As the etiquette lessons continued in strict rhythm,

  In another hall of the academy, a different kind of training was about to begin.

  ?

  The room was large and rectangular, once used for gatherings, now arranged for culinary practice.

  Long rows of sturdy wooden tables filled the space, spaced evenly so each trainee had room to move without disturbing the next.

  Each station was identical.

  A thick cutting board rested at the center.

  Knives were lined neatly to one side.

  A small sink was fitted at the corner of the table.

  Behind every station stood a stove with an oven built beneath it.

  Shelves along the walls held pots, pans, mixing bowls, and trays, all arranged in orderly rows. The stone floor had been scrubbed clean, still faintly damp from the morning wash.

  ?

  A group of young and older chef trainees crowded near the gates, hesitant to step forward.

  The setup was too extravagant, too orderly, too intimidating.

  Some fidgeted with their sleeves.

  Some bit their lips.

  A few peeked at the stations with wide eyes, imagining all the things that could go wrong.

  None of them wanted to be the first to move.

  ?

  They had been brought here earlier by a servant and told only to wait.

  So they waited.

  The hall was silent,

  but the silence felt heavy,

  expectant,

  and a little frightening.

  Suddenly, a sharp clearing of throats came from the door through which the trainees had entered.

  The trainees flinched, breaking out of their daze, eyes darting toward the source of the sound.

  Two figures had stepped inside: a middle-aged man with a composed posture, and a woman in her late twenties, her gaze calm but piercing.

  ?

  The man moved forward slightly, voice smooth but commanding.

  "Approach your stations," he said, each word deliberate.

  "Each table bears the name of the trainee assigned to it. Find yours and stand ready."

  ?

  A murmur ran through the crowd.

  Some trainees hesitated, glancing at each other, unsure who should move first.

  The woman's eyes swept over them, assessing, weighing.

  "Do not linger by the gates," she added softly, though no less firmly.

  "Your work begins the moment you touch your station. Prepare yourself."

  ?

  Slowly, the chefs shuffled forward, some with hesitant steps, others with more confident strides.

  Hands fidgeted with sleeves. Knuckles tightened around aprons.

  One by one, they approached the stations, reading the engraved nameplates, finding the spaces where they would spend the next hours, honing their craft under watchful eyes.

  The man's eyes swept over the trainees, then he spoke, voice steady and measured.

  "I will keep it short," he said.

  "You can call me Roff, and she is Maria."

  He gestured toward the woman beside him.

  "I am the head chef of Astley Castle," he continued.

  "And she is my assistant."

  ?

  "You have already been introduced to the dishes served in our restaurant," Roff said.

  "Now, we will teach you—precisely—how to make each one."

  Maria's gaze moved across the trainees, calm and exact.

  "Attention to detail," she added softly.

  "Timing, technique, and presentation. Neglect any, and the dish fails."

  ?

  A quiet tension filled the hall.

  The chefs straightened instinctively.

  Nerves sharpened, anticipation rose.

  And at that moment, the training truly began.

  Roff's eyes swept across the trainees.

  "Our first dishes are potato chips, French fries, and potato wedges," he said, voice calm but deliberate.

  "These dishes are simple, yes—but simple is easy to mess up. Timing is crucial."

  He paused, letting the words sink in.

  "As for potato chips," he continued, a slight arch to his brow, "some of you may already have guessed the main ingredient."

  There was a brief murmur among the chefs. Eyes widened. Eyebrows lifted. A few mouths formed silent 'oh' shapes.

  "Yes," Roff said, his lips curving almost imperceptibly.

  "Earth fruits."

  The group glanced at one another, surprise flickering across faces. Some tilted their heads, as if seeing the ingredient in a new light. Others blinked rapidly, processing the revelation.

  Roff's gaze swept over them again.

  "Yes, I know," he said, tone firm but not harsh, "this was once considered commoner food."

  Some chefs flushed slightly, embarrassed at their own surprise. A few pressed lips together, hands tightening on aprons.

  "But now," he continued, voice steady, "you understand how much potential it possesses."

  A few trainees exchanged glances, subtle nods of recognition, awe quietly gleaming in their eyes. Some cheeks flushed with excitement, not out of joy, but at the sudden weight of challenge before them.

  The hall hummed softly with anticipation.

  "Let me demonstrate for you how it is made," Roff said, voice calm but commanding."Everyone, look behind me."

  ?

  The trainees shifted, some craning their necks, others straightening instinctively. A few gasped softly as a large black screen at the front of the hall hummed to life.

  "This black screen is magical," Roff explained."Anything I demonstrate will be shown here."

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  ?

