When Tang Yi opened his eyes, daylight had already spilled through the gauze curtains of the Yangxin Hall.
Soft.
Unhurried.
Unintrusive.
For a brief, disorienting moment, he did not move.
No nightmare had dragged him back from sleep.
No sudden jolt of pain had split his skull.
No hushed whisper from the night-watch eunuchs had pulled him awake with bad news or unfinished business.
He had awakened… naturally.
The realization came slowly, like a hand brushing against something long-forgotten.
For years—no, longer than he cared to remember—sleep had been a battlefield. Even when exhaustion forced his eyes shut, his mind never truly rested. Dreams tangled with court intrigue. Anger lurked just beneath the surface, ready to surge the instant he woke.
But now—
It was as though a string, drawn taut inside him for countless days and nights, had finally loosened. Not snapped. Not released entirely.
Just enough.
Enough to allow a single, complete descent into true, undisturbed rest.
Tang Yi lay still, staring at the faint embroidery on the canopy above his bed, absorbing the unfamiliar sensation spreading through his body.
No crushing fatigue weighed down his limbs.
No sharp throbbing pulsed behind his temples.
Only a quiet calm—foreign, almost suspicious.
Slowly, deliberately, he sat up.
His movements felt lighter than usual, as if his body itself had been granted a brief reprieve from carrying the empire on its shoulders.
Almost immediately, servants hurried in, moving with practiced efficiency. Water was prepared. Towels warmed. Robes laid out with meticulous care. Gao Dequan himself entered last, holding a porcelain bowl of ginseng soup, its faint steam curling upward.
He watched the Emperor's face closely, eyes sharp with a lifetime of trained caution.
"Did Your Majesty rest well last night?"
The question was asked softly.
Carefully.
Tang Yi did not answer at once.
His gaze drifted past Gao Dequan, toward the corner of the hall where a pot of narcissus stood in bloom. Pale petals caught the morning light, dew still clinging to their edges.
For reasons he did not immediately understand, the sight stirred a memory.
A plain little cake.
Unassuming in shape.
Barely sweet.
Warm.
Not rich. Not ornate. Not designed to impress.
And yet—
The faint echo of its taste still lingered on his tongue, like a promise remembered rather than a flavor.
"…Adequately," Tang Yi said at last.
Two simple words.
To anyone else, they would have meant nothing.
To Gao Dequan, they were thunder.
In all his years serving this Emperor, adequately was the highest praise Tang Yi had ever given to sleep.
The morning court proceeded as usual.
Memorials piled high.
Voices rose and fell.
Arguments tangled and refused to resolve.
The northern frontier still demanded supplies that did not exist.
Flood relief funds continued to vanish into unseen hands.
Officials spoke with practiced righteousness, each word sharpened to protect their own interests.
The empire had not changed overnight.
But Tang Yi had.
He listened with unusual clarity, his thoughts no longer shrouded in the familiar haze of exhaustion and irritation. When anger stirred—as it always did—it no longer surged unchecked. Instead, it met resistance. A thin, almost fragile layer of calm stood between impulse and action.
Something had shifted.
When court finally adjourned, Tang Yi returned to the Imperial Study and dismissed everyone—everyone—except Gao Dequan.
The doors closed.
Silence fell.
"That pastry from last night," Tang Yi said quietly, without turning. "Have you identified it?"
Gao Dequan straightened at once. "This servant questioned the Imperial Kitchen. Chief Steward Li reported that it was one of the standard night snacks prepared for Your Majesty."
"Standard?" Tang Yi turned, one brow lifting slightly.
He tapped his fingers against the rosewood desk—slow, deliberate.
"I do not recall any standard pastry that looks or tastes like that."
A sheen of sweat formed at Gao Dequan's temples.
"That is… what Chief Li reported," he said carefully. "Perhaps it was a newly developed recipe."
"A new recipe?" Tang Yi's lips curved, almost imperceptibly.
"The Imperial Kitchen's 'new dishes' are usually carved like dragons and inlaid with gold. Since when do they serve something so… humble?"
Gao Dequan had no answer.
"Go back," Tang Yi ordered. "Investigate again. Quietly. Tell them it is only casual curiosity."
His gaze sharpened.
"I want to know who made that cake, what went into it, and how it ended up before me."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
But when Gao Dequan returned, the answers remained unchanged.
Every account aligned too perfectly.
Fu Hai had fallen ill.
Kitchen maid C17 had assisted with packing.
All items were prepared earlier as part of routine procedure.
No deviations.
No irregularities.
No names worth pursuing.
Flawless.
Too flawless.
Tang Yi listened without interruption, then dismissed Gao Dequan and walked to the window. Beyond the palace walls, the sky stretched pale and distant
The Imperial Kitchen was hiding something.
Or rather—they were following an unspoken rule older than any written decree.
Do not let certain people—or certain accidents—reach the throne.
That realization did not anger him.
It intrigued him.
That cake had carried something no palace dish ever had before.
Not flattery.Not extravagance.Not ambition disguised as devotion.
But genuine comfort.
And that rare, dreamless night—
"Is it truly coincidence?" Tang Yi murmured.
Then, without turning, he spoke.
"Deliver my decree."
Gao Dequan stiffened. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"From today onward, the Imperial Study's night meals will no longer follow fixed menus."
He paused.
"Tell the Imperial Kitchen to decide for themselves. I require only something light. Something agreeable."
"Decide for themselves?" Gao Dequan was startled. Such ambiguity was nearly unheard of within palace walls, where precision was survival.
"Deliver it exactly as spoken."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
As Gao Dequan withdrew, unease stirred in his chest.
A rule had been loosened.A thread had been pulled.
Somewhere in the depths of the palace, someone would feel it.
A single unnoticed cake had landed like a stone in still water.
And the ripples—
Were only beginning.