After the incident in the Imperial Garden, the atmosphere in the Imperial Kitchen felt as though it had been clenched in an invisible fist.
Everyone moved carefully within their small assigned spaces, holding their breath. Even the sound of knives striking chopping boards seemed softer than before, as if any noise might snap something fragile and dangerous.
The Emperor's words—"Let us observe a little longer"—were like a thin layer of ice sealing over a surging undercurrent. Beneath that ice, countless forces were silently testing, probing, and waiting.
The most obvious shift appeared within the Court of Judicial Review.
Chef Zhang's case showed no new progress, yet neither was it hastily concluded as Consort Liu's faction had anticipated. The interrogations slowed noticeably. Updates that filtered out were vague and cautious—"details still under verification," "requiring cross-confirmation." This unusual restraint sent a clear signal: at least part of the Emperor's attention had truly settled here.
Consort Liu's elder brother, Liu Chenghan, attempted more than once to pass messages through internal channels, only to be politely but firmly turned away. The presiding eunuchs cited the same reason every time—"His Majesty has personally ordered a thorough investigation. We dare not act hastily."
After several days behind closed doors, Chief Steward Li finally reappeared in the courtyard of the Imperial Kitchen.
He looked thinner, his eye sockets sunken, yet his spine was straighter than it had ever been. He spoke little, merely resuming his inspections and arrangements as usual. Still, everyone could feel it—the suffocating cloud of despair that had hung over the Imperial Kitchen had been torn open by those three words, "observe longer," allowing a sliver of light, faint yet undeniable, to seep through.
Wang Youcai and Matron Liu, on the other hand, behaved like cats whose tails had been stepped on—resentful, but afraid to yowl.
They still held authority. They still barked orders. But their arrogance was visibly restrained. Wang Youcai no longer scolded at the slightest provocation. Madam Liu's shrill voice dropped several notches. Yet when her gaze landed on Qing Tian, the venom and wariness within her eyes ran deeper than ever.
They no longer dared to target Qing Tian openly. No one could be certain whether the Emperor's "observe longer" included that audacious little kitchen maid.
So they turned to subtler methods—methods far more insidious.
The tasks assigned to Qing Tian were invariably the dirtiest and most exhausting: scrubbing mountains of grease-caked pots, hauling heavy sacks of rice and flour, cleaning floors thick with oil and scraps. Such backbreaking labor seemed to "naturally" fall to her.
The ingredients she received were often flawed in barely noticeable ways—vegetables mixed with hidden rot, radishes with tiny wormholes, meat whose edges felt faintly sticky. Use them, and it would be labeled "negligence." Discard them, and she risked accusations of "wastefulness" or "delaying work."
Even the other maids began to distance themselves.
They avoided speaking to her, deliberately keeping their space. When Qing Tian returned from night duty, she might find her wash basin "accidentally" overturned, her bedding dampened by "spilled" water, or irritating noises deliberately made after she lay down to rest.
Qing Tian endured it all in silence.
Gone was the confusion and indignation of her early days. In its place stood a calm so cold it bordered on ruthless. After each day of grueling labor left her body aching and exhausted, she still forced herself to remain awake under weak lamplight or pale moonlight, repeatedly reviewing and adding to her battered notebook.
That notebook recorded more than recipes.
It held her observations—of the Imperial Kitchen, of the inner palace, and of human nature itself.
She understood clearly now: the "Noodles of Truth" had only pried open a narrow crack in the door. To step through it, to stand firm—let alone change anything—she would need far more preparation, deeper strategy, and an unshakable foundation.
She began observing everything with heightened focus: the flow of ingredients from procurement to storage to use; how requests from the various palaces were conveyed and evaluated; the survival conditions of servants across ranks; and the so-called "customs" and "rules" that appeared reasonable on the surface yet hid glaring loopholes beneath.
At the same time, the winds within the palace were shifting—quietly, imperceptibly, along a dimension that defied easy description.
The bowstring had been drawn tight.
And everyone knew—
the next movement, no matter how small, could decide who would be struck when it finally snapped.