The perfect tomato sits on the stainless steel counter like a drop of blood on a surgical table.
It is a statement. A challenge. A declaration of war delivered by a peacemaker.
Chef Barthol Maillard's words hang in the air, heavy and absolute. "I believe it may be its salvation."
Lucien and Nyra stare at the old master, dumbfounded. The legendary chef, a man whose name is literally synonymous with the foundational principles of browning and flavor, is siding with the transfer student who wears a cat apron and chops onions like he's conducting a séance.
Caelan is the only one who looks at the tomato. He feels its story. It has no sadness. No neglect. It speaks of a perfect life: rich soil, ample sun, clean water, a careful hand that harvested it at its absolute peak. It is a happy ingredient. An aristocrat. It has nothing to be reclaimed from.
"Provost Holt sees what you do as an insult to an ingredient like this," Chef Maillard says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate in their chests. "To him, perfection is the goal. Your focus on the discarded is, in his eyes, a celebration of failure. A mockery of our entire pursuit."
He gestures to the humble, fragrant sauce still simmering on the stove. "But I saw the faces of your judges. I see the faces of these students." His gaze is piercing. "You are not celebrating failure, Mr. Veston. You are revealing an ingredient's hidden worth."
He nudges the perfect tomato forward with one weathered finger. "Which brings us to the real question. What does a God of Leftover do with an ingredient that has never been left over?"
The challenge is clear. His entire identity is built on redemption. What happens when there is nothing to redeem?
Nyra's breath hitches. It's the ultimate test. A trap laid not with malice, but with a deep, academic curiosity. If Caelan's magic only works on broken things, then Holt is right. He is a niche performer, a specialist in salvage, not a true master.
Caelan picks up the tomato. It feels heavy, dense, and full of life. He lifts it to his nose and inhales, closing his eyes.
He turns and procures the same dull house knife he used for the onions. He doesn't need a specialized blade. The tool doesn't matter. The intent does.
With a single, smooth slice, he halves the tomato.
The inside is a wonder of natural architecture. Deep crimson flesh, with seed pockets that hold their shimmering, gelatinous jewels perfectly. Not a single mealy spot. Not a blemish.
He cuts a thin, perfect slice from the center and places it on a clean white saucer. For a moment, he just looks at it, his head tilted. He isn't tasting with his mouth. He's tasting with his soul. This isn't about fixing. It's about understanding. He wasn't looking for flaws; he was reading its Story Note.
The Story Note is an ingredient's core truth. The platonic ideal of its flavor, buried deep within its cellular memory. The taste it dreamed of becoming when it was just a seed.
Caelan reaches for the salt. Nyra almost stops him. Salting a perfect tomato can be an insult, implying it lacks something. But his movements are confident. He doesn't sprinkle. He selects a single, large flake of sea salt from a small bowl and places it directly in the center of the tomato slice, like setting a diamond in a ring.
He slides the saucer across the counter to Chef Maillard.
"It doesn't need my help to be delicious," Caelan says softly. "It only needs a stage to speak for itself. The salt is the spotlight."
Maillard looks at the offering. A single slice of tomato with a single flake of salt. It is the most minimalist dish imaginable.
He picks it up and places it in his mouth.
He doesn't cry this time. He doesn't show any great emotion. Instead, a look of profound, illuminating understanding dawns on his ancient face. He nods slowly.
He turns to Nyra and Lucien, who are watching with unbearable anticipation.
"The salt," Maillard explains, his voice filled with a quiet awe, "did not just make it salty. It drew out a faint, almost imperceptible sweetness from the flesh. It amplified its inherent perfection. He tasted not what it was, but what it dreamed of being, and gave it the one final push it needed to get there."
The old chef's eyes find Caelan's, and for the first time, Caelan feels truly seen.
"Your gift is not for leftovers, boy," Maillard declares. "It is for truth. You help every ingredient, perfect or broken, tell its truest story."
A heavy beat of silence follows, a shared moment of monumental revelation.
Then, Maillard's expression turns grim. "And that is why Provost Holt has decided you must be expelled."
The warmth in the kitchen evaporates, replaced by a sudden chill.
"Holt can't accept what he can't control or quantify," Maillard continues, his voice low and urgent. "He has invoked Article 7 of the academy charter. He has called for a school-wide Zero Remnant Audit."
Lucien pales. "The Audit? But they haven't held one of those in a decade. It's brutal."
"What is it?" Nyra demands.
"It's a campus-wide competition, culminating in a mandatory banquet," Maillard explains. "For one week, every gram of food waste from every kitchen, guild, and dorm is weighed and scored. The theme is total utilization. It sounds like an event tailor-made for you, Mr. Veston. Holt has designed it that way."
Caelan sees the trap immediately.
"It is," Maillard confirms, seeing the understanding in his eyes. "Holt will ensure your pantries are stocked with nothing but perfect ingredients. No scraps. No leftovers. No bruised fruit. Only the pristine, the flawless, the elite."
"He's going to take away your entire palette," Nyra breathes, a look of horror on her face. "He wants to prove that without broken things to fix, your 'miracles' are just cheap parlor tricks."
Chef Maillard nods gravely. "They are giving you a stage, Mr. Veston."
He looks at Caelan, at his two new, shell-shocked disciples in their ridiculous aprons, and delivers the final, terrible blow.
"And they expect you to hang yourself on it."