The memory of that night—the complete defeat to General Mold—still clung to Takahashi Yuuki's body. The impact of being slammed to the ground. The moment the sandwich touched the miasma and rotted away. The sound of light disappearing—or rather, there was no sound at all. It just quietly, with a wet crunch, collapsed. That was what hurt Takahashi Yuuki the most. The shelter on the outskirts of Citlaria was originally a farmhouse. The residents of Fruit Kingdom had hastily renovated it to escape the rot. The ceiling was low, the walls made of dull fruit-wood with cracks running through them everywhere. Outside the window was a gray sky. The stench of decay rising from Verde Forest—that green forest that had nourished people for years as Fruit Kingdom's food supply source—drifted all the way here. Caramel Hime's right arm was wrapped in bandages. Yuuki hadn't wrapped it. A pharmacist had been called immediately upon arriving at the shelter—a small elderly man with white hair who had spent years performing treatments combining medicinal herbs and food ingredients in Fruit Kingdom—and he had administered first aid. But the old man had shaken his head while treating her. "Food-derived rot has... no cure." The words were quiet, but unmistakable. The princess heard them without changing her expression. In her place, Yuuki felt his stomach grow heavy and numb. (It's because I couldn't protect her that this happened.) The whiteness of the bandage stabbed at his eyes. Along its edge, a faint gray was seeping through. The rot hadn't stopped. It was spreading slowly, but steadily. At almost the same time, Momo stood by the window. Her pink short bob cast a shadow on the dim window frame. Her star-shaped orange eyes stared intently at one point. South—the outskirts of Citlaria. Where the Peach Blossom Workshop had been. Gray smoke had been rising. Until just a moment ago. That smoke was gone now. Momo said nothing. She bit her lip, just once, tightly. That was all. She gripped the hem of her pastry-making apron with her fingertips, just slightly. That was all. Yuuki watched Momo's back. He tried to call out to her. He couldn't. Then a voice came from outside. "Fruit Kingdom fell apart after that guy arrived." Multiple voices. The residents' voices. The shelter's walls were thin. "What's this 'Guide of Taste' nonsense? Look at Verde Forest. It's all mushy." Yuuki slid down along the wall and sat, hugging his knees. The wall was cold. The chill of the fruit-wood seeped through his back. (I couldn't protect anything.) At that moment, the spirit Recipe floating near Yuuki's shoulder stirred restlessly. The Recipe was a small, semi-transparent being, and normally its pages glowed brightly, but now the light was almost completely fading. Still, it seemed to be trying its best to cheer up, and began speaking in a small voice. "It's okay, Yuuki. The Guides of Taste throughout history usually fail at least once—" "Don't finish that sentence," Yuuki said. The Recipe's mouth snapped shut. It hurriedly fell silent and remained floating in the air. With its light nearly gone, it looked pathetically out of place. It had tried to comfort him, but the comfort wasn't working. More than that, it was backfiring. No matter how you looked at it, that was the expression on its face. Yuuki said nothing and buried his face in his knees. He couldn't laugh, but something inside his chest eased just a little. He might have felt sorry for the Recipe. ◆ Momo moved again a little while later. She had gone to scout the outside and returned. There was more dirt on her apron. She must have been running around. "One of the residents reported your face to the Taste Auditor through the denunciation system," Momo said. The denunciation system—a mechanism to strengthen enforcement of the Unified Cooking Ordinance that Toast Hakushaku had established, with a reward of ten Glace for those who reported. It was functioning even in this shelter. "We'll be surrounded soon. If you're going to run, it's now," Momo said. Yuuki didn't move. Still hugging his knees, still leaning his back against the wall. The energy to move his feet seemed to have fallen somewhere. Momo stood in front of Yuuki. Momo, who usually spoke with high energy and moved around restlessly, now looked down at Yuuki quietly. Her orange eyes had almost lost their star-shaped light. "If you have time to cry, use your hands," Momo said. Her voice was hard. All her usual cheerfulness had been completely stripped away. "Even if the workshop burned down, I'm still moving. You can move too, can't you?" Momo said. She wanted to cry too, but she was transforming her anger into strength. Yuuki understood that. Because he understood, he couldn't say anything. Everything Momo said was right. Because it was right, it didn't reach him. Vegetable scraps were scattered on the floor. There were also pieces of broken bread. Yuuki mechanically reached out and tried to gather them. Maybe if he made something, things would change. Even knowing they wouldn't change, if he moved his hands, that would be enough. That's what he thought. He picked up a piece of bread. He tried to pile vegetables on top. The light didn't come. Normally, the moment he poured his feelings into cooking, a warm light would settle into the ingredients. The thought of cooking transformed into power—the magic of taste—but that first spark wouldn't light even a millimeter of the ingredients now. Nothing. Just cold bread and withered vegetable scraps lying there. "It's all my fault," Yuuki said. His voice came out smaller than he'd expected. "Nothing changes because I'm here," Yuuki said. "That's not—" Caramel Hime said. Caramel Hime spoke quietly, pressing her injured right arm with her left hand. But there was no strength in her voice. You could tell from the tone alone that she was exhausted. The gray at the edge of the bandage seemed to be spreading a little more. He