Yuuta was overjoyed.
His heart felt lighter than it had in weeks, the weight of nervousness and fear finally lifting from his shoulders. He had passed the test.
Chef Vane had declared it in front of everyone, breaking the rules that said no participant should know their results until the end of the day. But Chef Vane did not care about rules. He cared about food. And Yuuta's food had moved him.
The other parents clapped. Their hands came together in a rhythm that filled the field with warmth, with approval, with the kind of recognition Yuuta had never received from anyone except Erza and Elena. But some of the students did not clap. They stood at their stations, their arms crossed, their faces hard. The rumors about Yuuta—the assault, the crime, the whispers that followed him like shadows—were still hot in the college. They had not forgiven him. They would not forget.
Yuuta did not care. He had stopped caring about what other people thought a long time ago. He had Erza. He had Elena. He had Sister Mary. That was enough.
"Papa! Papa!"
Elena's voice cut through the noise like a bell. She was running toward him, her small legs pumping, her silver hair streaming behind her, her wings fluttering with excitement. Her speed was abnormal for a child—too fast, too smooth, too graceful. But Yuuta had stopped being surprised by the things his daughter could do.
She hit him like a small missile. Her arms wrapped around his leg, and the impact sent him stumbling backward, his arms flailing, his balance gone. He hit the ground with a soft thud, Elena still clinging to him, her giggles filling the air.
"Papa! I was watching you! I saw you beating Mr. Potato like how Mama beats you!"
Yuuta laughed. He could not help it. Her innocence, her joy, her complete lack of awareness that she had just compared her mother's violence to his cooking—it was all so perfectly, wonderfully Elena.
He lifted her into his arms, settling her on his hip. "Well, little princess, do you want to taste Mr. Potato?"
Elena nodded so violently that Yuuta nearly lost his balance again. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"
"Then take it slow, okay? Mr. Potato is hot."
She did not take it slow.
She never took anything slow.
But Yuuta held the bowl steady, spooned a small portion of the mashed potatoes, and brought it to her lips. She opened her mouth wide, took the bite, and chewed with the intensity of someone who had never tasted anything better in her entire life.
"Papa," she said, her mouth full, "this is the best Mr. Potato Elena has ever eaten."
Yuuta's heart swelled.
From the judge's table, Chef Vane watched the scene. He saw the way Yuuta held his daughter, the way he fed her with gentle hands, the way he smiled at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
He saw the love there, the same love that had flavored the stew, the same love that had made the dish unforgettable.
He turned and walked toward the college building, his footsteps slow, his hands clasped behind his back. He had a report to write.
He had a passing grade to record. He had never been happier to do his job.
Sister Mary approached Yuuta from the edge of the field. She was wearing her white robes, the ones that covered her from neck to ankle, the ones she wore when she needed to avoid attention. Her beauty was a curse in places like this—it drew eyes, sparked whispers, caused problems that she did not have the energy to solve. The robes helped. They made her invisible.
"Congratulations, my little Yuuta," she said.
Yuuta turned. Elena's face lit up. "Papa! Godmother is here!" She waved both hands in the air, nearly knocking the bowl of mashed potatoes out of Yuuta's grip.
"Sister Mary!" Yuuta's voice was bright, excited, the voice of a child who had just done something good and wanted to share it with the person who mattered most. "Did you see? I won the test! Did you see?"
Sister Mary chuckled.
She had seen.
She had heard Chef Vane's declaration from across the field, had felt the warmth of the applause, had watched her son stand in front of strangers and speak about love and family and food. She had never been prouder.
"Of course I heard," she said. "And I knew my Yuuta would win."
Yuuta smiled. It was the same smile he had worn when he was a child, the same smile he had worn when he brought her burnt cookies and misshapen bread and asked her to taste them. "Sister Mary, please taste my food. I made plenty of it."
She hesitated. Her eyes drifted to the side, toward the parent seating area where Erza stood, lost in thought, her arms crossed, her brow furrowed.
"Are you sure I should be the first to taste it?" she asked.
Yuuta tilted his head, confused. "What do you mean, Sister Mary?"
She pointed. He followed her gaze.
Erza was standing apart from the crowd, her silver hair catching the afternoon light, her violet eyes fixed on some point in the distance.
She was not watching him.
She was not watching Elena.
She was thinking—deeply, intensely, the way she did when she was trying to solve a problem that had no easy answer.
