The John Bosco Culinary College was alive with color and sound.
The morning sun had barely risen over the buildings, but already the campus was buzzing with activity, students rushing between stalls, professors calling out instructions, families streaming through the gates with cameras and balloons and the particular energy of people who had come to celebrate something they had been waiting for all year.
It was the practical exam, but no one would have known it from looking. The grounds had been transformed into a festival, with colorful banners strung between the trees, music playing from speakers hidden in the bushes, and the smell of cooking food drifting through the air like an invitation.
Parents had come from across the city to watch their children cook, to taste their creations, to be proud of them for the first time in what felt like forever.
Students moved between the stalls, their faces bright with nervous excitement, their hands carrying trays of food that they had spent weeks preparing.
Yuuta stood at the edge of the crowd, his equipment bag slung over his shoulder, his heart pounding in his chest.
He had been looking forward to this day for weeks—not because he was confident, not because he had prepared, but because for the first time in his life, someone was coming to watch him. Sister Mary would be here.
Erza and Elena were already here, somewhere in the crowd, waiting to see what he could do.
His bag was heavy. He had packed it carefully the night before, checking and rechecking every item: his chef's knife, sharpened to a razor edge; his cloth duster, soft and clean; a small bottle of whiskey, for the sauce he had been practicing; measuring cups and spoons, arranged by size; a spatula, worn smooth from years of use; a lighter, for the crème brûlée; a peeler, small and sharp, for the delicate work of carving fruits.
He had packed everything he needed. He had packed everything he could think of. He was ready.
He was terrified.
Behind him, Erza walked with her arms crossed, her face set in its usual cold mask, her eyes scanning the crowd with the particular intensity of someone who was used to being in control and was not sure she liked being surrounded by so many people.
Beside her, Elena bounced and jumped, her silver hair catching the sunlight, her small hand pointing at everything she saw.
She had been running through the crowd since they arrived, her silver hair catching the light, her wings fluttering with excitement, her voice rising above the music as she pointed at everything she saw.
"Papa! Look! Food!"
"Papa! Look! Pink cloud!"
"Papa! Look! Meat!"
She was everywhere at once, her small body weaving through the legs of strangers, her laughter ringing out like bells. Yuuta watched her, and for a moment, his nervousness faded. She was happy. She was safe. She was here, with him, and she was happy.
Yuuta laughed, despite his nerves. "I see, little one. I see everything."
Erza was not laughing. Her face was cold, her voice sharp, her eyes moving across the festival with an expression that might have been confusion or might have been disdain.
"Why does your college hold something so meaningless?" she asked.
Yuuta blinked. "What do you mean, meaningless?"
"Look at this." She gestured at the crowd, at the music, at the stalls and the banners and the parents taking pictures of their children. "It is just a test. But they celebrate it like a victory. It is useless. Wasteful. There is no purpose to any of this."
Yuuta sighed.
He had expected this.
Erza saw the world through the eyes of a queen, through the eyes of someone who had spent centuries measuring everything by its usefulness, its efficiency, its contribution to the greater good. She did not understand joy. She did not understand celebration.
She did not understand the simple, foolish, wonderful act of being happy for no reason at all.
"You are right, my queen," he said. "It is useless. It is wasteful. There is no purpose to any of this."
Erza nodded, pleased that he had finally agreed with her. "I am glad you see it my way."
"But," Yuuta said, "do not see anything unusual here?"
Erza looked around.
She looked at the stalls, the music, the parents taking pictures. She looked at the students laughing, the children running, the old man playing the violin in the corner, his eyes closed, his body swaying with the music. She looked at all of it, and she saw nothing unusual. Nothing except waste. Nothing except noise.
"No," she said. "I do not find anything unusual."
Yuuta sighed again. He pointed at Elena. "Look at Elena's face. Look at the faces of the other humans. And see."
Erza looked at Elena.
Her daughter was standing in front of a cotton candy stall, her face lifted toward the spinning sugar, her eyes wide, her mouth open, her smile so bright that it seemed to light up the space around her.
