"They're not really angry at the food."
During their short break, Qing Tian, Xiaoman, and Fugui crouched behind the firewood shed, half-hidden by stacked logs and the drifting smell of ash. The noon bell had just passed, and the Imperial Kitchen hummed faintly in the distance—metal clinking, voices clipped short, tempers barely restrained.
Between them lay half of a cold, rock-hard bun.
It had likely been steamed days ago.
Qing Tian broke it carefully into three uneven pieces, her fingers already rough from work. She spoke quietly, her voice barely louder than the crackle of cooling embers.
"They're angry at something else."
Xiaoman chewed with effort, her cheeks puffed out, jaw working like she was fighting the bun itself.
"Then what are they angry about?" she asked around the mouthful. "We didn't mess up today's dishes. And we definitely didn't offend any of the consorts."
Fugui glanced instinctively toward the main kitchen before lowering his voice even further.
"We didn't," he said. "But someone did."
Qing Tian's eyes sharpened slightly.
"I heard something," Fugui continued, swallowing hard. "From a delivery eunuch. He said Noble Consort Liu's elder brother tried to recruit Chef Zhang. Wanted him as a private chef outside the palace."
Xiaoman stopped chewing.
"…Private?" she whispered.
Fugui nodded. "Chef Zhang refused him. Flat out. No hedging. No excuses."
Silence fell between them.
"And right after that," Fugui said softly, "the inspections started. The complaints. The sudden 'mistakes' that weren't mistakes."
Xiaoman's eyes widened. "Then why are Consort De and Consort Xian also coming after us? They don't even like Consort Liu!"
Qing Tian answered calmly, but her fingers tightened slightly around the bun.
"Because this isn't just about Chef Zhang anymore."
She leaned back against the woodpile, gaze distant.
"Maybe they've joined forces. Or maybe someone is using this chance to remind the entire Imperial Kitchen who really holds power."
She thought of Chef Zhang's warnings—spoken quietly, urgently.
Of Wang Youcai's increasingly careful steps.
Of Matron Liu's eyes, sharp as blades, always watching.
Different people. Same pressure.
Different hands. Same web.
"They're venting," Qing Tian said at last.
Her voice was soft, but steady.
"Sometimes at Chef Zhang. Sometimes at us. Sometimes at the food. And sometimes…" She paused. "They're just angry, and food is the easiest thing to blame."
Xiaoman sagged forward dramatically.
"So what do we do?" she groaned. "We can't exactly march into their palaces and tell them to calm down, can we?"
She meant it as a joke.
Qing Tian did not laugh.
Calm them down…
The words echoed.
Her gaze drifted to the steam rising faintly from the kitchen vents, twisting and disappearing into the air.
What if food didn't just absorb emotion—
What if it could guide it?
Like floodwater.
Blocking it only made it surge harder. But give it channels, and it would flow where you wanted.
She remembered the pastries she had once made late at night. The way poria grounded the body. How lily bulbs cleared restless thoughts. How red dates warmed the heart without overstimulating it.
Balanced correctly, they didn't just taste good.
They changed how people felt.
If they could calm insomnia…
Could they soften anger too?
A spark flared in her mind.
Not bright.
Not reckless.
But dangerous all the same.
She would never dare use this on the consorts' meals. That would be suicide.
But what about here?
The cooks snapping at one another.
The helpers walking on eggshells.
The servants with nowhere to release their frustration.
Food didn't have to be grand.
It didn't even have to be noticed.
That night, after the last fires dimmed and the kitchen settled into uneasy quiet, Qing Tian began to experiment.
She worked in a corner no one cared about.
White radish—cool, clean, grounding.
Taro—soft, starchy, comforting.
Perilla leaves—sharp, clarifying.
Red dates—warm.
Lotus seeds—cooling.
Lily bulbs—soothing.
Aged tangerine peel—bitter, then gentle.
She used scraps no one wanted.
Crooked radish ends.
Undersized taro.
Torn herbs.
Broken lily bulbs.
A tiny charcoal stove.
A battered pan.
She sliced the radish and taro thin—almost translucent—and roasted them slowly until their edges curled and crisped. A pinch of salt. A light dusting of dried perilla powder.
Then she simmered the red dates, lotus seeds, lily bulbs, and aged peel together, slow and patient, until the soup turned a clear, golden amber and the bitterness softened into fragrance.
Xiaoman peeked in first, eyes wide. Fugui quietly brought more charcoal without a word.
When it was done, Qing Tian handed each of them a small bowl—and a few crisp chips wrapped in cloth.
"Try."
Crunch.
Xiaoman froze.
Then she crunched again.
The sound itself felt oddly satisfying—clean, decisive. The flavor followed: crisp, cool, grounding. Something tight in her chest loosened without her realizing it.
Fugui sipped the soup slowly
Warmth spread from his throat into his chest. The constant tension behind his eyes—there for days now—eased.
"…This is strange," Xiaoman muttered.
She blinked.
"I don't feel so angry anymore."
Qing Tian tasted it too.
The balance was right.
Not magic.
Not control.
But something very real had begun.
And somewhere in the Imperial Kitchen, an invisible current had quietly changed direction.