The kitchen of the Supreme Hall was vast, almost intimidating in its cleanliness. But Michael stepped into it like he belonged, sleeves rolled, hair tied back slightly.

"What are you doing?" Leon asked, watching Michael reach for a pan.

"Cooking."

"We can just order food, you know."

"I don't want cafeteria mush. And if I'm going to force myself to deal with your nonsense all night, you're at least going to eat something good first."

Aiden perked up immediately. "Good as in… edible good, or 'god help us' good?"

Michael smirked faintly. "Good as in—don't complain until you taste it."

Maria tilted her head, watching him line up jars of spices with practiced ease. "You cook often?"

"Used to. Before all… this." He gestured vaguely to the academy, the sword at his side, his entire new life. "When it was just me, I didn't exactly have the luxury of hiring a chef."

"Interesting," Chris murmured, adjusting his glasses. "A skill forged out of necessity. That tends to produce surprising results."

Elara and Selena slipped in midway, drawn by the sounds and smells. The elf princess looked around the gleaming counters in wonder. "This room feels like a sanctum. And those scents…" Her green eyes widened as cumin hit the pan, sizzling. "What is that?"

"Cumin," Michael said, tossing seeds into the hot oil. The crackle filled the room, followed by a fragrance so earthy and rich it made everyone pause.

Leon blinked. "…I'm in love."

"It's just spice," Aurelia muttered, though her nose betrayed her, twitching as she inhaled deeply.

Michael worked without fuss, sliding diced onions into the pan, then garlic, ginger, and tomatoes, letting them melt into a golden-red paste. He added chicken, coating it until it gleamed. Then the masalas—turmeric, chili, coriander, garam masala—each layering over the next until the entire kitchen smelled alive.

Rice steamed. Parathas puffed on a skillet. A pot of lentils simmered with cumin and ghee. And at the far end, masala chai bubbled gently, filling the air with cardamom sweetness.

By the time he laid it all out on the table, the group had gone silent in awe.

"…Holy shit," Aiden muttered reverently. "This looks like a feast fit for kings."

"Correction," Aurelia said, wide-eyed. "Fit for gods."

Michael crossed his arms. "Sit. Eat before it gets cold."

The first bite silenced the room.

Aiden took the biggest mouthful of curry and rice—and immediately started sweating. "S–spicy," he wheezed, but then grabbed more. "But so good I can't stop."

Leon, trying to play it cool, went red after three bites. "Not bad… just… powerful."

"Powerful?" Aurelia scoffed, gulping water. "Michael Wilson, are you trying to kill us with heat?"

Selena didn't even flinch. She tore paratha with her fingers, scooped curry, and smirked. "This is breakfast-level for my clan. Weaklings."

"Shut up," Leon muttered.

Elara, meanwhile, ate delicately, her expression radiant. "It is like… a festival in my mouth. Every spice dances differently."

Chris chewed slowly, his voice calm. "Layered. Balanced. A controlled chaos. Excellent."

But it was Maria who caught Michael off guard. She ate quietly, savoring small bites, before finally looking at him. Her cheeks were faintly pink not from spice, but from something gentler.

"It's delicious," she said softly.

Michael blinked, awkward. "…Glad it's edible."

"It's more than edible."

The table erupted in laughter when Aiden demanded a "third plate," and Aurelia accused him of gluttony. For a moment, it felt less like a council of candidates and more like friends around a hearth.

The plates were cleared. The warmth of Michael's cooking still lingered in their bellies, along with the spicy afterburn that had half the group reaching for water every five minutes.

But now, the table wasn't covered with food—it was covered with parchment, ink, and Michael's half-formed scratches of phrases that looked more like battle notes than a speech.

Leon leaned back on his chair, arms crossed. "Alright. Let's hear what you've got so far."

Michael grimaced. "…You don't want to."

"That bad?" Aiden smirked, nudging him with an elbow.

Michael sighed, picked up the parchment, and read aloud:

"'If elected… I promise to enforce fairness, protect weaker students, and ensure justice…'" He trailed off, already cringing at his own voice.

There was a pause.

Then Aurelia snorted. "Wow. Inspiring. I almost fell asleep halfway."

"Harsh," Michael muttered.

"No, she's right." Leon grinned, leaning forward. "That sounded less like a speech and more like you were reading from a training manual."

"Hey," Michael protested, "I don't exactly have experience writing political speeches."

Chris adjusted his glasses. "Then that's why we're here. But you can't deliver lines that sound like borrowed principles. They'll smell the insincerity before you finish your first sentence."

Selena, sprawled across the sofa with her boots kicked up, smirked. "Yeah. You sounded like a priest trying to sell repentance at half price."