She was happy.
Not because she had been given something, not because she had won something, not because she had achieved anything at all.
She was happy because the world was beautiful, because the music was playing, because the sun was warm on her face and the cotton candy was pink and she was here, with her parents, in a place where nothing was expected of her except to enjoy herself.
Erza looked at the other faces in the crowd.
A mother, laughing at something her son had said, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes bright with pride.
A father, lifting his daughter onto his shoulders so she could see the stage, his face red with effort and joy.
A grandmother, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes wet with tears, watching her granddaughter arrange plates on a table.
They were all smiling.
All of them.
Even the ones who were tired, even the ones who were stressed, even the ones who had been working for weeks to prepare for this day.
They were smiling, and the warmth of their joy spread through the crowd like a wave, touching everyone, lifting everyone, making the festival something more than a test.
Yuuta's voice was soft, gentle, the voice of someone who had learned this lesson the hard way.
"It may be a waste of money," he said. "It may be a waste of time. It may be useless, by any measure that matters to a queen. But the happiness we get from this—" He paused, watching a child run past him, her balloon trailing behind her, her laughter bright and careless.
"The happiness we get from this cannot be found anywhere else. You can have endless wealth, but if you cannot bring a smile to your own people, that wealth is nothing. It is useless. It is waste."
Erza was silent.
Her arms, which had been crossed, fell to her sides.
Her face, which had been cold, softened. She looked at Elena, at her daughter's smile, at the joy that was radiating from her small body like heat from a fire.
She looked at the other faces in the crowd, at the mothers and fathers and grandmothers who had come to watch their children cook.
She looked at the students, nervous and excited, their futures hanging in the balance, their hands steady on their knives.
She felt something she had not felt in centuries.
Warmth.
It was not the warmth of magic. It was not the warmth of battle. It was something else, something softer, something that spread through her chest and made her heart beat faster and made her throat tight and made her want to smile even though she did not know how.
She looked away.
Her face, which had softened, hardened again.
Her arms, which had fallen, crossed again.
Her voice, when it came, was sharp, dismissive, the voice she used when she was hiding something she did not want to show.
"Ridiculous," she said. "Absolute nonsense. I have never heard such foolishness in my entire life."
She turned and walked toward Elena, her steps quick, her back straight, her face turned away from Yuuta so he would not see the color rising in her cheeks.
Yuuta watched her go.
He knew what she was feeling, even if she would not admit it.
He had seen it in the way her arms had fallen, in the way her face had softened, in the way she had looked at Elena and seen something she had not expected to see.
He smiled.
He picked up his bag and followed her into the crowd.
The exam had begun.
Students were being called to their stations one by one, their names echoing across the courtyard, their faces a mixture of excitement and terror. Each one had one hundred and twenty minutes to prepare their dish, to present it to the judges, to prove that they had learned something in the years they had spent at this college. Some had already finished. Some had passed. Some had failed. The judges sat at a long table near the front, their faces serious, their pens moving across their papers, their eyes never leaving the students who worked at their stations.
Yuuta's roll number was forty-nine. He was second to last. He had been watching the exam for hours, sitting in the seating area near the judges' table, his equipment bag at his feet, his hands clasped in his lap. Erza sat beside him, her arms crossed, her face cold, her eyes fixed on the students who were cooking. Elena sat on his other side, eating cotton candy, her face sticky with sugar, her legs swinging, her attention drifting from the exam to the stalls to the birds that were gathering in the trees.
Yuuta was nervous. He had taken practical exams before, had stood at cooking stations while judges watched and waited and judged. He had never been nervous. He had always been alone, with no one to impress, no one to disappoint, no one to watch him fail. Now Erza was beside him. Now Elena was watching. Now Sister Mary was somewhere in the city, on her way to see him, and he had to pass this exam, had to prove that he was not a failure, had to show them that he was worth something.
He looked at Erza. She was watching a student at the far end of the row, her expression unreadable, her hands still. He thought about the past weeks, about the dances and the meals and the hands they had held. He thought about the ring on his finger, the ring that had changed, the ring that would not come off. He thought about the promise she had made, the promise to kill him, the promise that he was not sure she would keep.
