CHAPTER 53: GLORIOUS PLANS

The early hours of class passed like a slow, monotonous drizzle—forgettable and utterly draining. I sat at my desk half-awake, my chin resting on my palm, while Professor Leron, a man whose passion for logistics was matched only by his complete lack of charisma, droned on about fest protocol, vendor rotations, and the thrilling world of community service obligations. Not even the Headmistress’s more terrifying, soul-piercing stares during her own lectures could keep my focus in check today. My thoughts were a tangled, chaotic mess, a battlefield of future plans and past regrets.

Two days. That’s all I needed. Two days until the auction, until the sword, until the next, crucial step in my long, bloody game.

It was only when Professor Leron uttered the words that snapped half the class to life that I was pulled from my reverie.

"...and now, for your fest participation forms."

A stack of enchanted papers floated into the air from his desk, gliding down each row like a flock of obedient, parchment-skinned birds.

"The Academy Fest is our most prestigious public event," he said, his voice, for the first time, holding a note of genuine gravitas. "Noble families, wealthy merchants, esteemed royals—even foreign envoys from across the continent will be in attendance. It is an event that reflects not only our academic excellence, but our cultural prowess. Your contribution matters."

A sheet fluttered onto my desk. I barely looked at it. From the corner of my eye, I spotted the various, mind-numbing categories:

▢ Dancing

▢ Singing

▢ Acting

▢ Duel Exhibition

▢ Food Stall

▢ Games & Contests

▢ Artisan Goods Booth

▢ Cultural Showcase

▢ Fest Management & Logistics

I let out a long, weary sigh and looked up. "Professor," I called out, my voice flat and bored. "Can I just... not do this?"

The low hum of the classroom quieted a bit. Leron turned toward me, his brows raised in mild surprise. "No, Mr. Crimson. All students must contribute. It is a mandatory part of your curriculum. If you don’t wish to perform or compete, you may join the management division—help with the setting up of tables, stalls, decorations, and, of course, the post-fest cleanup."

I leaned back in my chair and offered a sarcastic smirk. "And my student council responsibilities don’t count as a contribution?"

He actually smiled, a rare, fleeting expression. "They do. Council members are granted exemption privileges. But keep in mind, you will lose the opportunity to gain merit—and a significant amount of income."

My ears perked up. "Wait. Income?"

"Indeed," Leron replied, a twinkle in his eye. "Participants who choose to run their own stalls—be it food, games, or crafts—are entitled to keep a seventy percent share of their earnings. The remaining thirty percent, of course, goes to the Academy as a facilitation fee."

My eyes widened. My mind, once a sluggish river of boredom, was now a raging torrent of calculations. Seventy percent. With the number of wealthy nobles and free-spending royals who would be in attendance, the potential profit was... staggering.

I glanced down at the form, which I had just absentmindedly folded into a paper airplane. Gently, I opened it back up, smoothing out the creases with a newfound reverence. I picked up my pen.

Within seconds, I’d written in large, aggressive script:

Ashen Crimson – Food Stall (Custom Restaurant Experience)

I stood, walked to the front of the classroom, and handed the form to Professor Leron with a deadpan look. "Please place this at the top of the pile, sir."

He blinked, clearly amused by my sudden shift in attitude. "Of course, Mr. Crimson."

From behind me, a familiar, teasing voice called out. "Mood swing?" Noora said, her brow arched in amusement. "You’re weird, you know. One second you’re ready to burn the whole festival down, the next you’re lighting up like a coin-hungry merchant."

I returned to my seat with a straight face. "Just exploring my entrepreneurial spirit."

She squinted at me suspiciously. "You’re glowing. You’ve got greedy eyes. What exactly are you plotting now, Ashen?"

I shrugged. "Nothing. Just... I’m going to try cooking this time."

Noora had been taking a delicate sip of water. She immediately choked, spraying half of it across her pristine desk in a fine, unladylike mist.

The class froze. Several of the more prim and proper noble students gasped at the unseemly display.

