Deep winter had settled over the Imperial Kitchen.
The air was no longer filled only with the scent of food, but with tension—tight, relentless. As the New Year approached, palace rules multiplied like snowdrifts, and duties piled higher with each passing day.
Chef Zhang, the kitchen's second-in-command, was nearly welded to the stoves from dawn till nightfall. He personally oversaw every dish meant for banquets, offerings, and ceremonial feasts.
Qing Tian noticed the changes.
The dark circles beneath her master's eyes deepened. His already lean face grew sharper, more hollow. Sometimes, while correcting her knife work, he would unconsciously press his fingers to his temples. Other times, he would stare into the dancing flames of the stove, lost—just for a heartbeat too long.
She knew the truth.
Though his damaged sense of taste no longer affected his mastery of heat, technique, or balance, it had stolen something far more precious: the joy of cooking, and part of the feedback that chefs instinctively rely on. Years of unrelenting pressure, layered atop that quiet loss… it was no wonder that even restful sleep had become a luxury.
The thought lodged itself in Qing Tian's heart like a small thorn.
She kept recalling the words written on the first page of The Miscellany of Ingredients:
Every bite, every sip—reveals the heart.
Her master had given her not only skills, but a path to stand on.
What, then, could she give him in return?
The answer, she felt, lay in food.
She began seeking out Granny Chen more diligently than ever. Granny Chen was no imperial physician, but after decades in the Imperial Kitchen, her understanding of food as medicine ran deep—rooted in lived wisdom rather than theory.
"Poria," Granny Chen said, rubbing a dried piece between her fingers, "neutral in nature, mild and sweet. Calms the mind, settles the spirit, strengthens the spleen. Gentle stuff—won't strain the body."
She lifted another ingredient.
"Dried lily bulbs—cooling, soothing to the lungs, calming to the heart. But they're slightly cold in nature. Best paired with something warming."
"And red dates," she added with a nod. "They nourish blood, calm the spirit, sweeten everything they touch."
As Qing Tian listened, she quietly matched each ingredient with the emotions she sensed from them.
Poria felt steady—grounded, reassuring.Lily bulbs carried a cool, clear calm.Red dates radiated warmth and softness.
If balanced just right… perhaps they could truly create something nourishing—something that soothed the spirit itself.
She didn't dare draw attention. Using the small allowance she'd saved, she asked Granny Chen to quietly purchase low-grade, inexpensive poria powder, crushed lily fragments, and red dates through a familiar apprentice at the Imperial Pharmacy.
Her laboratory remained the same: a small charcoal brazier, an old clay bowl.
The first attempt failed.
She mixed poria powder and crushed dried lily bulbs directly and steamed them together. The result was coarse and dry—bitter on the tongue, with only a faint hint of lily fragrance.
The second attempt was better, but still wrong.
She soaked the lily bulbs, simmered them with pitted red dates into a paste, then folded in the poria powder. The texture improved, but the cake turned sticky, the sweetness abrupt, the poria's chalky presence still too obvious.
So she kept refining.
She sifted the poria powder through fine cloth until it was almost dust.She soaked the lilies thoroughly, then ground them into a smooth paste.She simmered the red dates, removed skins and pits, and pressed the flesh repeatedly into velvety jujube puree.
The fire mattered most.
No rushing. Only the dying warmth of charcoal embers—slow, patient steaming.
Failure followed failure.
Watching Qing Tian work late each night, Xiao Man finally asked, puzzled, "Sister Qing Tian… what are you making? It doesn't smell like dessert."
Qing Tian only smiled. "Just practicing."
Then came a quiet night, heavy with falling snow.
Outside, flakes drifted soundlessly past the window. Inside, the charcoal glow faded to a dull red. Qing Tian placed her newest mixture into the clay bowl, sealed it, and set it over the lingering warmth.
Time stretched.
She leaned against the wall, nearly dozing—when a fragrance reached her nose.
Soft. Clean. Comforting.
Not floral. Not sweet. But the mellow warmth of well-steamed grain, threaded with the gentle sweetness of dates and the faint, cooling clarity of lilies.
Her heart leapt.
She lifted the lid.
The cake was a soft, pale brown, its surface smooth and even. When she pressed it lightly with a chopstick, it yielded—then sprang back.
She cut off a small piece, blew on it, and tasted.
It melted on her tongue.
Smooth. Moist. No grit at all.
The poria's calm neutrality.The lily's clear, cooling softness.The date's warm, honeyed sweetness.
Distinct, yet perfectly fused—coming together into a flavor as gentle as winter sunlight.
More than that—
Qing Tian could feel it.
The emotions of the ingredients, blended into something whole: peace, comfort, nourishment. Like a warm hand smoothing away fatigue and restlessness.
This was it.
Her chest filled with quiet joy.
She carefully cut the successful batch of Calming Poria Cake, wrapped it in clean oiled paper, and set it aside—
planning to find a chance the next dayto place it, quietly,into her master's hands.