Qingtian's unease was confirmed far sooner than she had hoped.
The very next day, Changchun Palace sent word to the Imperial Household Department.
The reason sounded flawless.
Spring winds were rising. The Noble Consort's health was slightly unsettled. The imperial physicians advised extra caution with her diet—light, clean, and meticulously prepared. Fearing that the Imperial Kitchen, burdened with countless duties, might overlook some detail, Changchun Palace humbly requested that its own small kitchen "assist" in preparing the Noble Consort's daily meals. The Imperial Kitchen would only need to supply the base ingredients.
"Assist."
Such a gentle word.
So considerate.
So reasonable.
So poisonous.
On the surface, it showed the Noble Consort's thoughtfulness. In truth, it quietly tightened her control over her own food—and, more importantly, drove a wedge straight into the core authority of the Imperial Kitchen. A foothold for surveillance. A channel for future erosion.
The Imperial Household Department, of course, dared not refuse.
When Wang Youcai received the news, a knowing smile crept across his face. He leaned toward Matron Liu and murmured a few instructions.
Matron Liu's back seemed to straighten even more than before. When her gaze swept across the kitchen servants, it carried unmistakable arrogance.
Someone above has my back.
Almost at the same time, the tone from the Punishment Bureau subtly changed.
No longer did they insist that the "unclean ingredient" was entirely Chef Zhang's grave offense.
Instead, new developments began to surface.
"Witnesses"—mostly warehouse eunuchs who were clearly coerced or bribed—started to "recall" vaguely that Chef Zhang sometimes trusted procurement too much, failing to inspect every ingredient personally.
Others, with feigned sympathy, suggested that since Chef Zhang had lost his sense of taste, he might not have detected subtle spoilage in time… allowing inferior goods to slip through unintentionally.
It was a retreat disguised as mercy.
They were no longer rushing to kill him outright—that might provoke the Emperor's displeasure and deeper scrutiny. Instead, they aimed to nail down a different charge:
Negligence. Severe dereliction of duty.
Even if the Emperor later discovered suspicious origins behind the tainted ingredients, Chef Zhang's "failure in supervision" would remain undeniable.
The likely outcome?
"Considering his past service, punishment shall be reduced."
Dismissal.
Expulsion from the palace.
Exile.
The obstacle removed.
The hands clean.
The image—benevolent.
When Qingtian relayed everything she had learned to Chief Steward Li, his face darkened like a sky before a storm.
He paced the cramped room for a long time before finally forcing the words out through clenched teeth.
"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."
"They're fixing the blame on him permanently. Even if the truth comes out, the label of 'negligence' won't come off. If His Majesty only chooses to 'wait and see'… Chef Zhang is still doomed."
Qingtian's heart clenched.
"Then… what can we do?"
"Wait."
Chief Steward Li stopped and turned to her. His eyes held exhaustion, helplessness—and an unmistakable severity.
"Right now, stillness is better than action. Any extra move gives them an excuse to bite back."
Then he stepped closer, lowering his voice until it felt like stone pressing on her chest.
"And especially you. Listen carefully. From today on, lock away every bit of your cleverness and courage. Be low-key. Lower than low."
"The Noble Consort wants you gone more than anyone. What you did before the Emperor was a slap across her face—and it made His Majesty suspicious of her. She will never let that go."
"You are a thorn in her eye now. One misstep, and you'll be crushed."
"Remember this: only by staying alive… is there a future."
A chill ran down Qingtian's spine.
She looked at his grave expression and nodded firmly.
"I understand."
But the tree wished for stillness—
and the storm refused to stop.
A few days later, an ordinary task became the spark.
While Qingtian was washing vegetables, Matron Liu happened to "inspect" her station. From the bottom of Qingtian's freshly cleaned basket, she flipped out a few slightly wilted leaves—normal loss from transport, nothing more.
"C17!"
Matron Liu's shrill voice cut through the courtyard.
"Look at this! This is what you call washed vegetables?! These leaves are wilted, and you still dare to leave them in? Trying to pass off inferior goods to deceive your masters?!"
She didn't allow a single word of explanation.
"A scheming little thing! A few days of empty praise, and you forget who you are. Can't even do the most basic task!"
"Punishment!"
"Today, you will scrub every stove, every iron pot, every steamer basket in the entire Imperial Kitchen—by yourself! No one is allowed to help you!"
"Until it's done, you don't eat. You don't sleep."
The punishment was absurdly excessive—and openly humiliating.
Scrubbing the entire kitchen was a full day's labor for several strong workers.
Matron Liu wasn't just punishing her.
She was crushing her spirit.
Grinding down her presence.
Sending a message—to everyone watching, especially those higher up.
This girl is insignificant.
She can be handled at will.
The Emperor's interest was fleeting.
Qingtian didn't argue.
She didn't even lift her head.
"Yes."
She turned and walked toward the mountain of grease-blackened stoves.
Spring sunlight was warm, but the water at the stone basin was icy. It soaked through her sleeves, numbing her skin. The rough scrub and lye scraped against layers of hardened grease, producing a harsh, endless rasp.
Her fingers turned pale and wrinkled. The lye stung like needles. Sweat seeped into the old wound on her forehead, sending dull pain through her skull. Her back ached from hours of bending.
She scrubbed harder.
Again.
And again.
Black-yellow grime slowly peeled away, revealing dull but clean iron beneath.
Xiaoman and Fugui tried to help.
She stopped them with a sharp look.
She would not drag them down with her.
The sun slid westward. Her thin shadow stretched across the wet stone ground. Towering palace walls cast long, consuming shadows as dusk crept closer.
She remembered her master's unbent back as he was taken away.
She remembered the pure wheat fragrance of the Bowl of Truth.
She remembered the Emperor's unreadable eyes—and the words "We shall see."
She remembered the Noble Consort's gaze, cold and venomous.
The road ahead was long.
Danger lurked everywhere, like the shadows of these palace walls, ready to swallow her whole.
She had only pried open the smallest crack with a single bowl of noodles.
But light, once let in, revealed traps—and drew fiercer attacks.
Yet fear was no longer all she felt.
Sweat rolled down her face, dripping into the murky wash water. She wiped her brow with the inside of her elbow and kept scrubbing.
Grease was stubborn—but persistence could wear it away.
Truth in the deep palace might be buried under countless veils—but as long as someone kept wiping, kept asking, kept guarding that fragile spark of honesty and fairness…
Perhaps one day, the clouds would part.
She was only C17, a lowly kitchen maid.
But now she had someone to protect.
Something to uphold.
And a perilous, unpredictable attention—from the highest reaches of the palace—to survive.
That attention was both a rope at the cliff's edge
and the only spark in the dark.
And between that rope and that spark—
She would carve her own path.