The official's face cycles through a fascinating spectrum of bureaucratic rage. His rulebook, his clipboard, his entire sense of an orderly world has just been short-circuited by a row of glowing, bubbly jars.
"Starters?" he sputters, his voice cracking with indignation. "That's… that's potato peel water! It's garbage juice! It will be weighed as waste!"
"Is a sourdough mother waste?" Nyra cuts in, her voice dangerously sharp. She has found the scientific and historical precedent, a shield of legitimacy for their miracle. "Is a kombucha scoby waste? Is a koji culture, the very foundation of Japanese cuisine, waste? These are living cultures. The heart of our next dish."
She taps one of the jars. It pulses with a soft, golden light in response. The sight is so utterly inexplicable, so alien to the sterile rules of Aurum, that the official takes an involuntary step back.
Defeated, he can only make a furious note on his datapad. He confiscates nothing. The Leftover League, for the second time, has officially submitted zero waste. They have bent the Provost's iron-clad laws into a pretzel.
As the officials retreat in disarray, Milo Patch, who had been broadcasting the entire tense standoff from the hallway, practically explodes into the kitchen.
"Symbiotic Bloom! I'm calling it Symbiotic Bloom!" he shouts, his camera weaving around the glowing jars like a hummingbird. "My viewers are losing their minds! Is it science? Is it magic? My comment section is a warzone between microbiologists and wizards!"
Amidst the celebratory chaos, Caelan is already looking ahead. The jars are not a final victory. They are a single chess move in a game that is growing more dangerous by the hour. Holt will not take this lying down.
He holds up a hand, silencing the room.
"This buys us time," he says, his voice cutting through the excitement. "But it also raises the stakes. We didn't just create a new ingredient. We declared a new philosophy. And now, we have to prove it's not just a trick."
His gaze falls upon the largest jar, the one containing the culture made from the most diverse array of vegetable peels and offcuts—carrot skin, onion root, mushroom stem. It is a microcosm of their entire farm delivery, a living library of their rebellion.
"Tomorrow's challenge is breakfast," Nyra says, her mind already shifting to strategy. "How do you make a breakfast dish from… that?" She gestures to the glowing, tangy liquid.
Lucien's face is a mask of concentration. "The flavor profile is intensely sour and savory. Not exactly typical breakfast material for the Aurum palate, which favors sweetness and rich fats."
"That's because their palates are boring," Caelan says simply. "We're not going to hide this flavor. We're going to make it the star."
A new idea is taking shape in his mind, sparked by the living, breathing energy in the jars. The culture wasn't just an ingredient; it was an engine. It didn't just have flavor; it had power. The literal, physical power of fermentation.
"The greatest leftover in most breakfast cooking isn't peels or scraps," Caelan muses aloud. "It's something else. Something invisible."
He looks at a canister of flour sitting on the counter.
"It's untapped potential."
The next morning, the smell wafting from the Emberwood Hall kitchen is unlike anything the campus has ever experienced. It's not the familiar, comforting aroma of bacon or coffee. It's sharp, tangy, earthy, and undeniably alive. It's the smell of rebellion fermenting.
When the other residents shuffle into the common room, they don't find plates of scrambled eggs or pancakes. They find a single, beautiful, and utterly bizarre offering.
On each plate sits a perfectly round, golden-brown disc, about the size of a small pancake. It is impossibly light and airy, its surface riddled with a delicate lacework of tiny bubbles. A dollop of something creamy and white is swirled on top, garnished with a sprinkle of fresh, finely chopped herbs. It is stark, minimalist, and deeply confusing.
Zadie Nightwell is there, of course, broadcasting live. "We are live at the Day Two breakfast service for the Zero Remnant Audit, and The Leftover League… has made… a strange foam circle?" she narrates, her voice a cocktail of professional skepticism and raw curiosity.
Chef Barthol Maillard stands at the back of the room, observing, his face a granite mask of scholarly interest.
A brave first-year student takes a tentative bite.
His eyes go wide.
The "foam circle" is a revelation. It's a savory pancake, but unlike any he's ever had. It has the satisfying chew of a perfect sourdough, but it is as light and delicate as a cloud. The primary flavor is the wild, electric tang of the Symbiotic Bloom starter, a complex sourness that makes every taste bud stand at attention. The creamy dollop on top isn't cream cheese or butter; it's a smooth purée made from the roasted flesh of their gnarled potatoes, whipped into a silky crème. The herbs are the carrot tops from yesterday.
It is a dish made entirely from leftovers and outcasts, powered by a magical, overnight fermentation. It tastes ancient and futuristic at the same time.
More students dig in. The initial confusion gives way to murmurs of shock, then to sighs of pure, unadulterated pleasure. It's not just delicious. It wakes you up. It's a jolt to the system, a vibrant, living flavor that cuts through the morning haze. The boon of this dish isn't peace or comfort. It's clarity.
"The starter isn't just a flavoring," Caelan explains quietly to Milo, who is recording his every word. "The wild yeast in the culture is what leavened the pancake batter in under an hour. We used the life in our leftovers to create lift."
He has named the dish simply: Symbiotic Pancake.
Provost Holt, watching the adoring reactions on the live feed, feels a vein begin to throb in his forehead. He had outlawed history, so Veston had invented biology. He had made having scraps a crime, so Veston had turned his scraps into a living organism.
He wasn't just cooking. He was creating a new branch of culinary science right under their noses. This was no longer an audit. This was an insurrection.
Holt's fingers fly across the keys of his datapad, drafting a new directive. If he couldn't beat Veston on the science, if he couldn't beat him on the rules, then he would beat him with the most powerful, most corrupting force at his disposal.
He would beat him with money.