After the Maple Viewing Event concluded, and the roaring applause of spectators faded into distant memory, a heavy silence filled the ninth seat's office.
Eizan Etsuya paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, his brows twisted into a deep scowl. The cherry-red hues of sunset stained the glass windows, but none of that warmth reached his face.
"This can't be happening…"
He slammed a palm against his desk.
The crisp echo rang out sharply across the room, startling even the potted bonsai on the cabinet.
But no one came running.
Eizan slumped into his leather chair, his perfectly tailored blazer wrinkling at the shoulders. He looked not like a calculating Elite Ten member—but a general whose lines had been breached.
For all his arrogance, Eizan wasn't stupid.
And that made the current situation all the more maddening.
He was being hunted. Systematically. Silently.
He clenched his jaw and reached for his phone.
Totsuki Academy – Underground Office Sector
Few people knew that Subaru Mimasaka, the Autumn Election's dark horse and infamous "copycat cook," had deeper allegiances than his odd culinary style suggested.
He wasn't just a wildcard.
He was Eizan's shadow operative.
When Subaru entered the Elite's underground office that evening, his movements were unsettlingly quiet for a man of his size. Even his breathing was deliberately controlled—as if suppressing a presence.
"You called, Chief?"
Eizan didn't turn.
He simply tossed a manila folder onto the desk between them.
"These are the locations of all 56 restaurants under my group's control. Memorize them."
Subaru raised an eyebrow. "That many?"
Eizan leaned forward, voice low and venomous.
"Someone's targeting me. Quietly. Precisely. Deliberately."
Subaru opened the folder. Maps. Pins. Handwritten notes.
And then he saw it—
In red ink, on each page:
Subway.
"All of them are near these… upscale Subways?"
"Yes," Eizan spat. "You're to visit each one. Discreetly. Dine, observe, record. I want details—architecture, customer base, menu style, management hierarchy. Every damn thing."
Subaru frowned.
This wasn't just espionage. It was industrial counterintelligence.
"Fifty-six targets? That'll take two months at least."
Eizan slammed his fist again. "You have half that time."
Subaru blinked.
"Half a—are you insane? That's not humanly—"
"Subaru." Eizan's voice dropped into a growl. "You want to stay useful to me? Then prove you're not just a parasite."
Subaru inhaled sharply… then nodded. "I'll do it. I'll squeeze blood from stone if I have to."
"Good." Eizan leaned back. "You might be sniffing out the opening moves in a war."
Subway: More Than a Sandwich
Despite the name's mundane connotations, this "Subway" was not a chain of cheap subs and deli combos.
No. In Japan, it was an enigma wrapped in velvet and gold.
Five years ago, on Wall Street, the financial heart of Manhattan, a restaurant opened its doors under the innocuous title: Subway.
No one noticed at first. But within months, it was turning heads.
Within a year, it was turning profits.
Within five years, it had:
Over 2,000 outlets in the United States.
Averaged one new upscale opening per day.
$2 billion USD in annual revenue.
Its secret?
Backing from the Nakamura Corporation.
That's right.
Azami Nakiri's private empire.
With virtually unlimited capital and a vision sharpened by obsession, Azami had handpicked a team of world-class culinary legends:
A French executive chef with four decades of palace dining experience.
A royal banquet chef renowned in seven countries.
Dozens of Michelin-trained sous chefs.
Hundreds of hospitality elites recruited from five-star hotels and global expos.
The goal?
Perfection.
Uniformity.
Total control.
About a Month Ago…
Right as the Autumn Selection began, Subway entered the Japanese market.
Quietly.
Strategically.
The locations were not randomly chosen.
Each new branch sprouted like a poisonous mushroom within walking distance of one of Eizan's restaurants.
And just like that—
Eizan's empire began to crumble.
Foot traffic dropped.
Online reviews compared his fusion menus unfavorably.
Revenue tanked.
No warning. No declaration.
Just precision strikes, over and over.
Wall Street – Nakamura Corporation HQ
A sleek skyscraper pierced the twilight sky.
Its mirrored surface reflected the glow of the Hudson, of the financial world's pulse—and within one of its upper floors, Azami Nakiri stood by the glass, holding a Bordeaux in crystal.
His figure cut a regal silhouette, framed by steel and silence.
"Report," he said without looking back.
"All Japanese branches have exceeded projected targets," said the secretary beside him.
Azami nodded slightly. "And Totsuki?"
"No movement yet. The Autumn Selection is occupying most of their attention."
"So predictable." His lips curved faintly.
Then he turned—and his eyes glinted coldly in the dusk.
"Continue monitoring. If Eizan moves, I want to know before he does."
"Yes, President."
The secretary bowed and left the room.
Azami remained.
Alone.
But not idle.
Philosophy Carved in Fire
Azami Nakiri wasn't simply a powerful man.
He was a revolutionary.
His ideals were forged in rage and betrayal.
Long ago, he too believed in Totsuki's brutal excellence-driven system. He had embraced the Pareto Principle—eliminate the 80%, let the 20% reign.
But when Senzaemon faltered, when the system allowed chaos and mediocrity to flourish—
Azami broke.
And from that shattered faith, a new culinary vision emerged:
"Food is either cuisine—or feed."
He could not abide the rise of street food sensations, home-cooking champions, or students like Soma Yukihira who dared to challenge elitism with creativity and heart.
To Azami, cuisine was sacred.
It required rules. Uniformity. Obedience.
His dream?
Control Totsuki.
Centralize every future chef under his regime.
Eliminate independent styles.
Replace innovation with directed perfection.
Make chefs into instruments, not artists.
And for the masses?
"Let them eat feed."
The Plan
Step one: Undermine Eizan.
Step two: Use his destabilization to justify returning to Totsuki as a stabilizing force.
Step three: Use Erina's God Tongue as the central axis of his philosophy.
"She will become the Oracle of Taste."
Azami's gaze softened briefly at the thought of his daughter.
"Erina… soon we'll meet again. I will show you that the God Tongue is not a curse."
"It is destiny."
"And with it, we will reshape the entire culinary world."
Far below, the city pulsed on.
Cars passed like lifeblood through Wall Street's veins.
Azami stood alone.
But in his mind, the banquet had already begun.
Only one question remained:
Would Totsuki resist?
Or would it, like so many others, fold quietly beneath the weight of inevitability?