News of the Hearthline Guild's victory traveled fast. Faster than Izen's new electric-powered cart.
It wasn't just that Rank 72 had beaten Rank 71. That was unusual, but not unheard of. It was the way they had won. With a humble dish. Against overwhelming odds. With a leader who immediately shared his spoils with his defeated rival.
It was the birth of a legend.
By the next morning, the campus was buzzing. The alliance between Hearthline and the Titan Tools Club was the talk of every cafeteria line and practice kitchen. Ciela's late-night stream, "Serving Soup to the City with the Culinary Saint!", had gone viral, and the image of her awkwardly ladling noodles for a grateful street sweeper was now a top trending meme.
Hearthline, once invisible, was now the center of a burgeoning political movement among the lower-ranked guilds. For the first time, they saw a path to respect that wasn't about trying, and failing, to imitate the elites. It was about embracing their own strengths: practicality, community, and heart.
This ripple, starting from the very bottom of the academy's pond, was now beginning to reach the gilded shores of the elite.
Inside Voltagrave Manor, the atmosphere was icy.
Reign Voltagrave sat at the head of a long, polished obsidian table. He was watching a replay of the duel between Hearthline and the Titan Tools Club on a massive holographic screen. His face was a mask of cold, controlled fury.
Several captains from other high-ranking guilds, his political allies, sat around the table, their expressions a mixture of contempt and unease.
"It's a joke," sneered a slim boy with sharp features, captain of the 'Cutting Edge' guild. "He made soup. Broth and noodles. It was a sentimental victory, not a technical one. The judges were swayed by his little story."
"Don't be a fool, Lancel," another captain, a stoic girl from the elite 'Ice Carvers' guild, retorted. "I had the broth analyzed. The level of glutamic acid and peptide extraction was off the charts. It's technically impossible with conventional heat. Voltagrave is right to be concerned. This 'Residual Alchemy' is not a parlor trick."
Reign muted the screen, the image freezing on Izen's calm, smiling face.
"He is not just a chef," Reign said, his voice dangerously quiet. "He is a symbol. He is making a mockery of our entire system. Purity. Perfection. Pedigree. These are the pillars of true cuisine. He champions garbage, celebrates weakness, and befriends failures."
He looked around the table, his eyes burning with a cold fire. "He is building a coalition of the mediocre. Look at this."
He waved his hand, and the screen changed to show Ciela's stream. It showed Grit Hark's guild members and a half-dozen other 'bottom-feeder' captains happily eating pie at Hearthline, laughing and talking.
"He is gathering the flies," Reign spat. "And if we allow it to continue, their buzzing will become a roar. His philosophy is a disease, and if it spreads, it will erode the very foundation of the Aethertaste Academy."
"So what do you propose we do?" Lancel asked, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Issue a formal challenge? Cutting Edge is Rank 7. I could crush his little charity guild personally."
"No," Reign said, shaking his head. "That's what he wants. To play the underdog. To win another sentimental victory against a 'bully.' We cannot attack him directly. We will be seen as tyrants."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the perfectly manicured lawns of his guild's estate. Far in the distance, barely visible, was the rundown roof of the Hearthline Guild.
"If we can't crush the symbol, we must crush his supply line," Reign declared. "He thrives on leftovers, on the surplus of the academy. So, we will eliminate the surplus."
He turned back to the assembled captains, his eyes gleaming with a new, ruthless strategy.
"From this moment on, all of our guilds will implement a 'Total Ingredient Utilization' policy. Every scrap, every peel, every bone will be accounted for. It will be re-purposed for stocks, staff meals, practice sessions. Nothing—and I mean nothing—gets sent to the central disposal."
A murmur of understanding went through the room. It was a brilliant, insidious attack.
"If the God of Leftovers has no leftovers to cook," Reign said with a vicious smile, "then he is no god at all. He will starve. His little band of followers will desert him. We will destroy the Hearthline Guild without ever setting foot in their kitchen."
He paused, letting the weight of his plan sink in.
"Let's see him make a feast out of nothing at all."
Meanwhile, in Dean Tethys Quirin's office, the Head Dean was watching the same events unfold, but with a very different perspective. On one screen, he watched Ciela's stream. on another, he saw security camera footage of the alliance meeting at Voltagrave Manor.
He chuckled to himself, a dry, rustling sound.
"Clever boy, Reign," he murmured, taking a sip of his tea. "Choking the supply lines. A classic stratagem."
His assistant stood beside him, her expression worried. "Sir, if the top twenty guilds enact this policy, it will cut off over ninety percent of the surplus ingredients. The Hearthline Guild… they truly will have nothing left to cook with. Should we intervene?"
The Dean took another slow sip, his eyes twinkling. He looked at the footage of Izen, laughing in the Hearthline kitchen as he showed Grit how to properly score pork belly for pie crust.
"Intervene?" the Dean said, a wide, enigmatic smile spreading across his face. "My dear, why would I ever intervene? The boy has just proven he can make a masterpiece from scraps."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper full of delighted anticipation.
"I can't wait to see what he makes from absolute zero."