78: Erina the Abnormal

“Mmm...”

Ginza, the Michelin three-star French restaurant “Le Cœur d’Or.”

The crystal chandeliers cast a cool, clear light, and the expensive fragrance in the air was wrapped in silent tension.

Chef Jean-Pierre Dutroux stood behind the open kitchen. His hair was slightly gray, and his eyes were intensely serious. He had just presented his masterpiece—“Whispers of the Ocean”: Hokkaido scallops slow-cooked at a low temperature, topped with black truffle foam and garnished with caviar, all resting on a clear, jelly-like citrus-seaweed consommé.

Nakiri Erina sat in the main seat, her silver hair like moonlight. Her movement when setting down her silver fork was as elegant as ever, but when she lifted her eyes, her gaze was chilling. The entire restaurant fell silent, as if time had paused.

“chef Dutroux,” her voice was pleasant, yet sharp like a knife scraping something, “you call this dish, ‘Whispers of the Ocean’?”

chef Jean-Pierre nodded, a confident smile on his face: “Yes. I hope it conveys the purest and deepest rhythm of the ocean to you.”

Erina’s lips twitched slightly. It wasn't a smile; it was more like a small expression of disdain.

“Pure? Deep?” Her tone rose slightly, each word crisp and clear. “What I hear, however, is nothing but—a messy cacophony of noise!”

She extended a beautiful finger, pointing toward the plate like a conductor:

“The temperature control on this scallop is completely wrong! Slow-cooking at a low temperature is meant to preserve the sweetness and keep it tender, like a cloud. But yours? The center still has a hint of untreated fishiness, yet the edges are dry and tough! This isn't a 'whisper'; it's the ingredients pitifully protesting! Your temperature control feels about the same level as reheating leftovers in a microwave.”

The tip of the silver fork gently pushed aside the foam: “Black truffle is supposed to glide lightly over the tongue like a shadow, adding a sophisticated aroma to the scallop. But your foam—it feels oily and slightly coarse. Instead of enhancing the flavor, it acts like a thick layer of grease, smothering the scallop's freshness! You call this adding the finishing touch? Clearly, you just overdid it.”

The fork tip dipped into a bit of the consommé jelly at the bottom of the plate: “The caviar could have been a peacemaker, but it got dragged into a flavor war by this citrus-seaweed jelly! The sourness is too aggressive; it clashes with the saltiness and they start fighting in the mouth! The refreshing umami that the seaweed should have? Long gone. What’s at the bottom of this plate isn't a 'whisper'; it's utter flavor discord!”

Her gaze lifted again, fixing on the chef whose face was starting to turn pale. Her voice quieted, but it felt even more serious:

“The entire dish, from concept to execution, feels disorganized and lacks Soul! It seems you simply piled expensive ingredients together and assumed it would become Advanced. That won't work! This is absolutely the way a nouveau riche person eats; it shows disrespect for the word 'cuisine'! The 'rhythm' you spoke of? To me, it tastes like the sound of pots and pans dropping everywhere during a chaotic kitchen rush!”

Erina suddenly stood up, her silver hair cascading down like a waterfall. She took one final look at the almost untouched dish. There wasn't much emotion in her eyes, only the clear negation reserved for bad food.

“This kind of cuisine,” her voice was soft, yet sounded like a final judgment, “is so awful... it makes my tongue embarrassed.”

Her high heels clicked crisply on the polished marble floor, walking away step by step, as if drawing a conclusion to some illusory glory.

chef Dutroux froze in place, the chef's knife in his hand trembling slightly—the culinary world he had built with so much effort seemed to have collapsed completely under Nakiri Erina’s critique.

Sitting in the back seat of the luxury car, Erina’s face was expressionless. The lights outside the window flashed past, illuminating her golden hair, but seemingly unable to penetrate her quiet eyes.

Beside her, Hisako Arato carefully handed over a bottle of purified water. Her fingers trembled slightly, and her voice was soft: “Erina-sama, it seems the recent restaurants haven’t... quite met your taste?”

She paused, lowering her head apologetically: “Could it be... that the restaurants I chose weren't high enough quality? Or perhaps I failed to properly screen for dishes truly worth tasting beforehand...”

For the past few days, the food on Erina-sama's plate had remained almost untouched. Hisako felt deeply distressed watching this—Erina-sama, who once used her Gods Tongue to judge countless delicacies and lead culinary trends, was now finding eating to be a chore because of the mediocre and careless cooking everywhere.

The expression on Erina’s face seemed to soften slightly because of this concern. She turned her head, her voice gentler than before, but still clear: “It’s not your fault, Hisako. It’s these so-called chefs lately... they are becoming increasingly careless.”

She raised a hand and gently rubbed her brow with her slender fingers, as if trying to ward off an invisible fatigue.

“Cancel all the tasting appointments scheduled later...”

“I... am a little tired.”

Having said that, she slowly leaned back into the seat and closed her eyes. Those eyes, which had once scrutinized countless dishes like sharp swords and flashed with violet light, were now quietly closed, as if they were too weary even to refract light.

Over the next few days, Erina’s abnormal condition became increasingly obvious. They had initially thought it was just a problem with the cuisine, but it turned out her Gods Tongue itself was rejecting food.

Food that previously would have earned a nod and a comment of "it's acceptable" was now difficult for her even to touch her lips. Hisako meticulously prepared medicinal cuisine that used to relieve Erina's fatigue, serving it steaming and fragrant before her. But Erina would only scoop one or two spoonfuls with a silver spoon, her beautiful brows would gently furrow, and then she would push the bowl away, seemingly struggling even to swallow. Eventually, she stopped looking at the food altogether, staring blankly out the window, the dishes on her plate heartbreakingly intact.