Michael rubbed his temples. "So what do you suggest? That I just… wing it?"

"Not wing it," Aurelia said, smirking. "Charm them. Smile, wink. Half the academy is girls your age or younger—they'll swoon if you so much as roll up your sleeves mid-speech."

Michael blinked. "…You're insane."

"No, she's right." Leon jabbed a finger at him. "Play to your strengths."

"What strengths?!" Michael shot back.

Leon smirked. "The brooding, silent, competent type. Works every time. Just stand there, look like you could bench-press the entire committee, then say one line about 'protecting the academy.' Done."

"That's not a speech," Michael said flatly.

"It is if you're cool enough."

"Unfortunately," Chris cut in, "Leon is wrong. Style can enhance words, but it can't replace them. Without substance, you'll be dismissed as shallow."

"Substance is overrated." Leon waved a hand. "People don't vote with their heads, they vote with their guts."

"Which is exactly why you never win arguments," Chris retorted.

"Oh, we're doing this again?" Leon leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "I'll have you know, my last speech at the Lionheart banquet had people crying."

"From boredom," Aurelia muttered.

"Oi!"

Laughter rippled around the table. Even Elara smiled faintly into her teacup.

Michael buried his face in his hands. "This is hopeless…"

"No, it's not." Maria's voice cut through, soft but clear.

Everyone turned.

She had been quiet most of the time, watching the chaos unfold, but now she set down her cup and looked directly at Michael.

"You don't have to act like Leon. Or like Chris. Or anyone else," she said calmly. "You just need to be you."

Michael blinked. "…Me?"

Maria nodded. "You've already protected people. In dungeons, in training, even tonight—you cooked for us so we'd feel comfortable before helping you. That's who you are. Not someone pretending to be noble, or charming, or fiery. Just you."

The room fell silent.

Aiden scratched his head. "…Damn. She's right."

Selena whistled low. "Straight to the heart. Didn't know you had that in you, Ice Queen."

Maria's cheeks colored faintly, but she held her gaze steady.

Leon grinned. "The shield. That's it. You're not trying to be the king or the executioner. You're trying to be the shield."

"…The shield," Michael murmured.

Chris nodded slowly. "It fits. Protection, fairness, stability. Anchor the speech in that metaphor, and everything else can branch from it."

Elara's voice was gentle. "A shield is no less noble than a crown. In fact, sometimes it is more needed."

Even Selena didn't argue. She shrugged. "I can live with that. Sounds less like empty promises and more like something you'd actually do."

Michael exhaled slowly, feeling something click into place. For the first time, the words didn't feel like weight they felt possible.

"Alright," he muttered, reaching for the quill. "Let's try this again."

The next hour was chaos—messy, overlapping, ridiculous chaos.

Every time Michael tried to write, someone threw in a new line.

"Say 'I'll protect every student, no matter how weak.'" – Aiden.

"Too wordy. Try 'I'll be your shield.' Simple." – Leon.

"That's childish." – Chris.

"It's powerful!" – Leon.

"It's vague!" – Chris.

"Make it poetic," Elara suggested, her voice melodic. "'Even a fragile flame deserves the shelter of a shield.'"

Selena snorted. "That sounds like you're babysitting candles."

"Candles are fragile," Elara said earnestly.

"Exactly my point."

Aurelia chimed in, smirking. "Why not lean into intimidation? 'Vote for me, or I'll find you in the dueling ring.'"

Michael shot her a deadpan stare. "…No."

"What? It would get laughs!"

"This isn't stand-up."

"Could be," she teased.

Meanwhile, Aiden scribbled lines on his own scrap of parchment. "How about this: 'When injustice rises, so will I. When power corrupts, I will stand unyielding. When you feel small, remember—you are never alone.'"

Everyone blinked.

"…That's actually good," Aurelia admitted.

Michael raised a brow. "Where did you pull that from?"

Aiden shrugged, grinning sheepishly. "Read it on a tavern wall once. Between 'drink three, get one free' and 'no brawling past midnight.'"

They all groaned.

"Still better than your draft," Leon muttered, earning a flick on the forehead from Chris.

The Blank paper in front of Michael filled slowly with words—some serious, some ridiculous, some crossed out immediately after they were written. But the more they argued, the more it felt less like work and more like… fun.

And Michael, for the first time in days, wasn't weighed down by the campaign. Surrounded by laughter, by clashing voices and ridiculous suggestions, he realized that this was why he wanted the position. Not for power. Not for recognition. But for them.

And also for the system quest.

For everyone who couldn't stand alone.

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