Since Shun had come all this way, he wasn't about to bicker with Erina—he understood her tsun all too well.
"Erina, I don't like beating around the bush, so I'll be blunt… I'm here to help you. I'm not here to laugh at you. As a chef, I know what it's like when your palate turns against you. And as your… friend, I can't just stand by."
He meant every word.
"Friend?"
Erina let out a short, bitter laugh. "Shouldn't you be with your girlfriend right now? Why meddle in my business?"
The second it left her lips, she regretted it.
Anyone normal could hear the sourness in that line… well, anyone except Soma, who was terminally romance-dense.
Color rose in Erina's cheeks. She wanted to slap herself.
So obvious. Way too obvious.
Shun blinked—then it clicked.
So that's it. The ice queen's… jealous?
Watching her flustered and prickly, he suddenly found this high-and-mighty God Tongue girl… kind of cute.
"Miyoko knows I'm here," he said gently. "She's worried about you too—and she wants you to get through this."
Some tightness left Erina's shoulders.
But she refused to bow her head so easily. "Hmph. I don't need your pity. I can handle it."
Before Shun could answer, Hisako stepped forward, anxiety written all over her face.
"Erina-sama!" she pleaded. "Please don't say that… Shun-dono came just to help us. Your condition is terrible right now—keeping this up will harm your voice and your health."
She turned to Shun, eyes apologetic. "Shun-dono, please don't mind it. The pressure's been too much—Erina-sama didn't mean it."
Hisako truly feared he might turn and leave.
Since Erina's God Tongue faltered, several restaurants under the Totsuki Group had taken blows to their reputation. They'd tried to smother the rumors, but the foodie circles were already whispering that "Nakiri Erina has lost her absolute palate."
Totsuki's prosperity and the Nakiri name were tied to the God Tongue—Erina's most of all.
Hearing Hisako's explanation, Erina's lips trembled, but pride made her avert her gaze; her hands, however, wouldn't stop shaking.
Shun stayed calm. He wasn't the type to be driven off by a prickly remark—and the system quest had sealed his resolve, besides.
"If you'd rather lose the Shokugeki and stain the Nakiri name—if you're ready to let the God Tongue spiral out of control and walk your mother's path… then say the word, and I'll leave right now."
If soft won't work, use steel.
It worked. Erina snapped her head back, eyes wide. "H-how do you know about that…?"
Shun didn't bite. "The Commander is worried about you. Admitting you need help isn't weakness. Real strength is using every resource to win. Your God Tongue isn't a curse—it's a gift. But right now, it's hungry. It needs to eat."
"I…"
Shun opened the preservation case and drew out the leaf he'd redeemed. A gentle smoke aroma blossomed at once.
At the first whiff, Erina's senses sharpened. This was no ordinary ingredient.
"Give me ten minutes," Shun said. "I'll cook something to soothe your God Tongue… After that, if you still want me gone, I won't say another word."
Erina stared into his steady, earnest eyes. Pride and reason clashed hard.
Fear of losing—and the memory of that overwhelming deliciousness—won.
She gave the slightest nod.
With her wordless consent, Shun moved at once.
Hisako led him to the Nakiri kitchen—professional, pristine, five-star in all but name.
Shun washed his hands, drew a deep breath, and slid into his shoku-gi focus.
"Let's begin."
He set the Bacon Leaf on the board and studied it: a common natural ingredient in the Gourmet world—leafy and green-gold, yet lush with lipids on par with beef. Its own salinity ran high; raw it was tasty, cooked it sang.
First time handling it—but he was confident.
A gentle rinse in pure water. Pat dry with special kitchen paper.
Pan on. A thread of olive oil. When the heat was just right, he laid the leaf in flat.
Szzzz—!
At first touch, a rich, inviting smoke note surged up, like searing prime bacon. But beneath it lived a green freshness—no heaviness, no grease.
He minded the heat with total control, turning the leaf with tweezers for even sear.
Color shifted from emerald to golden; the edges curled into delicate crisp lace.
Still—something to tie the lines together.
Shun called up one more ingredient from the system: the Egg Rice Erina had tasted once before. He steamed it perfectly and set it by. He also blanched fresh spinach from the pantry to a bright, clean snap.
The leaf finished, he set it on paper to kiss away excess oil, then ran his knife: tch-tch-tch. Each ribbon shone, carrying that poised, cured fragrance.
He plated with restraint: a bed of Egg Rice (soft grains with a custardy sheen), a whisper of blanched spinach for chlorophyll clarity, and on top, a fan of crisp Bacon Leaf ribbons. No flourish beyond a dusting of micro-salt to key the vascular lines of the leaf.
Simple—but immaculate. And the aroma? Irresistible.
The most miraculous part: that deep, meaty smoke came from a plant, not flesh—purely natural.
Lidding the plate to hold the perfume, Shun carried the dish back to Erina's room.
He lifted the cover.
A quiet, elegant smoke enveloped the air—clean, not cloying; structured, not loud. The God Tongue stirred, not in revolt, but in recognition.
Erina hesitated only a heartbeat, then picked up a ribbon with her chopsticks and placed it on her tongue.
The recalibration was immediate, and kind: the smoke didn't batter; it embraced, sketching a single clean axis through her scrambled receptors. Salinity tuned the line; the spinach's green note reset bitterness; the Egg Rice cushioned the palate, warming sensitivity without numbing it.
Her fingers stopped shaking. The headache slackened another notch.
"This won't silence your God Tongue," Shun said softly. "It will center it."
Erina looked down. Then up. Pride wrestled with relief—and with something warmer, shy and new.
"D-don't get the wrong idea," she murmured, cheeks pink. "This is… barely acceptable."
Hisako let out a laugh-sob of pure relief. "Erina-sama…"
Shun smiled a fraction. "Good. Then we move on. A feather-light 'equilibrium congee' next, and one clean fermentation note to chart Kajiyama's attack lanes."
He set a pot to warm. "You don't have to ask me for help," he added, eyes on the flame. "But as a chef, I won't ignore a palate in pain."
Outside, night deepened.
Inside, something else deepened too.
(End of Chapter)
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