"You can't just point a camera at my face," Caelan says, taking a step back.
Milo Patch doesn't even blink. He adjusts a filter on his phone, which is now clamped into his broadcast rig. "I'm not pointing it at your face. I'm pointing it at your destiny. There's a difference."
The sheer, unadulterated confidence of the statement is enough to make Caelan pause. He's met gods of finance and titans of art. None of them had the pure, weaponized enthusiasm of this kid who has just invaded his room.
"My destiny is a six-hour nap," Caelan mutters.
"Nope! Your destiny is the main event of the Aurum Network's primetime broadcast, and I'm your official hype man," Milo says, tapping his headset mic. "The Daily Bite has a modest but devoted following. We're connoisseurs of the underdog. And you, my friend, are the platonic ideal of the underdog."
Before Caelan can protest further, a low, ominous rumble echoes from the hallway.
Thump… creak… thump… creak…
Milo's eyes light up. "Showtime."
He dashes to the door, flinging it open. An academy porter stands there, looking deeply apologetic, next to a stainless-steel kitchen cart. The cart is covered with a stained canvas sheet. Even from across the room, a faint, melancholy aroma wafts into the air—a mix of stale bread, day-old fish, and wilted greens.
The cart of sorrows has arrived.
The porter bows stiffly. "The board-mandated ingredients for Duelist Veston." He says the words like a eulogy, then makes a hasty retreat as if the cart itself were cursed.
Milo pivots his camera to capture the cart in all its sad glory. A picture-in-picture window on his broadcast screen shows Zadie Nightwell's channel. Her feed is a split-screen. On one side, Nyra Emberveil, looking regal in a crisp white coat, is personally accepting her ingredients.
Nyra's delivery is a work of art.
Whole, shimmering sea bream resting on a bed of ice. A vacuum-sealed A5 wagyu tenderloin, its marbling like a map of the stars. Vegetables that look like they were grown by poets—perfectly spherical heirloom tomatoes, asparagus spears straight as arrows, pristine white Belgian endives. Each item is a promise of perfection.
Then Milo turns his camera back to the cart in Caelan's room.
"And here we have it, folks!" he announces to his stream. "The ultimate handicap! The test of a true master!"
With a flourish, Milo whips the canvas sheet off the cart.
The reality is worse than the smell.
It's a heap of culinary despair. Half-empty trays from the refectory are stacked haphazardly. There are brown-edged lettuce leaves, a tangle of fish skeletons with heads still attached, a bowl of rice that has turned into a solid, starchy brick. A handful of bruised tomatoes weep juice onto a pile of bread heels. It is, literally, the garbage from lunch service.
Milo zooms in on a particularly sad-looking fish head, its eye cloudy and vacant. The comment feed on his stream explodes.
GutterTier: That's not a handicap, that's a biohazard.
ChefSalty: No WAY they let him serve that.
Noodles4Life: F for our Vest Boy. Press F.
Milo keeps his voice upbeat, but a sliver of genuine pity leaks into his tone. "A challenging palette, to be sure! Let's see how the God of Leftover approaches this… mountain of opportunity!"
He turns the camera on Caelan. The entire academy is waiting for a reaction. They expect disgust. Despair. Maybe a quiet forfeit.
They don't get one.
Caelan walks to the cart, his expression not of horror, but of intense focus. He doesn't see garbage. He sees a puzzle. A story with a broken binding. He closes his eyes for a second, activating a deeper layer of his gift.
He isn't just looking with his eyes anymore. He's sensing with his soul. This is Umami Threads.
To him, the cart is suddenly illuminated by a web of faint, shimmering lines of light. Each thread is a taste, a potential flavor connection. A silver thread connects the fish bones to the weeping tomatoes. A deep, earthy-brown thread links the stale bread heels to a handful of discarded mushroom stems. A pale green thread weaves from the wilted lettuce to a rind of parmesan cheese someone had thrown away.
Most people see a pile of trash. He sees a family of lonely ingredients, waiting to be reunited.
"They're not bad," Caelan says softly, more to himself than to Milo's audience.
Milo's jaw drops. "Not… bad? Caelan, that fish looks like it's having an existential crisis."
"No," Caelan corrects gently. He picks up one of the fish skeletons, holding it with a surgeon's care. He runs a finger along its spine. "It's sad. It was cooked for a stock that was never made. All of its flavor is still locked inside the bones. It didn't get to fulfill its purpose."
He moves to the bruised tomatoes, picking one up. Its skin is split, its shape ruined. "This one was judged for its looks and discarded. But the stress made it produce more sugar. It's ugly, but it's sweeter than any of the perfect ones Nyra has."
Milo is silent, his camera steady. He is no longer just a hype man. He is a documentarian, witnessing a new kind of religion. The comments on his stream slow down, the mockery replaced by confusion, then a dawning fascination.
Caelan surveys the entire cart, the glowing Umami Threads forming a complete map in his mind. He sees it now. He knows what he has to make. It will be risky. It will require every ounce of his control.
But it will be honest.
"These ingredients aren't garbage," Caelan declares, his voice firm and clear, looking directly into Milo's camera for the first time. The quiet boy is gone, replaced by a chef with an unshakeable conviction. "They're just lost. My job isn't to transform them. It's to help them find each other."
His statement lands like a thunderclap. The sincerity in his eyes is absolute.
He reaches onto the cart and picks up his two key components. His centerpiece and his soul.
In one hand, he holds the saddest fish head. In the other, a rock-hard heel of stale bread.
"Tomorrow," Caelan says, his voice a quiet vow that echoes across the entire school network, "this fish will sing a song of the sea. And this bread… this bread will become a sponge for tears of joy."
Milo slowly zooms in on the fish head and the crust of bread held in Caelan's steady hands.
On the screen, a new graphic appears at the bottom corner, overlaid by the Aurum Network. It's a sleek, brutalist clock, counting down.
DUEL COMMENCES IN: 17:59:59