had wounded even the princess. That fact settled quietly and heavily in the depths of Yuuki's chest. "Useless," Momo said. She said only that and left the room. Yuuki understood she hadn't truly abandoned him. Momo had left that place to hide the fact that she was about to cry too. He understood. But even understanding that, the sound of the door closing left him alone for a long time. The princess tried to sit down beside him. At that moment, her right arm must have hurt—her face twisted for just an instant. It returned quickly. But Yuuki saw it. "...Please, rest a little," Yuuki said. It was all he could manage to squeeze out. The Recipe floated near his shoulder. Its light remained extinguished. Night came. ◆ The shelter's lights went out, and the residents fell asleep. Yuuki was awake. Still hugging his knees, he sat against the wall in the dark room. His body was heavy. Not from pain, but from something else clinging to him. (If I disappear...) He didn't want to think about it, but he did. (If I disappear, no one will be troubled. The denunciations will stop. The auditor will lift the siege. The princess's arm might even turn out better without me.) He knew it was all an excuse. And knowing that, his feet still began to move. Making no sound, Yuuki stood up. He began walking slowly down the dark hallway toward the shelter's exit. The floor was old wood, creaking with each step, so he carefully shifted his weight one step at a time. He was just a few meters from the exit door. Something was in the corner of the room. Yuuki stopped. There was a small figure in the shadow of a blanket. Hugging her knees, sitting down. At first he thought it was a resident who couldn't sleep, but it wasn't. It was a child. A girl who looked about five or six years old. Even in the dim light, her large, dark eyes were clearly visible. The girl was holding something carefully in both hands. A Unified Cooking Ordinance ration bread—one of the forty-seven dishes stipulated by Toast Hakushaku, distributed daily from the Seventh Food Bureau, with a fixed shape and fixed taste—it was covered in mud, its edges crumbling. The girl held it like it was a treasure. And she was smiling. It was the kind of face someone makes when imagining something. A face full of wonder, thinking of something fun. While holding a mud-covered, crumbling piece of bread. Yuuki found himself crouching down. To a height where his eyes met the girl's. (How can she make that kind of face?) "...Aren't you going to eat that?" Yuuki asked. He regretted speaking as soon as the words left his mouth. A child would be scared if a stranger talked to them in the middle of the night. But the girl wasn't scared. She turned her large eyes straight toward Yuuki and answered matter-of-factly. "I'm going to share this with my mom and eat it," the girl said. She said only that and smiled again. She held the bread close, and her face took on that wondering expression once more. Something moved inside Yuuki's body. A memory came. The kitchen when he was in elementary school. Evening light. The sound of a frying pan. The smell of curry—no, the smell of curry bread. His mom was baking curry bread in the kitchen, and Yuuki stood in front of it, waiting. The time until it was done felt incredibly long. But he didn't hate it. He loved that anticipation. That face. The face this girl was making right now was the same as his own face back then. It was such a simple thing, yet that simplicity struck something deep in Yuuki's chest. It pierced a place that couldn't quite be put into words, like an arrow. Yuuki sat down right there. No sound came out. Tears fell. He cried without making a sound. When he tried to wipe them with the back of his hand, the girl stared intently at Yuuki's face. "Why are you making that kind of face, mister?" the girl asked. "..." "You look weird," the girl said. She said it plainly. Mercilessly. Yuuki couldn't laugh and couldn't cry. He remained with an indescribable expression on his face, being stared at by the girl. The girl looked at him and giggled. (She's saying something like that at a time like this?) Something deep in his chest eased just a little. ◆ He stopped trying to run. It wasn't like a decision. His feet just stopped moving once he sat down next to the girl. But they didn't move. (I'm going to share this with my mom and eat it.) Those words kept going around in his head. He wanted to make this bread a little more delicious. The thought suddenly came to him. He didn't know why. But that feeling was clear. It wasn't about confidence or wanting to get his magic back or anything like that. He just wanted this child to smile a little more when she shared the bread with her mom tomorrow. That was all. Yuuki looked around the floor. There were things scattered about. Leftover ration bread with a broken shape, withered vegetable scraps, and—in the corner of the floor, something small. He moved closer and found it was a piece of honey. Someone must have dropped it; its shape was crumbling and it was almost completely hardened, but the sweet smell remained. That was all. There were no fine ingredients. Yuuki gathered them together. He didn't think about showing off technique. He didn't think about making it well. He just wanted to let the girl in front of him taste something delicious, even if just for one bite. With only that feeling in his head, he began moving his trembling hands. He opened the bread. He arranged the vegetable scraps on top. He spread the honey piece thin. He added more vegetables. He placed more bread on top. His hands stopped midway. This might not taste good. The light might not come again. But that was okay, he thought. Even if the light doesn't come, I'm making this for this child. That's all. "Is it done? Is it done?" the girl asked. She swayed her body. Her voice full of anticipation. His hands moved again. He layered the bread. He shaped it.