Shin woke early the next day, feeling refreshed.
As usual, he began his morning routine—stretching, tending to the orphanage garden, and harvesting ingredients. Breakfast followed soon after, warm and simple as always. The only notable change brought by summer vacation was the increase in the number of bentos he prepared: 50 portions for contracted deliveries, and an extra 20 for the orphanage.
Despite now spending much of his time at the dojo, Shin refused to give up his cooking duties. The 20 extra bentos were his personal contribution, prepared without fail before he left.
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In the third week of summer vacation, Shin began training regularly at the Yaegashi dojo. This new routine meant giving up most of his time for summer foraging, which he now limited to once a week.
Each morning after his chores, he would arrive mid-morning at the dojo—always carrying a "gift" for the Yaegashi family but always recieved by Old Man Shuu, usually a neatly packed box of food.
The first four days of the week were focused solely on basics. Shin spent hours practicing proper grip, stance, and sword swinging—repeating the same forms tirelessly under the watchful eyes of Koichi and Shuu. Despite the repetition, Shin was serious and focused.
During these four days, lunch was provided by the Yaegashi family. Shin quietly enjoyed every meal, especially the care and balance put into them.
Unbeknownst to him and others, Old Man Shuu had been secretly eating the boxed food Shin brought every morning. He never shared it with the others. Yet oddly, despite his age, his constitution seemed to improve rapidly—an observation that left Kirino and Koichi quietly baffled. The old man never ate much of the dojo's lunch, yet he appeared more energetic by the day.
On the fifth day, his secret was discovered.
Kirino caught him sneaking a bite of Shin's gift and scolded him thoroughly, making him sit in seiza at the corner of the dojo. His guilt was clear—and so was his loss. The gift was redistributed between Kirino, Koichi, Shizuku, and the other trainees, leaving Shuu sulking with nothing.
That day, Kirino was the most affected.
One bite, and her frustration doubled—not only at Shuu's greed, but at the sheer fact he had been hiding something so delicious. She regretted sharing with the rest.
From then on, Shin's gifts were formally received and distributed by Kirino. But word quickly spread among the dojo trainees. The next morning, a group of them attempted to escort Shin the moment he entered the grounds—hoping to get first dibs on the onigiri.
They were stopped by Kirino herself.
"No pushing," she warned. "He's our guest. I'll receive them personally."
The trainees backed off, grumbling quietly.
That day, Shin was accompanied into the dojo by Shizuku and Kouki. For once, the buzz in the dojo wasn't from training—but from food.
On the seventh day, Shin did not attend the dojo. He had requested a day off for his weekly foraging. Shizuku and Kouki, curious about his routine, asked if they could join him. Shin agreed without hesitation.
The next morning, the three met at the edge of the forested mountain. To their surprise, Kaori had come along too—invited by Shizuku.
Shin gave them a proper rundown of the day: what to forage, what to avoid, and the importance of preserving the natural balance. His thorough knowledge and calm confidence impressed the three.
They spent the morning gathering edible plants, mushrooms, and herbs. Shin's familiarity with the terrain and ecosystem made it seem almost effortless.
By lunchtime, Shin invited them back to the orphanage.
There, the trio found themselves welcomed warmly by the younger children. Kaori, with her natural warmth and kindness, blended in immediately. The food Shin prepared using their gathered ingredients astonished them. It was comforting, rich in flavor, and perfectly balanced.
For a brief moment, the orphanage felt like a sanctuary—filled with laughter, warm meals, and gentle summer light.
The three stayed through the afternoon, playing with the children and helping out, only leaving when the sun began to dip behind the trees.
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The next week passed with a quiet rhythm. Shin's days settled into a familiar pattern—early morning chores, preparing bentos, and heading to the dojo. Though the number of bentos he made hadn't changed, the effects of his cooking were slowly beginning to show.
By now, Old Man Shuu had been officially forgiven for his earlier "stash scandal." He received his fair share of Shin's daily house gift—though anyone paying close attention could still catch him casting wistful glances at the empty box once it was gone. Clearly, he hadn't quite had his fill.
