The first frost of late autumn crept in before dawn.
It coated the glazed palace tiles and stone corridors in a thin, merciless white, turning the vast imperial grounds into a place both pristine and cold. Breath misted in the air. Even the wind seemed hesitant to disturb the stillness.
At the edge of the palace complex, the gates of the Judicial Prison opened.
The black-lacquered doors were thick, heavy, and worn by years of despair. When they moved, they released a low, grating creak that echoed far too loudly in the quiet morning.
A figure emerged from the darkness within.
He paused at the threshold, as if unsure whether the light before him was real.
Then he stepped forward.
It was Chef Zhang.
The dark blue cotton robe he wore was the same one from the day he had been taken away. Once sturdy, it now hung loosely from his frame, emptied of flesh by months of confinement. The fabric fluttered faintly in the cold wind, revealing wrists too thin, hands marked by old calluses and newer scars.
His hair had gone almost entirely gray. It fell untidily over his shoulders, no longer bound with the care of a man who once stood proudly at the head of a kitchen. His cheeks were hollow, his beard untrimmed.
Only his eyes remained unmistakable.
When the pale morning light touched them, they flared briefly—sharp, alive, burning with something that imprisonment had failed to extinguish.
Relief. Caution. Exhaustion.
And beneath it all, a dignity that refused to die.
He stood on the stone steps, squinting as he adjusted to the brightness. After a moment, he straightened his back as much as his battered body allowed, forcing his spine upright inch by inch.
At the foot of the steps, two people were waiting.
Qing Tian moved before she realized she had.
The moment the doors opened, her feet carried her forward instinctively—only for her to stop short just a few steps away.
The man before her was almost unrecognizable.
In her memory, her master had been lean but steady, his back straight, his hands sure, his eyes sharp with quiet authority. The figure standing before her now looked smaller, worn down by cold walls and endless nights.
Her throat closed.
She wanted to call out.
Chef Zhang.
The word rose to her lips—and failed.
Instead, she bowed.
Deeply. Completely.
She bent at the waist and lowered herself into a formal disciple's salute, one that spoke of respect, loyalty, and gratitude far deeper than words.
Behind her, Chief Steward Li stepped forward and clasped his hands, bowing with equal solemnity. His eyes were red, though his expression remained composed.
Chef Zhang's gaze moved slowly over them.
It lingered on Qing Tian's clothes—not luxurious, but clean, well-fitted, dignified. Nothing like the rags she had worn when she first entered the Imperial Kitchen.
Then his eyes shifted to Li, whose face looked thinner but clearer than before.
Chef Zhang swallowed.
His lips trembled.
Finally, he lifted one trembling hand and placed it gently on Qing Tian's shoulder.
"…Good child."
The words were rough, scraped raw by disuse, but they carried the weight of months of silence.
Qing Tian broke.
Tears slipped down her cheeks and fell onto the frost-covered stone, darkening it in small, trembling drops.
She reached out, steadying him by the arm.
"Chef Zhang," she said hoarsely. "Let's go home."
For the first time since his release, Chef Zhang did not insist on standing alone.
The morning light grew stronger as they walked.
By the time the Imperial Kitchen came into view, Chef Zhang slowed to a stop.
He stared.
The courtyard was alive.
Fires roared beneath iron pots. Steam rose in thick clouds. Knives struck chopping boards in steady rhythm. Voices called instructions—not sharp with fear, but firm with purpose.
There was order.
There was movement.
There was something else too—something he hadn't felt here in years.
Life.
In one corner of the courtyard, a massive pot bubbled with pale broth. Low-ranking eunuchs and maids stood nearby, each holding a bowl. An elderly eunuch ladled soup with careful hands, while a young maid passed out coarse-grain cakes, browned and fragrant.
No one laughed. No one spoke loudly.
But they ate.
Quietly. Gratefully.
Steam rose from their bowls and curled into the cold air, wrapping their faces in fleeting warmth. For a moment, their shoulders relaxed.
Chef Zhang felt his chest tighten.
Further back, in the open yard, a young eunuch practiced cutting radish on a worn board. His grip was clumsy, the slices uneven.
Another eunuch—older, more experienced—leaned over and corrected his hand position.
"Steady your wrist."
The boy nodded, focused, and tried again.
"What… is this?" Chef Zhang asked softly.
Qing Tian explained in a low voice. "Rotating hot meals. Made from trimmings. For those on night duty or heavy work."
She gestured to the back. "And training. Twice a month. Voluntary."
Chef Zhang said nothing.
But his eyes glistened.
In the small room prepared for him, warmed by charcoal and freshly cleaned, Qing Tian helped him drink hot tea. He ate slowly, carefully, as if afraid the warmth might disappear if he rushed.
When his hands steadied, she told him everything.
From her petition in the imperial garden.
To her unexpected promotion.
To the reforms—the resistance, the careful compromises, the quiet dangers.
She spoke calmly, omitting the moments when fear had nearly crushed her.
Chef Zhang heard them anyway.
When she finally mentioned the Emperor's words—I allow you to try—he fell silent.
The fire crackled softly between them.
At last, he exhaled.
"You remembered what mattered," he said. "'Cherish food. Cherish people.' You didn't forget."
Then his gaze sharpened.
"But this path is harsher than you know. You're not stirring soup anymore. You're stirring rules. Interests. Human darkness."
"I know," Qing Tian said. "But someone has to."
Chef Zhang studied her for a long time.
"The Emperor lifted you," he said slowly. "He can also drop you. His favor is armor—and a blade."
She bowed her head. "I won't forget."
Chef Zhang closed his eyes.
Outside, the Imperial Kitchen continued to hum.
Inside, the storm gathered quietly.