Noora coughed, quickly covering her mouth, her face flushing a deep, mortified crimson as she bowed her head. "S-Sorry! That just... caught me off guard."

I smirked. "I know. A noble of your standing acting like a normal human being—it’s a rare and beautiful sight."

"Not funny," she muttered, wiping her desk with a silk handkerchief. "But cooking? Really? What do you mean by that?"

"I’m opening a restaurant booth," I said, a confident grin spreading across my face. "Something original. High-quality. And, most importantly, capable of generating a hefty profit."

"I didn’t know you could cook."

"I can’t. Not well, anyway," I admitted without a hint of shame. "But I know how to sell, how to market, and how to make something that people will crawl over broken glass to get their hands on."

She looked puzzled.

I leaned in slightly, my voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. ’This world’s food is bland, Noora. It’s all function, no form. No spices, no fusion, no creativity. They eat bread and cheese like it’s a feast. I’ve eaten better cafeteria food in my past life.’

A few of the students sitting nearby tilted their heads, their expressions a mixture of confusion and intrigue.

’I’ll introduce dishes that no one here has ever even dreamed of. I’ve done this before, back in college during the festival events. I know what catches people’s attention. The actual cooking? I’ll outsource that. But the management, the vision? That’s my domain.’

"And you’re doing this for... money?" Noora asked, her voice still laced with a hint of incredulity.

"Of course. Glory is overrated. You can’t eat glory. You can’t use it to buy a nice, safe home for your... family." I held up my fingers, rubbing them together in the universal gesture of greed. "But gold? That, you can eat with style."

She exhaled, a sound of exasperated amusement. "What about the thirty percent they take?"

"Unfair," I said dramatically. "Daylight robbery of the highest order."

"You’re going to ask Headmaster Evelyn for an exemption, aren’t you?"

"I was considering it..." I muttered. Then I imagined the look she’d give me. The raised eyebrow. The condescending smirk. The very real possibility of a punitive lightning strike to the ribs. "Actually," I corrected myself, "seventy percent sounds more than generous."

"Coward," Noora mumbled under her breath.

I turned back to my desk, my mind already buzzing with ideas, my pen flying across the page. Booth design. Staff selection. Dishes. Names.

Names...

"Ashen’s Ember Grill."

"The Shadow Flame Kitchen."

"Crimson Taste."

Maybe I’d let Masha name it. She had better taste than I did.

I looked around the class. So many of my peers were focused on the fleeting glory of performances and competitions. On songs, dances, lights, and the hollow sound of applause.

But not me.

I’d turn a simple food stall into a goldmine.

Maybe even start a food empire.

Why not?

The midday bell rang, cutting through the chatter of the classroom like a guillotine. Students stretched, groaned, and started filing out—some headed to the cafeteria, others to their various fest preparation meetings.

I remained seated.

My pen tapped lightly against the edge of my notebook, not scribbling equations or complex runic arrays, but doodling an entirely different kind of blueprint.

Tables. Layout. Pricing.

And, most importantly—the menu.

Ramen, burgers, and fries.

That was the plan. Simple. Familiar. And, in this world, utterly, unforgettably revolutionary.

Earth food—reimagined for a world that had no idea what it was missing.

The concept had been brewing in my mind since the moment I heard about the 70–30 profit split. At first, I thought I’d simply outsource the cooking and focus on the management side of things. But now? I was actually getting excited. Not about the cooking itself—gods no—but about the potential. The gold. The fame.

And maybe... just maybe... the fun of it all.

"This world," I muttered, a slow grin spreading across my face, "needs a little spice."

Literally.

Back in my old world, even a simple bowl of ramen could taste like heaven when it was done right. A rich, savory broth, simmered for hours until it was a symphony of flavor. Springy, hand-pulled noodles. A perfectly soft-boiled egg, its yolk a jammy, golden sun. Tender, melt-in-your-mouth slices of pork—or whatever meat passed for it here. Topped off with fresh, crisp scallions, some crunchy, fried garlic, and a dash of fiery chili oil. Perfection.

