow couldn't possibly be worse than this.
He was wrong.