The Emberwood common room is buzzing. For the first time, it feels less like a dorm and more like the headquarters of a revolution. Students from other floors come by, not just to taste, but to talk. They bring Caelan their half-eaten bags of chips and ask him what he tastes. They show Nyra pictures of weird vegetables from their hometowns. They ask Lucien for stock market tips, assuming his new rebellious streak comes with financial genius.
For a few hours, they are not just The Leftover League. They are folk heroes.
In their kitchen-turned-war-room, the mood is one of exhausted, giddy triumph. Lucien is scrolling through the academy forums on his datapad, a rare, genuine smile on his face.
"They're calling Holt's new rule the 'Pickle Panic,'" he reports. "Zadie's latest poll shows student approval for The Leftover League is at seventy-eight percent. We're more popular than the Friday dessert bar."
Nyra isn't celebrating. She is hunched over one of the jars of Symbiotic Bloom, peering at it with the intensity of a research scientist who has just discovered a new form of life.
"The cellular division is unlike anything I've ever seen," she murmurs, tapping the glass. "The culture seems to self-regulate, keeping a perfect pH balance. Caelan… this isn't just a starter. It's a stable, closed-loop ecosystem. It's… alive."
Caelan is quietly cleaning the prep station. The praise, the fame, it all just feels like noise. The only thing that felt real was the quiet harmony of the kitchen that morning, the shared focus, the look of surprised delight on the faces of his dorm mates. That was the real victory.
As if on cue, the dreaded campus-wide chime echoes through the room.
Every datapad lights up. Every student in the common room falls silent. It is the sound of the other shoe dropping.
Provost Holt's face appears on the screens again. This time, his smile is wider, more relaxed. It is the most terrifying expression they have seen yet.
"Astounding!" he begins, his voice dripping with faux-paternal pride. "Day Two has shown us that innovation can spring from the most unexpected places. In that spirit, and in partnership with our most valued corporate benefactors who make this academy possible, we are introducing a new daily feature to the Audit: the Sponsor Spotlight!"
A slick, corporate logo fades in beside Holt's head: a stylized 'M' over a globe. Marche Corp. Taste The Future.
"Each day," Holt continues, his eyes glinting, "one of our sponsor's flagship products will be the centerpiece of a surprise challenge. This tests a chef's true versatility—the ability to create sublime cuisine not just from the farm, but from the reality of the modern global food system. It is a test of creativity, adaptability, and brand synergy."
The unspoken threat is clear. This is not about cooking. It is about fealty.
A moment later, a sleek, black van with tinted windows and a silent electric engine glides to a stop outside Emberwood Hall. A woman in a razor-sharp business suit steps out, holding a single, small, black briefcase.
She enters the common room, her heels clicking on the floor like a ticking clock. The crowd parts before her. She does not look at Zadie's camera or the assembled students. Her eyes are locked on Caelan.
"For The Leftover League," she says, her voice as crisp and sterile as her suit. She places the briefcase on their cleanest prep station and snaps it open.
Inside, nestled in custom-molded foam, is a single, brightly-colored cardboard box.
The design is a masterpiece of aggressive marketing: cartoon berries, shimmering splashes of blue, and bold, happy letters. It's an ingredient that promises fun, simplicity, and absolutely no connection to the natural world.
Lucien reads the name on the box, and all the color drains from his face.
"Marche's Insta-Jello™. Blue Raspberry Blast."
Nyra stares at the box as if it's a venomous snake. "That's not food," she whispers, her voice laced with pure, unadulterated disgust. "It's a box of chemical powders. Gelling agents, artificial sweeteners, and color dye #40."
Lucien's hands are trembling slightly. "Marche Corp is… everything we stand against. Gideon Marche built an empire on monetizing the very artificiality we're fighting. To fail this challenge isn't just to get a bad score. It's to publicly insult one of the most powerful men in the world."
This is Holt's true endgame. He has found the one thing in the culinary world that cannot be redeemed. An ingredient that is not sad, not overlooked, but a lie. It wasn't born from the earth. It was synthesized in a lab with the express purpose of erasing the taste of anything real.
While Nyra fumes and Lucien spirals, Caelan steps forward. He reaches into the briefcase and picks up the garish box of powder.
He holds it in his hands. He closes his eyes. And he listens.
It is worse than he could have ever imagined.
The Elysian apple had been silent, a void. This… this screams.
It is not a chorus of a thousand stories, but the single, monotonous, deafening drone of a factory assembly line. There is no Story Note. There is no memory of sun or soil. There is only the harsh, metallic taste of chemical bonds and the hollow, echoing flavor of a marketing focus group's final decision.
This isn't an ingredient with an overlooked truth. This is an ingredient whose entire existence is a lie.
Caelan opens his eyes. The look on his face is not one of anger or fear. It is one of profound, heartbreaking pity.
He turns to his stunned, terrified teammates.
"It's not just that it has no soul," he says, his voice a quiet, solemn verdict.
"It's a soul-eater. It was designed to make you forget what a real raspberry tastes like."