And burgers? Universally beloved. A juicy, seasoned patty of meat, nestled between two soft buns, adorned with sauces and fresh, crisp greens.

As for fries?

I paused. That was where the problem began.

This world didn’t have potatoes. Not real ones, at least.

They had a common, tuber-like root called a brolin, which looked close enough—a pale yellow flesh, a thin, earthy skin—but when cooked, it turned into a mushy, watery mess. It was completely useless for making the crispy, golden fries my plan required.

And I couldn’t call it a full burger meal without fries. That would be a crime against culinary decency.

So now, during recess, I wasn’t thinking about my upcoming duel with Noora, or the intricate political games of the noble houses, or the growing, shadowy threat of the demon cult.

I was thinking about starchy vegetables.

There has to be an alternative, I thought, a familiar, stubborn determination setting in. There has to be something close.

I grabbed my bag and stood.

"Where are you off to?" Noora called from behind as I passed her desk.

"Botany wing," I said, my voice filled with a newfound sense of purpose. "I’ve got a date with some tubers."

"...You’re weird."

I made my way across the east courtyard to the Academy’s botanical conservatory—an entire wing of the campus dedicated to the study of magical herbs, rare and exotic plants, and alchemy-based vegetation. Inside, it smelled of damp earth, strange, sweet-smelling moss, and mineral-rich, mana-infused soil. The air was warm and humid, and the light that filtered down from the enchanted glass panels of the ceiling made the place glow like a fairy tale forest.

An old, wizened professor with a beard that seemed to have its own ecosystem looked up as I entered.

"Ah, a member of the student council," he said, adjusting his spectacles. "What brings you to the leafy side of the Academy?"

"I’m looking for something," I said, getting straight to the point. "A root or a vegetable, similar to a brolin, but firmer. Something that can crisp up when it’s fried."

He blinked. "Fried? As in, submerged in hot oil?"

"Yes."

"Hm." He scratched his beard, a thoughtful look on his face. "An unusual request. You might be looking for a solonis tuber."

"Solonis?"

He walked over to a massive, wooden shelf and pulled down a heavy, leather-bound sketchbook. He flipped through the delicate, hand-painted pages, stopping at a beautiful watercolor painting of a plant with deep, blue-veined leaves and bulbous, white roots.

"This here is the solonis tuber," he said, his voice filled with an academic’s passion. "It’s quite rare in the central kingdoms, but it grows natively in the harsh, cold climates of the north. It’s hard as a rock and almost impossible to chew raw, but when it’s cooked at a very high heat, it develops a wonderfully crispy outer layer while the interior remains soft and fluffy."

Bingo.

"Where can I get it?"

"Well," he said, "it’s not sold in the usual noble markets, but some of the merchant stalls in the lower district—especially the beastkin-run stalls—import all sorts of odd vegetables from the border towns. You might try your luck there."

I nodded, a plan already forming in my mind. "Thanks."

"You’ll be frying them, you say?" he called after me as I turned to leave.

"Fries," I said, grinning. "Trust me, they’ll change the world."

Back at the Academy, I sat under a large, shady tree near the west courtyard, flipping through my notebook again. The blueprint was clearer now, the pieces falling into place.

Ashen’s Shadow Kitchen

Menu:

Ramen (Spicy, Savory, and Herb-infused versions)

Burgers (Thunderbeast beef, Wyvern chicken, and a rotating local monster meat special)

Shadow Fries (Solonis-cut, seasoned with a secret blend of Earth-style salt and herbs)

Special Set Meal: ’The Warrior’s Combo’ – burger, fries, and a mana-replenishing drink

Each item would have flair. Branding. A fantasy twist that would appeal to the nobles’ love of the exotic. The presentation would be half the appeal.

Now came the harder part.

Staff.

I couldn’t do this alone. Even if I delegated the actual cooking, I needed a team. Someone to manage the prep work, the service, the cleaning, and the inevitable chaos of customer flow.

So who do I drag into this little culinary adventure?