Inside the student cafeteria, time seemed to freeze in the corner occupied by Nagumo Miyabi and Asahina Natsume.
The dark red velvet-draped table, bathed in flickering candlelight, stood in surreal juxtaposition against the noisy backdrop of student chatter and clattering trays. It was a bizarre, magnificent island of opulence adrift in a sea of mundane routine. The tantalizing aromas and visual luster of the top-tier dishes continuously drew the senses of onlooking students, pulling gasps and hushed whispers across the room.
"Those dishes… they look incredible!"
"How are they eating that in the cafeteria?"
"Is that person… the first-year, Sakamoto? Who is he?"
Nagumo Miyabi sat rigidly before the artistic spread, his cutlery untouched. His mind was still numb from cognitive overload, cycling through the same, silent questions:
Who am I?
Where am I?
What am I doing?
He tried to impose rationality on the spectacle. How could one person prepare all this in a single night? How was it preserved? How was this entire production staged here, unseen, until this moment? Each question led to an answer that defied logic, pointing toward a reality he could not—or did not want to—grasp.
This Sakamoto is not normal at all.
His earlier notions of "controlling" or "testing" the freshman now felt laughably naïve. The "interview period" he had proposed felt less like an assessment and more like a meticulously laid trap, and he had stepped right into it. This wasn't an interview; it was a public execution. He could feel the weight of the surrounding gazes—curious, envious, probing, and tinged with the unmistakable glee of watching a spectacle. He, Nagumo Miyabi, the de facto ruler of the second year, had never been made to feel so utterly exposed.
Asahina Natsume, in contrast, adapted with alarming speed. After the initial shock, she surrendered wholly to the delicious absurdity. She elegantly sliced a piece of foie gras, and her eyes widened as it melted on her tongue.
"Mmm~! Miyabi, you have to try this! The balance of the sauce is perfect! It's better than the on-campus high-class restaurant!"
She sampled the lobster bisque next, another soft exclamation escaping her. "The depth of flavor… Sakamoto-kun, you're truly incredible. He really made all this himself?"
Her praise was genuine, unburdened by Nagumo's turmoil.
Nagumo moved mechanically, lifting a spoonful of the bisque to his mouth. An explosion of perfect umami and temperature washed over his palate. It was, objectively, astonishing. Yet that perfection only deepened his disquiet. He was eating what was likely the most luxurious—and most agonizing—meal of his life, every bite flavorless under the weight of his humiliation.
Meanwhile, the architect of this chaos sat quietly a few tables away.
Sakamoto-kun occupied an ordinary corner, the picture of austere simplicity. Before him was the cafeteria's most common set meal: rice, miso soup, a modest portion of vegetables. He sat with impeccable posture, chopsticks in hand, consuming the humble fare with a ritualistic, focused elegance. It was as if the grand "candlelight luncheon" performance had been staged by another person entirely. He chewed slowly, thoroughly, his expression one of deep concentration, as if savoring a rare delicacy. This composed immersion stood in stark, silent contrast to his earlier role as the deferential attendant.
The extreme dichotomy sent different messages to different observers. To some admiring students, it was the epitome of powerful humility. To Nagumo, it was a blatant, silent mockery. And to one particular observer, it presented a puzzle of contradictions.
Ryuuen Kakeru stood at the cafeteria entrance, arms crossed, his sharp gaze darting between the two scenes: the lavish table and the solitary diner. Sakamoto's respectful service, followed by this serene solitude, clashed and warred in his analytical mind.
Collaboration? Flattery? Coercion?
None of the pieces fit. The respect had seemed effortless, and the entire tableau was too absurd to be a simple power play. It forced another update in Ryuuen's ever-evolving profile of Sakamoto-kun.
Decisively, he moved. Weaving through the lingering crowd, he strode directly to Sakamoto's table and sat down opposite him without invitation.
Sakamoto-kun's rhythmic eating paused. He looked up, his gaze from behind the black-framed glasses meeting Ryuuen's with a calm that held no trace of surprise.
"Yo, Sakamoto-kun," Ryuuen began, his voice low and direct. He jerked his chin toward Nagumo's distant table. "You're playing quite the game. Who are those two, that it's worth your while to go to such lengths… to serve them?"
His predatory eyes scanned Sakamoto's face, searching for the slightest crack in that impassive veneer.
Sakamoto-kun set his chopsticks down with precise neatness, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
"Why is Ryuuen-senpai interested in this matter?"
"Cut the crap." Ryuuen's scoff was sharp. "I saw the respect you showed them. Second-years? Student Council? Do you… have a deal with them? Or was that test paper sent to every class not a setup, but part of your collaboration?"
He threw out his core suspicion directly—there was no point in subtlety now. His gaze was a physical pressure, drilling into Sakamoto-kun's eyes.
Sakamoto-kun listened with quiet attentiveness, then allowed a beat of silence to hang in the air. He gently adjusted his glasses.
"Ryuuen-senpai has misunderstood." His tone was a flat, calm pool. "That is the second-year Vice President, Nagumo Miyabi-senpai, and Asahina Natsume-senpai. I have no dealings with them whatsoever."
He paused, his gaze drifting momentarily to where Nagumo sat, a portrait of strained discomfort under the candlelight, before continuing.
"I am currently undergoing a one-week 'interview period' for my Student Council application. This week's interviewer happens to be Vice President Nagumo-senpai. The assessment criteria he set were to 'completely obey his commands and arrangements' for the duration. Everything you witnessed was merely my fulfillment of duty during this interview."
"Interview period? Complete obedience?"
Ryuuen repeated the words slowly, his expression undergoing a subtle tectonic shift—suspicion fracturing, giving way to pure, unadulterated disbelief.
That charismatic blond was the Vice President?
The interview condition he'd set for a monster like Sakamoto was… total submission?
And Sakamoto's interpretation of that command was… five-star butler service and a private chef's tasting menu?
This…
Ryuuen felt the entire foundation of his reasoning—built on schemes, leverage, and mutual threat—crumble into irrelevance. He had made a critical miscalculation. All his convoluted theories of collaboration, conspiracy, and hidden transactions seemed laughably small, almost petty, in the face of Sakamoto's straightforward, understated explanation.
This wasn't a deep power play at all.
It was performance art. A farce where a jester had made an outrageous demand, and a master had fulfilled it with such breathtaking, literal excess that it became a weapon.
Sakamoto observed the shifting landscape of Ryuuen's face and added, almost as an afterthought, "As for the exam paper matter Senpai mentioned, I am unaware of it and have not collaborated with anyone on it."
His tone carried the weight of simple fact, leaving no room for doubt.
Ryuuen fell silent, his intense stare locked on Sakamoto's impassive features, searching for any microfissure, any hint of deceit. He found none. Only that infuriating, impeccable calm.
Finally, he let out a derisive snort and pushed himself up from the table.
"Hmph. Let's hope so."
He offered no other parting words, simply turning on his heel and striding out of the cafeteria.
Sakamoto-kun picked up his chopsticks once more. His focus returned entirely to his plate, to the now slightly cooled, utterly ordinary cafeteria meal. He resumed eating with the same deliberate, elegant care, as if savoring a final, private punchline to the entire spectacle.
In the distance, under the romantic flicker of candles, Nagumo tasted nothing but ash.
At the simple table, under the harsh cafeteria lights, Sakamoto tasted every grain of rice.
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