When he came to, there were three skies. No—that wasn't right. His eyes were just playing tricks. He blinked slowly, and the world snapped back into focus. A barren wasteland of rocks. A gray sky. Wind howling somewhere in the distance. Souma Kenta pushed himself upright and gazed blankly at his surroundings. His short black hair was dusty white from the sand, and his white shirt was caked with mud. A thin scarf wrapped around his slender frame clung to his neck with oddly meticulous precision. Beyond that, he had nothing. No wallet. No phone. No luggage. Only a single folded piece of paper tucked deep in his shirt pocket. He pulled it out and unfolded it. Hastily scrawled characters that looked like equations—dashi ratios, heating temperatures, notes on ingredient properties. The paper was worn from countless rewrites, nearly at its limit. Souma Kenta. Twenty-eight years old. Dead. In his memories, he was definitely dead. In his previous life—the words felt strange in his mind—K