Word of Shin's famed onigiri continued to spread among the trainees. Those lucky enough to get a taste quickly became the object of envy, and while no one dared speak out, a quiet competition began to stir beneath the surface. Fortunately, Kirino managed distribution with swift precision—and an iron ladle—keeping order among the growing appetites.
But what couldn't be managed or denied were the changes.
Kirino noticed it first.
One morning, brushing her hair before the mirror, she paused. Her skin looked clearer. Her complexion brighter. There was a lightness in her step she hadn't felt in years. At first, she brushed it off—maybe it was the weather or just a good night's sleep. But then she saw it in others.
Shizuku moved with a grace that seemed sharper, her energy noticeably higher. Her skin, too, seemed to glow subtly beneath the summer light. Koichi, who never fussed about such things, casually mentioned that his joints had been aching less. He could train longer, harder. As for Kouki, he assumed his newfound stamina was thanks to personal growth—more evidence, in his mind, that his training was paying off.
But Kirino's suspicions only deepened.
She raised the topic one evening during tea, her tone light but inquisitive.
"Has anyone else been feeling… different lately?"
"I've had more energy, now that you mention it. And I'm not getting as sore after sparring," Shizuku said, thoughtful.
"My endurance's up too. Thought it was just me," Koichi added with a nod.
All eyes turned to Old Man Shuu.
He was suspiciously quiet.
When pressed, the old man rubbed his beard and gave a noncommittal shrug.
"Could be the weather," he said vaguely. Then, after a beat, added with a knowing twinkle in his eye, "Or maybe… it's the food."
"Shin's food?" Shizuku asked, blinking.
Old Man Shuu folded his arms, his tone growing unusually serious.
"I'm not certain," he said slowly, "but when I visited the orphanage, I noticed something strange. The kids there—every one of them—looked unusually healthy. Even the youngest ones had good color, strong posture. And Sakuya? She's nearing her fifties, but she looked like someone in her mid-thirties. Skin smooth. Eyes clear. No signs of fatigue at all."
He scratched his beard again and sighed.
"And as for me… ever since I started eating Shin's cooking more regularly, I've felt it too. More energy. No stiffness in the mornings. Appetite's been steady. I even sleep better."
His eyes averted, voice dipping with slight guilt.
"That's… partly why I didn't eat much of the lunch you served, Kirino. I was already full—been sneaking bites from Shin's house gift. I know it's selfish, but the flavor was something else. And more than that, it felt… different. Restorative."
Kirino narrowed her eyes.
"So you were hoarding it."
Shuu gave a sheepish cough and crossed his arms.
"A man's entitled to a few secrets."
She blinked, recalling her brief visits to the orphanage. Sakuya had indeed seemed ageless, almost glowing. And it hadn't just been good lighting.
"You think it's really Shin's food?" Koichi asked, frowning in thought.
The old man shrugged.
"I don't know. But I wouldn't dismiss it either."
They all considered confronting Shin about it—but somehow, it didn't feel right. Asking him directly about his food felt too personal, as if they'd be prying into something sacred.
That was why it felt like fate when Shin came to them first.
It was after another long training session. The sun was beginning to dip, the courtyard shaded in golden light. As they rested beneath the eaves, sipping cool tea, Shin looked up quietly.
"I've been thinking," he said, his voice soft. "About the house gift… It's not enough anymore, is it?"
Kirino looked away, embarrassed. Koichi rubbed the back of his neck. Even Shuu had the decency to look sheepish.
"…If it's okay," Shin continued, "I can start making lunch. For everyone. Not every day. Just sometimes. It's not fair that the others miss out."
There was no sense of obligation in his voice. No pressure. Just a quiet sense of care.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Old Man Shuu let out a rare, warm laugh.
"Boy, you'll be the death of my taste buds," he said, shaking his head. "I'll never eat plain rice the same way again."
Shin simply nodded.
From then on, Shin began cooking lunch for the Yaegashi household from time to time during his dojo visits. At first, there was chatter—praise, excitement, and curiosity. But by the next day, that noise had vanished.
The lunchroom fell into a silence eerily similar to that of the orphanage during mealtime—where every second spent talking meant less food on your plate. Those who spoke less, ate more. And with Shin's cooking on the table, no one wanted to be the last to reach for a bite.