  The screen lit up, bright and crystal clear. Every motion of Roff's hands appeared in perfect detail, as if they were right in front of the trainees.

  He picked up a small tool with a wooden handle and a sharp, curved metal blade.

  "This is a peeler," he said, holding it up so everyone could see."This item is specifically used to remove the skins from vegetables. Observe carefully."

  ?

  He took a smooth, oval earth fruit and placed it on the board.

  With the peeler in hand, he positioned the blade against the skin, pressing just enough pressure to remove it without wasting any flesh.

  In a single, continuous motion, he drew the peeler down the length of the fruit. The thin skin came off cleanly, curling softly as it fell. He rotated the fruit, repeating the motion, until the entire surface was smooth and unblemished.

  The camera on the screen captured each detail: the angle of the blade, the gentle rotation of the hand, the way the skin curled naturally.

  ?

  He set the peeled earth fruit aside and showed the result: a perfectly smooth, even surface, free of blemishes or leftover skin.

  "Notice," he said, pointing at the screen, "the pressure, the angle, and the steady hand. Peeling may seem simple, but small mistakes affect the final dish."

  ?

  The trainees watched intently, some leaning closer, eyes wide.A few whispered to themselves, mimicking the motion with fingers in the air.Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, lips pressed in thought.

  Every small gesture of Roff's was amplified by the screen — the trainees could see even the subtlest wrist adjustments, the careful control, and the rhythm of each peel.

  ?

  "Once peeled," Roff continued, "these fruits are ready for slicing into chips, fries, or wedges. Consistency is key. Uneven slices cook unevenly and ruin timing."

  Some trainees blinked slowly, absorbing the clarity of the demonstration. A few exchanged impressed glances, realizing that even such a "simple" task demanded precision.

  The hall was silent, save for the occasional soft intake of breath. Every pair of eyes followed the motions as if hypnotized by the screen, understanding slowly that mastery begins with the smallest details.

  "For the sake of confidentiality," Roff continued, "we will refer to earth fruits as potatoes."

  A few trainees blinked, then nodded quickly, adjusting their notes.

  ?

  He placed the peeled potato onto the board.

  "This tool is called a mandoline."

  He positioned it firmly over a bowl, adjusting the blade with practiced ease.

  "Observe."

  ?

  Holding the potato steadily, he passed it back and forth across the blade.

  A soft, rhythmic sound filled the hall.

  With each motion, thin, even slices fell neatly below — uniform, almost translucent.

  The magical screen magnified the movement of his hands, the angle of pressure, the steady tempo.

  "When you use this machine," Roff explained, "the work of slicing becomes easier. More importantly, each piece is uniform."

  He lifted two random slices between his fingers and held them up.

  "Thickness determines texture. Too thin, they burn. Too thick, they remain soft."

  The slices were nearly identical.

  Several trainees exchanged impressed looks. A few unconsciously touched their own knives, reassessing their previous methods.

  ?

  Roff transferred the slices into a basin of water and rinsed them thoroughly.

  "We wash away excess starch," he said.

  He then laid them out on cloth and patted them dry with deliberate care.

  "Moisture is the enemy of crispness."

  ?

  "Next," he continued, "boil them in vinegar and salted water."

  The screen showed the slices submerged in a pot.

  "Cook until roughly seventy percent done. Not soft. Not firm. Partially tender."

  Some trainees frowned slightly, mentally calculating what seventy percent felt like. Others scribbled quickly, brows furrowed in concentration.

  ?

  Roff set a wide pan on the stove and poured in oil.

  "This," he said, lifting a slender instrument with a narrow stem and a small screen at the top, "is a thermometer. A magical tool used to measure temperature."

  The small display glowed softly.

  "It will show the oil's heat."

  ?

  "Heat the oil to three hundred and fifty degrees."

  The trainees watched as the numbers climbed steadily on the screen.

  When it settled at 350°F, Roff nodded once.

  He added the slices carefully, lowering them gently into the oil.

  A controlled bubbling sound filled the hall.

  "Do not overcrowd the pot," he said calmly."If you do, the oil temperature will drop. The result will be oily. Soggy. Undesirable."

  Several trainees straightened at that word.

  On the screen, the slices moved freely in the oil, not touching excessively, each piece given space.

  ?

  As Roff continued explaining, almost every trainee had begun taking notes.

  He had not instructed them to do so.

  They did it on their own.

  Some wrote quickly, almost frantically.Others paused between lines, ensuring each word was precise.

  The weight of the lesson was clear on their faces — narrowed eyes, tight lips, focused stillness.

  What had once been dismissed as commoner food now required technique, science, and discipline.

  And they were beginning to understand why.