"He's already made his move."
Those five quiet words fell into the air—
not loud,
not sharp,
yet heavy enough to sink straight to the bottom of Qing Tian's chest.
It was like a boulder dropped into deep water.
There was no splash.
Only the crushing pressure that followed.
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
She looked up at Chef Zhang.
Chef Zhang's face was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that only came after one had already walked through fear and come out the other side, stripped bare of illusion.
"After Consort Liu's brother failed to recruit me," he said evenly, "he sent word through an intermediary."
The oil lamp flickered.
"He asked me to meet him at a teahouse outside the palace. I went."
Qing Tian's fingers curled into her sleeves.
She could already imagine it.
The teahouse. The private room. The forced courtesy.
"Lin Fu," Chef Zhang continued.
At the name, something cold slid down Qing Tian's spine.
"Not the boy he once was," he said quietly. "Eunuch Lin now. Fine silk robes. Jade ring on his finger. The posture of a man who believes he speaks for heaven itself."
Lin Fu had greeted him warmly.
Smiled.
Called him "Senior Brother Zhang," reminisced about apprenticeship days, about the old kitchens, about Master Hu.
Then—without warning—
He cut straight to the point.
"He said the Consort had heard rumors of Snowcloud Soup," Chef Zhang said, his voice thinning with barely restrained disgust. "And that Her Ladyship… wished to taste it."
Qing Tian's breath caught.
Snowcloud Soup.
Even spoken softly, the name carried weight.
"He suggested," Chef Zhang went on, "that since I could no longer make it, I should simply hand over the recipe."
A pause.
"In return, all past grievances would be forgotten."
The oil lamp crackled.
"He would speak well of me before the Consort. I would be guaranteed a comfortable retirement."
Chef Zhang let out a short, humorless breath.
"And my nephew—serving in the border army—would have a bright future."
Qing Tian felt sick.
That was the carrot.
Then came the stick.
"He reminded me," Chef Zhang said, eyes darkening, "how many accidents can happen in the Imperial Kitchen."
Procurement.
Inspection.
Storage.
"A single wrong item appearing in a delivery," he said slowly.
"Or inferior goods passed off as tribute."
His fingers tightened slightly against the cloth in his hand.
"'Stealing imperial supplies' and 'fraud' are not small charges."
Qing Tian's blood ran cold.
"They're enough to rot a man alive in the Punishment Office," he continued quietly.
"And sometimes…"
He stopped.
He did not finish the sentence.
He did not need to.
Qing Tian already understood.
Family.
Her vision dimmed around the edges.
So that was it.
Wang Youcai's sudden boldness.
The warehouse rumors.
Matron Liu's probing, measuring eyes.
It had never been random.
It was one net—
woven carefully by Lin Fu and the Liu family—
tightening, thread by thread, around the Imperial Kitchen.
They didn't just want Snowcloud Soup.
They wanted Chef Zhang crushed.
"Chef Zhang—" Qing Tian grabbed his sleeve without thinking, her fingers ice-cold.
"You can't give it to them!"
Her voice shook.
"If you do, they'll never stop! And that recipe—Master Hu entrusted it to you—"
"I won't give it."
The words cut cleanly through her panic.
Chef Zhang's voice was iron.
"That recipe is not just food," he said. "It is my master's trust."
His gaze sharpened.
"My line in the sand."
"I would take it to the grave before letting it fall into filthy hands."
His fingers clenched.
"If I hand it over now," he said slowly, "then the boiling oil I endured back then would have been meaningless."
The lamplight trembled.
"And Master Hu's faith in me… would become a joke."
He looked at her then.
Really looked at her.
"Qing Tian," he said quietly, "I didn't tell you this so you would suffer with me."
His voice softened, just a little.
"I told you because this disaster cannot be avoided anymore."
From the moment the Liu family reached in—
from the moment Lin Fu bared his fangs—
"This path was set."
"They don't just want the recipe," he said.
"They want me gone."
The almond tea beside him had gone cold.
He lifted it anyway and drank it in one slow motion—
like a farewell cup of wine.
"From today onward," he said, setting the bowl down, "be careful."
"Speak less. Watch more."
"And stay away from anything tied to the Imperial Study."
Qing Tian felt as though she were falling into freezing water.
"If the worst comes…"
His gaze locked onto hers, sharp and unwavering.
"Survive."
"That is all that matters."
"What I taught you—hold on to it."
"It may be the only thing you'll have left."
Chef Zhang picked up his old black-iron cleaver once more and began wiping it beneath the dim lamplight.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His bent yet unyielding shadow stretched across the wall—
like a solitary mountain standing against an oncoming storm.
Outside, spring rain began to fall.
Soft.
Endless.
Like the sound of something terrible quietly drawing closer.