Recently, the Emperor had been paying unusual attention to food.
He asked about late-night snacks—casually, as if it were nothing.He finished bowls that would once have been returned untouched.He even remarked once, in a tone of faint surprise, that his chest felt lighter after eating.
Gao Dequan noticed.
Gao Dequan noticed everything.
But this time, even he wasn't certain.
These Relief Noodles…
They weren't an imperial dish.Not ceremonial.Not luxurious.Too plain. Too humble.
And yet—Li Dehai had asked him to pass the message on.
Li Dehai did nothing without a reason.
Gao Dequan lowered his voice and leaned closer to the Emperor's side, timing it perfectly between bursts of perfumed laughter from the concubines.
"Your Majesty," he murmured, "the Imperial Kitchen requests permission to present a late-night dish. They call it… Relief Noodles."
The Emperor, already irritated by the thick fragrance of incense and powder clinging to the air, paused.
Only slightly.
His fingers, which had been idly tapping the armrest, stopped.
Consort Liu noticed at once.
Her eyes flicked over, sharp as a needle hidden beneath silk.
"The Imperial Kitchen?" she said sweetly, lips curving just enough. "Your Majesty, the matter of that contaminated banquet dish hasn't even been resolved. And now they dare to curry favor?"
She sighed softly, concern written delicately across her face.
"Who knows what they might be plotting. Your health is precious. It would be terrible to take unnecessary risks."
A warning.
Wrapped in honey.
The Emperor did not respond immediately.
His gaze drifted away from the lantern-lit pavilion, past the carved railings and blooming peach trees, toward the distant, dark roofs of the Imperial Kitchen.
Silent.
Unassuming.
He remembered—
Nights when his chest felt tight, breath shallow.Nights when ministers' words buzzed endlessly in his skull.And the rare, strange calm that followed a simple bowl of food.
Finally, he spoke.
"If it is their sincerity," he said flatly, "then let them bring it."
His eyes lowered.
"I am tired."
For the briefest instant, Consort Liu's smile froze.
Then it returned—perfect, radiant, flawless.
"Since Your Majesty is curious," she said gently, "of course. I, too, would love to see what kind of 'miracle noodles' they have made."
Gao Dequan bowed immediately.
He knew.
The chance had come.
And with it—
A blade.
When the order reached the Imperial Kitchen, Qing Tian was washing a basket of fresh spring bamboo shoots.
The water from the well was icy, biting into her skin.
Her fingers were already numb.
Li Dehai leaned close, his face gray, his voice barely a breath.
"One hour," he whispered. "Under no circumstances can this fail."
The world seemed to tilt.
Qing Tian's fingers tightened around the bamboo shoots, nails digging into the pale shells.
One hour.
Under the eyes of Wang Youcai, who prowled the kitchen like a dog scenting blood.Under the fangs of Matron Liu, whose gaze never left her for long.
She did not ask why.
She already knew.
This was not about pleasing the Emperor.
This was about survival.
About proving that the Imperial Kitchen still had worth.
About sending a message without words—
A bowl untouched by filth.A hand that still knew restraint.A heart that had not broken.
She lifted her hands from the water.
The cold burned.
Good.
She needed to be awake.
Relief Noodles.
No extravagance. No spectacle.
Only precision.
The noodles must be thin enough not to burden the stomach, yet strong enough not to break.The broth must soothe, not excite—warm, not greasy.Every ingredient clean, every motion deliberate.
She selected the flour herself.
Watched the water temperature.
Listened to the sound of the dough beneath her palms.
The kitchen buzzed with tension.
Someone whispered.Someone dropped a ladle and flinched.Wang Youcai stood too close, eyes narrowed, pretending to supervise.
Qing Tian ignored them all.
This bowl could not shout.
It had to breathe.
As the broth simmered, a gentle, steady fragrance rose—nothing sharp, nothing showy. Just warmth.
Time slipped like sand through her fingers.
When the noodles were finally lifted, pale and perfect, her hands trembled only once.
She steadied them.
Placed the bowl down.
Steam curled upward.
One bowl of noodles.
Between heaven—
And hell.