I have to win, he thought. For her. For Elena. For myself. I have to prove that I am not nothing.
He looked at the judges' table, at the students who were being called, at the names that were being announced. He was not watching the exam. He was looking for someone.
Roll number thirty-six.
Fiona.
He had not seen her since the rooftop, since she confessed, since she told him that Erza was a monster and that he needed to run. He had not spoken to her. He had not called. He had not done anything except avoid her, the way he had been avoiding her for years, the way he had been avoiding everyone.
Yuuta sighed. He had been thinking about her all week, about the years they had spent together, about the friendship that had meant something to him and nothing to her. He had thought he loved her, once. He had thought she was the only person who saw him as something other than cursed. He had been wrong.
I do not love her, he thought. I never loved her. I wanted her to want me. I wanted her to look at me without fear. I wanted her to be the person who proved that I was not a monster.
But she was not that person. She was never that person. She was just... there. And I was lonely. And I mistook loneliness for love.
His mind drifted, pulled back by the weight of memory, to the day he first walked into that classroom, the day everything changed, the day he met Fiona.
The classroom had been loud when he arrived, full of the particular chaos that came from children who had been told to sit still and be quiet and had failed miserably.
They whispered to each other, passed notes, kicked at the legs of their desks, counted the minutes until recess. They did not notice the new boy standing at the front of the room. They did not care.
"Students," the teacher said, her voice rising above the noise. "We have a new student today."
The whispers stopped. Heads turned. Eyes fixed on the door.
"New student?" someone said from the back of the room. "Is it like an anime protagonist? Is he going to show up and dominate the class?"
A girl laughed. "No way. Imagine if a hot guy appeared right now. That would be crazy."
The rumors spread quickly, the way rumors always did among children who had nothing better to do. They imagined someone tall, someone handsome, someone who would sweep into the room and change everything. They did not imagine a small boy with long hair and old clothes and hands that trembled at his sides.
The teacher smiled. "Okay, you can come in, Yuuta."
The door slid open.
He was small, smaller than the other children his age. His hair was long, falling over his face, hiding his eyes. His uniform was old, the fabric faded, the cuffs frayed. He kept his head down, his chin tucked, his shoulders hunched, as if he was trying to make himself smaller, to disappear, to be anywhere but here.
"Who is he?" someone whispered.
"Why is he hiding his face?"
"Did you see his uniform? It looks so old. Like, really old."
The whispers were not cruel. Not yet. They were curious, confused, trying to understand the boy who would not look at them.
Yuuta stood in the corner of the room, his hands clasped in front of him, his head bowed. He did not speak. He did not move. He stood like a statue, like a ghost, like someone who had learned that being seen was dangerous.
The teacher's voice was soft, gentle. "Yuuta, can you introduce yourself?"
He nodded. His voice, when it came, was barely audible, trembling with nerves.
"My name is Yuuta Konuari. It is nice to meet you."
The classroom went quiet. The children who had been whispering, who had been expecting someone tall and handsome and confident, looked at the small boy with the long hair and the old uniform and the voice that was so soft it barely reached the back of the room.
"Did you hear his voice?" someone whispered. "It is so good."
"So cute. I bet he is handsome under all that hair."
The teacher smiled. "Yuuta, you can look at your classmates. They are friendly. Do not worry."
He shook his head. His voice was small, broken, the voice of someone who had learned to expect the worst.
"No. They will hate Yuuta. Everyone does."
The teacher's smile faded. She looked at him, at the boy who had been told so many times that he was cursed, that he was poison, that he was something that should not exist. She had seen children like him before, children who had been hurt so many times that they had stopped hoping for anything else.
"Yuuta," she said, "no one will judge you. You can look at your classmates. How else will they see your cute face?"
He looked up. His voice was soft, uncertain, the voice of someone who wanted to believe but was afraid to try.
"Really? They will not hate Yuuta?"