Yuuta's face went pale. The bowl of stew was still warm in his hands. The mashed potatoes were cooling on the table behind him.
If he let Erza see that he had served Sister Mary before serving her—if he let her think, even for a moment, that he had forgotten her—she would end him. Mercilessly. Without hesitation.
He grabbed the pot of chicken stew, ignoring the heat searing his palms, and rushed toward Erza. His heart was pounding.
His feet were moving.
He had to get to her before she noticed.
He had to make sure she tasted his food first.
He had to survive.
Erza stood in the parent seating area, her arms crossed, her mind racing. She was connecting dots. She was piecing together fragments of information that did not want to fit.
The rebellion of Velthiriel Sylvarion. The intervention of Queen Aerisyl. The child who had appeared from nowhere, whose soul was shattered beyond repair, whose memories had been sealed by elven magic.
She tried to remember.
Her memory was sharp—sharper than any human's, sharper than most dragons'. She had ruled Atlantis for centuries.
She had received reports from every corner of the continent.
She should remember something about a human child appearing in the elven lands, about a creature so unnatural that the queen herself had intervened.
She remembered nothing.
The Atlantis Kingdom had the best surveillance in the entire continent. Its spies were everywhere, its informants countless, its network unbreakable.
It was hard to believe that she had not known about A human child, born outside Eden, living freely in a land of high-density mana.
It was harder to believe that a human had entered the elven domain at all.
She sighed. Her shoulders dropped. She could not solve this puzzle with the pieces she had. She needed more information. She needed to speak to someone who knew the truth.
"I will have to ask the Elf Queen directly," she murmured to herself. "It is not as if I am going to kill him."
She smiled.
It was a small smile, cold and sharp, the smile of someone who had made a decision and was pleased with it.
She had decided Yuuta's fate. He would not die. He would be enslaved. For the rest of his life, he would serve her, cook for her, care for her daughter.
He would never know freedom again, Stuck in prison forever. It was a fitting punishment—worse than death, worse than anything he could imagine.
She imagined his face when she told him. The horror. The disbelief. The slow, dawning realization that he would never escape her. He would beg for death. He would plead for mercy. She would refuse.
She smiled wider.
Ridiculous mortal, she thought. You will suffer. And I will enjoy watching.
The killing intent hit her like a wave.
It was sudden, sharp, unmistakable. It came from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding the college field, surrounding the compound, surrounding her.
Her eyes narrowed.
Her body tensed.
Her hand moved to her side, ready to summon her magic, ready to strike.
She scanned the crowd.
The parents, the students, the teachers—they were all still clapping, still celebrating, still unaware of the danger that lurked at the edges of the field. But Erza felt it. She had spent centuries learning to sense threats before they became visible. She knew when she was being watched. She knew when she was being hunted.
She did not know who they were. She did not know why they were here. But she knew they were human and chimera . Many of them were human. Surrounding the complex. Waiting.
Her eyes found Yuuta. He was running toward her, a pot of stew in his hands, a smile on his face. He had no idea. He had no idea that danger was closing in, that enemies were gathering, that the peaceful afternoon was about to shatter.
--------------------------------
The John Bosco Culinary College was built like a fortress. Three large buildings rose around the central field, their walls forming a protective barrier, their windows facing inward like watching eyes. Each building housed a different department—culinary arts, pastry and baking, hospitality management—and each one had its own rooftop, its own sightlines, its own shadows where someone could hide.
On the rooftop of the eastern building, a woman adjusted her sniper rifle. The AWM was a heavy weapon, designed for military use, capable of hitting targets from over a mile away. It was not meant for civilian spaces. It was not meant for college festivals. But it was here, and she was here, and her finger was on the trigger.
She adjusted the scope. The field came into focus—the stalls, the parents, the students in their white uniforms. She scanned the crowd, searching for her target. He was easy to find. The red eyes stood out, even from this distance. He was moving toward a woman with silver hair, carrying a pot that steamed in the cool air.
"Target is out of range," she said into her earpiece. "Waiting for him to move closer."
Around the field, the other members of the syndicate took their positions. They blended into the crowd, their weapons hidden beneath jackets, their faces calm, their eyes cold. Some held pistols. Some held knives. Some held the black demonic paper that would extract the sin from the target's soul. They had been instructed carefully. Do not kill him. Extract the sin. Deliver it to the Demon King.
