The morning air still had that faint chill clinging to it, but the school grounds were already buzzing with pre-festival energy when I stepped inside.
First stop—submitting my master plan to Class Rep Mizutani Yuki.
"Eh? Hokkaido ramen? It looks delicious," she said, tilting her head in thought.
Her fingers brushed the paper, tracing the little doodles I'd scribbled on the margin—purely for emphasis, of course, not because I can't draw a straight line to save my life.
"Hm, three flavors? That really caters to different people," she continued, a hint of excitement creeping into her usually composed voice.
She looked up at me with the smile of someone who'd just found a hidden winning lottery ticket. "Ginjo-san's proposal is very good. I'll bring it to the committee right away."
Wow… is this what it feels like to be recognized for my genius?
By the time lunch break was ending, Mizutani returned with news—my plan had been unanimously approved. The words "unanimously" and "approved" felt so good together that I might've shed an internal tear.
Then the preparation madness began.
The cooking team pored over ramen recipes like monks studying sacred scrolls. The carpentry guys hammered away at stall frames, the sound echoing down the hallways like some kind of festival war drum.
Mizutani kept popping up with detailed questions—like a benevolent but relentless general making sure no soldier slacked off.
Days blurred into a whirlwind of sawdust, boiling broth, and last-minute paint jobs… and then—festival day arrived.
According to tradition, our school opens the festival to outsiders too. Which means… yes. The campus was packed.
People milled about with hot dogs in one hand, chocolate bananas in the other, their voices mixing with the calls of stall owners hawking their goods. Somewhere in the distance, a dance club was blaring pop songs loud enough to shake my ribs.
Everywhere you looked—pure festival chaos. The good kind.
"Our class's booth… is way too fancy for a student project," I muttered when I finally got there.
The sign was impossible to miss—two meters of polished wood pieced together with the precision of a shrine carpenter. The varnish gleamed in the sun, the grain showing off like it was posing for a magazine.
Bold, majestic calligraphy declared: Hokkaido Specialty Ramen.
"…Isn't that name a little too direct?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"It was decided after we adopted your proposal," Mizutani replied without missing a beat. "Limited space means we go for maximum clarity."
Hmph. Fair point.
I had to admit—the whole place looked like an authentic ramen shop teleported straight from Sapporo. Eaves, noren curtains, red carpet at the entrance, woodgrain wallpaper inside, even little touches like bamboo blinds and paper lanterns.
No wonder the place was swamped. The line stretched halfway down the hall.
The cooking team—robes and headscarves tied tight—were working with the efficiency of a Michelin-star kitchen. Girls in uniform darted between tables with steaming bowls while the guys cleared plates at lightning speed.
"Thanks to Ginjo-san's proposal, our menu doesn't overlap with other classes," Mizutani said, watching the crowd with pride. "Local specialties always sell during festivals."
"But this many guests? Isn't it… too many?" I asked, watching another group join the queue.
"That's why everyone's swamped. Speaking of which… since you're here, could you help entertain guests? Okamoto's… unavailable."
Translation: Okamoto bailed. And I, apparently, was the replacement.
"Oh wait—your finger's still injured!" Mizutani's eyes darted to the fixator on my hand.
"This? Just a scratch. I can still take orders."
She actually looked touched. Before I could stop her, she'd fetched a festival robe and handed it over.
"Then I'm counting on you, Ginjo-san."
And so began my sudden debut as a ramen shop waiter.
Queue management, customer greetings, order slips—rinse and repeat. The steady rhythm was almost hypnotic… until—
"Ginjo-san, there's a guest here who needs you~"
That voice—Shiraishi Lisa. I turned, already suspicious, and—
…My brain almost blue-screened.
Standing there wasn't just Lisa. It was Lisa in a kimono.
Dark blue silk patterned with drifting cherry blossoms, a pink obi tied in a perfect bow, silver hair styled into soft twin buns with a white floral headband. The rest of her hair cascaded over her shoulders like moonlight on water.
The fabric traced every line of her figure—without showing anything indecent, yet somehow being far more dangerous.
I might've stared. Okay, I definitely stared.
"Ginjo-san," she said, lifting a round fan to hide half her smile, "it's not very polite to keep staring at customers like that."
Polite? Lady, I'm trying not to forget how to breathe.