"Really," the teacher said. She looked at the class. "Will you?"
The children shook their heads. "No," they said. "We promise."
Yuuta was ten years old. He still believed that promises were sacred, that words spoken in good faith could not be broken, that the world was kinder than he had learned to expect. He looked up.
His hair fell away from his face. His eyes were red.
The classroom, which had been loud with whispers and laughter, went silent.
The children who had been smiling, who had been promising, who had been ready to welcome the new boy with open arms, stared at him.
Their faces changed.
Their smiles faded. Their eyes widened with something that was not curiosity and not confusion and not kindness.
Red eyes. They had never seen anything like them. They did not understand them. And children—children were afraid of what they did not understand.
The children in the front rows trembled. They did not speak. They were good children, raised to be polite, raised to be kind. They did not know what to say. They only knew that the boy standing at the front of the room was not like them, and that frightened them.
The children in the back were not good children. They were not kind. They had been waiting for someone to mock, someone to hurt, someone to make them feel powerful. They found him.
"Monster," one of them said. "Look at his eyes."
"Demon."
"Devil. He is a devil."
Yuuta's eyes began to glow. He did not know why. He did not know how. It happened when he was sad, when he was scared, when the world reminded him that he was not wanted. The light pulsed from his red eyes, faint and flickering, and the children in the back saw it and laughed.
"His eyes are glowing! He really is a demon!"
"Cast him out! How dare he betray Jesus!"
"The devil will be crushed beneath God's feet!"
Paper balls flew through the air. They hit his face, his chest, his hands. He did not move. He stood at the front of the room, his hands at his sides, his eyes glowing, his tears falling.
"But you promised," he whispered. "You promised you would not hate me."
The teacher tried to stop them. She slammed her duster on the desk, shouted at the backbenchers to sit down and be quiet. They did not listen.
They threw more paper, laughed louder, called him worse names. She could not control them. She could not control any of it.
And then a girl stood up.
She was small, like him, with dark hair and sharp eyes and a voice that carried authority that should not have belonged to a ten-year-old.
She walked to the front of the room, past the whispering children, past the frightened children, past the teacher who was trying and failing to restore order.
She stood in front of Yuuta, blocking him from the paper balls, from the laughter, from the cruelty of children who did not know any better.
"Enough," she said.
The classroom went silent.
The children in the back, who had been laughing, who had been throwing paper, who had been calling him a demon, stopped.
They looked at the girl. They remembered the last time they had made her angry.
They remembered the washroom they had been forced to clean, the detention they had served, the parents who had been called. They sat down. They clicked their tongues. They were quiet.
The girl turned to the teacher. "Ma'am, please continue from here."
The teacher nodded, relief flooding her face. "Thank you, Fiona. I am glad you are here."
Fiona turned to Yuuta. She looked at his red eyes, his glowing eyes, his eyes that had made the other children call him a demon. She did not flinch. She did not look away.
"Woah," she said. "Your eyes are different from the rest."
Yuuta hid his face, turned away, tried to make himself small. "Please do not look at them. Yuuta does not want to scare you."
Fiona sighed. "Do you think I will be scared?"
He shook his head. "Everyone says the same thing. But when they see my eyes, they treat me like a demon." His voice cracked. "But I am Yuuta. I am just Yuuta."
Fiona looked at him.
At his trembling hands, his wet cheeks, his eyes that glowed when he was sad.
She reached out and took his hand. Her grip was firm, steady, sure.
"From now on," she said, "you will sit beside me."
She led him through the classroom, past the children who stared, past the children who whispered, past the children who would never understand.
She sat him down at the desk next to hers, pulled out his chair, pushed him toward it.
"Tell me," she said, "if anyone bothers you. I will handle it."
Yuuta looked at her. At her dark hair, her sharp eyes, her voice that carried authority that should not have belonged to a ten-year-old. He did not understand why she was helping him.
He did not understand why she was kind. He only knew that she had held his hand when no one else would.
"Yes," he said. "I will, Fiona."
The memory faded.
To be Continue...