The voice of their leader crackled through the earpiece. "Remember. Shoot him in the chest. Not the head. We need him alive for the extraction."
The sniper nodded. "Understood."
Another voice, one of the syndicate heads, spoke. "Do not use the demonic pills unless it is an emergency. They are expensive, and they have side effects. Use them only if the target resists."
The men in the crowd acknowledged. They were ready. They had been planning this for days. They knew the layout of the college, the schedule of the event, the location of every exit. They had studied the target's movements, his habits, his weaknesses. He was a college student. He was not trained for combat. He would not see them coming.
The sniper adjusted her scope again. The target was still moving toward the woman with the silver hair, still carrying the pot, still unaware.
"Target is in range," she said. "Waiting for confirmation."
The voice of the syndicate leader crackled through her earpiece. "Confirm the order. Shoot him down."
She locked the scope on his chest. Her finger moved to the trigger. She took a breath. She let it out. She waited for the perfect moment.
Erza stood in the grass, her arms crossed, her face cold, her eyes scanning the crowd. She had felt the killing intent moments ago—faint, scattered, coming from multiple directions. She had identified the snipers on the rooftops, the men with pistols hidden beneath their jackets, the ones who stood too still, who watched too closely, who did not belong.
She should have acted. She should have frozen them where they stood, shattered their weapons, made them regret ever setting foot in this place. But she did not. She was a queen. She did not concern herself with the plans of insects. They were beneath her. They would fail. They always failed.
And so she stood in the grass, her arms crossed, her face cold, and she waited.
She saw Yuuta running toward her. He was holding a pot, his face bright with excitement, his eyes fixed on her. The stew sloshed over the rim as he ran, droplets falling to the grass, steaming in the cool air. He was smiling. He was happy. He had passed his test, and he wanted her to taste his food, and he did not know that he was running toward a woman who had been planning to kill him, who had spent weeks threatening his life, who had only just decided to spare him.
She smiled. It was a small smile, the kind she did not let anyone see. She thought about his punishment. Slavery. For life. She would lock him in a cell so deep that he would never see the sun again. She would visit him every day, just to watch him suffer. She would make him regret every moment he had ever spent in her chamber.
"Erza!" he called, still running. "Here! I made you something!"
He was still far away. The pot was still hot. The stew was still steaming.
The sniper's finger tightened on the trigger. The scope was locked on his chest. The shot would be clean, precise, non-lethal if she aimed correctly. She had done this before. Many times. She did not miss.
"Target is in range," the sniper said. "Waiting for confirmation."
The line was silent for a moment. Then the boss's voice came through, cold and final.
"Shoot him."
The sniper exhaled. Her finger tightened on the trigger. The crosshairs held steady on the young man's chest. She could see his face clearly now, his red eyes bright, his smile wide, his whole body radiating a joy that she did not understand. He was running toward the silver-haired woman. He was holding a pot of food. He was happy.
She did not care.
She pulled the trigger.
Erza watched Yuuta run. She did not see the glint of the scope. She did not hear the whisper of the voice on the earpiece. She did not feel the killer's intent focused on her mortal. She was the Dragon Queen. She was the most powerful being on this planet. She did not need to be vigilant. She did not need to be afraid.
She was wrong.
The crack of the rifle tore through the air, raw and uncontrolled. The suppressor, half-shattered by the force of the blast, failed to contain the sound. It roared—sharp, jagged, unnatural—echoing across the field, bouncing off the walls of the three buildings, scattering the birds from the trees.
The world slowed.
Erza saw the bullet leave the rifle. She saw it cut through the air, a streak of metal and fire, faster than anything she had ever seen. She saw it cross the field, pass through the space between the stalls, thread its way through the crowd of parents and students and judges who had not yet realized what was happening.
She saw it hit Yuuta.
His chest. His left side. The bullet tore through his shirt, through his skin, through his muscle, through his lung. It exited his back in a spray of blood and tissue, and the force of it spun him around, twisted him, dropped him to his knees.
The pot fell from his hands. The stew spilled across the grass, steaming, mixing with the blood that was already pooling beneath him.
He did not scream. He did not cry out. He simply Stand there, his hands pressed to his chest, his eyes wide, his mouth open, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"Er...za..."
Her name. He said her name.
To be continued...