The three proposals Qing Tian had put forward in the Imperial Kitchen were like massive stones thrown into a deep, still lake. The ripples they created spread outward almost immediately, reaching far beyond what anyone had anticipated.
The first to react were the consorts of the inner palace.
Opinions on the idea of written meal requests varied sharply. Some found it troublesome and unnecessary, dismissing it with a scoff. Others thought it novel and decided to try it out of mild curiosity. But Consort De was different.
After hearing the report, she fell silent for a moment. Then she calmly ordered her personal maid to bring ink and paper. She dictated the request herself.
The list was meticulous.
Clear dietary restrictions—no beef or lamb, no overly sweet dishes. Preferred flavors—light, slightly sour. She even noted dietary considerations for different seasons, such as nourishing dryness in spring and cooling heat in summer. The handwriting was neat, the requirements precise and unambiguous.
When this single sheet of paper arrived at the Imperial Kitchen, it caused a small stir. Even Chief Steward Li personally took it, reading it carefully. He couldn't help but admire Consort De's rigor—and more than that, he sensed that this might be the first faint sign of the palace's food affairs moving toward something orderly and standardized.
Soon after, a request arrived from Consort Xian's palace as well.
Compared to Consort De's comprehensiveness, Consort Xian's list focused more on medicinal cuisine. Vague past demands like "nourish the qi" or "calm the spirit" were replaced with specific ingredients and preparation methods. It was still refined and demanding, but at least now there were concrete standards to work with.
With these two taking the lead, several mid- and lower-ranked consorts followed suit. Some wanted to show they weren't "difficult to serve." Others simply found the method convenient. One by one, simple request slips began to arrive at the Imperial Kitchen.
Wang Youcai felt as if he had swallowed a fly.
Each sheet of white paper with black ink meant fewer opportunities to manipulate "ingredient loss" behind the scenes. Yet he dared not oppose it openly. All he could do was grind his teeth in silence.
Meanwhile, the rotational extra meal—the pot of soup Qing Tian had named "Warm-Heart Soup"—began under this tense, complicated atmosphere.
On the first evening, a temporary stove was set up in a corner of the back courtyard. A large iron pot bubbled softly, releasing a simple yet enticing aroma. On duty that day were Fu Shun, the elderly eunuch who had raised his hand first, and a younger errand worker named Xiao Fang. Both were nervous, but excitement outweighed fear.
Not many came to collect the soup—only seven or eight people. Most were older workers or those so exhausted their legs trembled. They held chipped bowls of their own, carefully receiving a ladle of hot soup and a slightly scorched coarse-grain flatbread. Then they squatted quietly in the corner, drinking in small sips.
The soup was plain—bone broth with chunks of radish, lightly salted. The bread was rough, even scratchy on the throat.
But when the hot soup slid down, warming the stomach and spreading through the limbs, the comfort was undeniable. With the soup, even the coarse bread tasted better. No one spoke. Yet the quiet, subtle sense of contentment in the air infected those who watched from a distance.
On the second day, a few more came.On the third, a few more still.
It was never many, but the pot was emptied every day, and the basket of flatbreads was always taken clean.
No announcements were made. No one promoted it. Yet the "Warm-Heart Soup," and the feeling of being seen it represented, seeped quietly into the Imperial Kitchen like gentle rain soaking into dry, hardened soil. Complaints lessened. People helped one another more often. Even when Matron Liu scolded others, the dead, resentful looks in their eyes seemed slightly dimmer—at least after a bowl of hot soup.
The most visible change, however, came with the first session of the Imperial Chef Exchange.
On the afternoon of the fifth day, seven or eight people gathered in the open space behind the kitchen. Men and women, young and old—all the most invisible figures of the Imperial Kitchen. They stood awkwardly together, restrained yet brimming with curiosity and cautious excitement.
Qing Tian arrived on time, still wearing her old clothes. She brought no teaching tools—only a clean radish and an ordinary kitchen knife.
"Today," she said simply, "we'll talk about how to cut a radish."
No ceremony. No grand speech.
She demonstrated as she explained. How to cut along the grain for better texture. How thickness changed depending on whether the dish would be stewed or stir-fried. After each technique, she paused and invited others to try.
At first, no one dared move.
Under her encouraging gaze, a young eunuch named Xiao Zhu finally stepped forward. His hands shook as he took the knife, and the slices he produced were crooked and uneven.
Qing Tian didn't laugh. She simply took the knife and repeated the motion slowly."Keep your wrist steady. Be precise. Don't be afraid. Practice makes it better."
Her patience dissolved their nervousness.
A fire-tending maid shyly tried cutting shreds next. Though uneven, she was praised for her courage and gently corrected.
The atmosphere grew unexpectedly relaxed. Soon, they were quietly discussing which methods saved ingredients and which suited their daily tasks best. Qing Tian listened, occasionally adding practical tips.
Half an hour passed in a blink.
When they dispersed, every one of them carried a light in their eyes—something new. The light of having learned. Of being treated as equals. Of a fragile hope just beginning to burn.
Word spread.
At the second session, two or three more people came.
Qing Tian knew change took time. Trust was built slowly. But she was willing to begin with one bowl of soup, one shared exchange. Though now a Shan Meiren, she never forgot where she came from—or the hardship of those at the bottom. She wanted the Imperial Kitchen to hold more than rigid hierarchy and cold rules. She wanted it to have warmth. And possibility.
What she didn't know was that none of this escaped the eyes hidden at the highest point of the palace.
In Yangxin Hall, Emperor Tang Yi paused as he listened to the shadow guard's calm report. The vermilion brush in his hand stilled. He looked toward the darkening sky outside the window, his expression unreadable—yet a faint glimmer of amusement flickered in his deep eyes, vanishing in an instant.
"Starting from the stomach…" he murmured softly, lips curving almost imperceptibly. "A very… practical method."
He set the brush down, fingers tapping lightly on the rosewood desk.
"Shan Meiren…" he repeated the title he himself had bestowed, his tone inscrutable."I am curious to see just how much clarity you can stir from that stagnant pool—using nothing more than a spoon that isn't even sharp."