“Erina-sama, please... just one more sip of soup...” Hisako’s voice was pleading, her fingers white from gripping too hard.

Erina didn't answer, merely shaking her head very slightly. The line of her profile in the light appeared both fragile and stubborn. That refusal wasn't a tantrum, but a deeper feeling of rejection coming from within.

Her Gods Tongue, the talent that should have guided her to countless delicacies, now acted like a broken switch, turning all food, whether ordinary or exquisite, into uncomfortable torture.

Seeing Erina's face grow paler each day and the faint dark circles beneath her eyes, a fear Hisako had never experienced before gripped her heart. This was no longer simple pickiness; it was a sign of anorexia.

The loyal secretary finally couldn't bear the worry alone anymore. One afternoon, taking advantage of the rare moment Erina had fallen asleep, she walked with heavy steps to the study to report the situation to Tōtsuki's Supreme Commander, Senzaemon.

Hisako was close to tears. She struggled to keep her voice steady, but the fear and helplessness were impossible to hide: “Supreme Commander... Senzaemon-sama... Please forgive me, I failed in my duty...”

She took a deep breath, as if expending all her strength, before stating the heavy conclusion: “Erina-sama... her Gods Tongue is rejecting food. She can... barely eat anything anymore.”

On the other end of the phone, Senzaemon was silent for a long, suffocating time. It seemed even the demon king of cuisine had been stunned by this news. Then, a deep, powerful voice came through: “Tell me all the details of Erina’s recent condition. Don't miss a single word.”

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves of the central courtyard garden, scattering dappled light spots in the pavilion. Mr. Lin Luo was helplessly pulling Furuhashi Fumino's cheek; the girl had just started wildly fantasizing about strange plots again.

“Wuwu... Luo-kun, let go!” Furuhashi Fumino protested incoherently, a mischievous glint in her beautiful eyes.

Just then, Lin Luo’s phone vibrated, rescuing her at the perfect moment. Lin Luo released his hand, and Furuhashi Fumino immediately darted like a startled rabbit, hiding behind Kato Megumi, who was quietly reading nearby. She poked half her head out and whispered, “Megumi, protect me...”

Kato Megumi looked up from her book, her expression as placid as ever, and simply gave a soft "Mm."

Lin Luo looked at the four characters "Senzaemon" flashing on the screen, raising an eyebrow in surprise. The Supreme Commander of Tōtsuki Culinary Academy wouldn't call him for no reason.

“Hello, Senzaemon, Your Excellency?” He answered the phone, simultaneously waving his hand at Furuhashi Fumino as if shooing a fly, signaling her to stop fooling around. He then walked out of the pavilion to find a quieter corner.

On the other end of the line, Senzaemon’s voice was deeper and more serious than usual. He skipped all pleasantries and went straight to the topic, relaying Hisako’s report precisely—from the three-star French restaurant in Ginza, to Erina's inability to swallow even medicinal cuisine, reaching the point where she was "barely able to eat."

“...That is the general situation.” A hint of imperceptible gravity laced Senzaemon’s voice. “Hisako, that child, is quite at a loss now.”

As Lin Luo listened, his brow furrowed involuntarily. He leaned against a pillar in the corridor, gazing at the vibrant greenery in the central courtyard, his eyes distant. He had heard of Erina’s Gods Tongue being picky about cuisine, but for it to progress to the point where basic eating was problematic... “Something is wrong,” Lin Luo muttered subconsciously, stroking his chin. “This is too abnormal.”

He pondered for a moment, then said to Senzaemon on the other end of the line: “I understand. Since the Supreme Commander himself has entrusted this to me, I will head over shortly to check on Young Miss Erina’s condition.”

“I’m relying on you.” Senzaemon’s voice carried a rare solemnity before he ended the call.

Lin Luo put away his phone and let out a soft sigh. He returned to the pavilion, immediately meeting three pairs of curious eyes.

“Luo-kun, who was that on the phone?” Furuhashi Fumino couldn't help but ask first, her face full of concern.

Although Kato Megumi and Ogata Rizu didn't speak, their eyes held the same question.

“It was the Supreme Commander Nakiri of Tōtsuki Culinary Academy,” Lin Luo simply explained. “His granddaughter, the famous Young Miss Erina with the Gods Tongue, seems to have run into some health issues recently, and he asked me to go take a look.”

“Eh? The really amazing gourmet?” Furuhashi Fumino widened her eyes. “What happened to her?”

“The specifics aren't clear, but apparently, because she's too picky, she can barely eat anything now,” Lin Luo said, already starting to gather his belongings. “So I need to make a trip over there. Please cover for me for the afternoon class.”

“What can you do?” Furuhashi Fumino instinctively questioned, her small face full of confusion—why would these two seemingly unrelated people have any connection?

Lin Luo glanced at her, his tone carrying his familiar teasing: “Why ask so many questions? Have you finished your practice problems? Have you reviewed the key concepts?”

He turned to the other two girls and naturally instructed: “Megumi, Ogata, keep an eye on her.”

Kato Megumi nodded softly: “Be careful on your way.”

Ogata Rizu also pushed up her glasses and said seriously: “We will supervise Fumino-san.”

“Hey! I’m not a child!” Furuhashi Fumino protested, but Lin Luo had already waved his hand and turned to leave the pavilion.