[u][b]Yoshida Mami[/b][/u] Wuxi. The city without tin. Little Shanghai. A declining commercial hub that had gone by many names in its two thousand years of history. Yet also a city of prestige and beauty, of the industry that kept nations afloat even in the toughest of ages. The greatest of China's silk-reeling cities, and home to manufacturing that far outstripped even entire states. In the pale, unyielding eyes of Yoshida Mami, heir to one of Kyushu's greatest agricultural corporations, however, the city of Wuxi meant something else. Rice. The rice market of Jiangsu, the breadbasket that had ensured the power and stability of the ancient imperial dynasties of China. The rice market that despite having become a shadow of what it once was, continued to export its goods across the plains surrounding the mighty Yangtze. Its very name called to the glories of the past, of the powerful agricultural centre that impacted so much in the East Asian lands. She had visited the city once. She was young. So young, a shy little sprout clinging tightly to her father's trouser leg as she tried to make herself scarce in the meeting that the Yoshida patriarch had been engaged in amongst both the business barons of Shanghai and the farmers of Wuxi. It had been frightening. Utterly so. The foreign smells, the atmosphere of solemnity, the power radiating of the influential men she had been sharing a room with ... Mami stilL shivered remembering that day. But it had also to brought to her something grand, something beautiful, something that few could compare to. Rice. Wuxi was famed for its rice. Yet it was not simply its status as the market of Jiangsu that had brought it such acclaim. The rice of Wuxi was divine in nature, and when cooked to perfection seemed to ooze with flavour, the natural oils of its grains seeping out onto the surface to bring about love and adoration in tastebuds. It was no mere rice that could be despoiled by the use of the technological device that was the rice cooker. It was a creation of the heavens, ambrosia in the form of a staple food that had been lovingly crafted by the humble cooks of Little Shanghai. Since then, she had understood why her father did what he did. She understood why her family sought to bring food to all across the world. She understood why the humble rice grain could be such a beloved part of the diets of so many. And here, in the cafeteria of Nakkashiro Gakuen, Yoshida Mami once again faced a bowl, simply-adorned, well-crafted, filled with steaming rice, motes of flavour seemingly seeping upon its surface. It was no rice of Wuxi, she could tell from an instant, but this was still rice that had been cooked with love. The very essence of flavour seemed to be captured in its visage. Her hands trembled for the porcelain navy chopsticks that sat patiently next to her bowl. She yearned to taste it. She yearned for the rice's flavour. But would the chefs of her school be capable of crafting a reasonable facsimile of the grain of the gods? Could she once again experience that beauty dancing upon her sensitive tastebuds? Mami did not know. She was frightened, her right hand, pale and shaking, reaching for the chopsticks. She had to try. So she did. "[color=2e3192]I humbly receive,[/color]" she whispered, thanking the gods for her meal in her native tongue. Her right hand grasped the chopsticks gently, and with skill and dexterity mastered from imitation of her father and the teachings of her mother, Yoshida Mami lifted one single grain between the two sticks. She blew gently, letting her breath cool the heat of the grain. Her left hand adjusted the statue of the Gautama Buddha that she had brought along. Its presence would bring her prosperity here in the cafeteria. For the greatest dining experience, she needed its reassuring powers. The single grain entered her mouth. It was ... ... ... Rapturic. Yoshida Mami dug in. The shenanigans of Miyama Kirika and the girl's acquaintances nearby meant nothing to the rice heiress as she tidily and rapidly consumed the contents of her bowl. It was just too good.