Qing Tian was summoned under the excuse of an imperial craving.
The order came without warning.
"The Emperor wishes to try something new," Li the Chief Steward said evenly. "You. Now."
His voice was calm, measured—but everyone in the Imperial Kitchen felt the tremor beneath it, like ice cracking underfoot.
Matron Liu's hand paused mid-motion.
Her sharp eyes narrowed, scanning Qing Tian from head to toe, suspicion flickering like a blade catching light. But even she did not dare question a command that supposedly came from the Son of Heaven himself.
From across the kitchen, Wang Youcai lifted his head.
His gaze was poisonous.
Not loud. Not overt.
But filled with a cold certainty—If you fall, I will be there to watch.
Qing Tian lowered her head and followed Li without a word.
They did not go toward the main cooking halls.
Instead, Li led her down a narrow corridor to a small side kitchen rarely used—isolated, quiet, forgotten by most. A place without witnesses.
As soon as they entered, Li closed the door behind them.
Firmly.
He remained outside, standing guard.
"Girl…" His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper through the door. "We don't have much time."
A pause.
"And we don't have many ingredients."
Qing Tian's heart tightened.
"What are you going to make?"
She closed her eyes for a single breath.
This wasn't a cooking test.
It was a judgment.
She could not use rare ingredients. Anything extravagant could be twisted into ambition. Anything elaborate could be labeled manipulation. Even one wrong scent could become "impurity."
She needed something no one could accuse.
Something clean.
Something that spoke for itself.
Her mind raced—
Then suddenly stilled.
She remembered her master's very first lesson.
The simplest food is the hardest to lie with.
"I'll make noodles," Qing Tian said softly.
"One bowl of noodles."
Outside, Li froze.
"…Just noodles?"
"Yes."
Her voice was steady now.
She spoke quickly, precisely, as if reciting a ritual.
"Plain wheat flour. Well water. Old ginger. Scallion whites. A few baby greens. One piece of chicken breast. White sesame. Fine salt."
Nothing more.
Nothing that could be questioned.
Ordinary. Harmless.
Impossible to accuse.
The ingredients arrived swiftly, as if fate itself were holding its breath.
Qing Tian poured the flour into a wooden basin. Slowly, she added water, feeling the texture change beneath her fingers. She kneaded with controlled, even pressure—no rush, no hesitation.
Every movement was deliberate.
Every breath measured.
Her master's voice echoed in her mind.
Dough reveals the heart.
She pressed and folded, kneading not just flour, but fear… hope… resolve… truth.
Again.
And again.
Until the dough grew smooth, elastic, alive beneath her palms.
She covered it and let it rest.
A strong foundation. Nothing hidden.
Next came the broth.
No rich stock. No oil.
Only water, crushed ginger, and scallion whites.
She skimmed every trace of foam until the liquid turned crystal clear, releasing a gentle, honest fragrance that did not shout for attention.
Truth does not need to be heavy to be deep.
She blanched the baby greens until they gleamed like jade.
She poached the chicken slowly, then tore it into fine white threads by hand.
No seasoning.
No disguise.
Only what it truly was.
Finally—the last touch.
She toasted white sesame seeds over low heat, stirring patiently until their warm, nutty aroma bloomed. She ground them slowly with fine salt.
A simple powder.
But powerful.
The smallest truths can be the sharpest.
The rested dough was rolled thin as paper, folded, and cut into silken strands.
Into boiling water they went—just long enough to live, never long enough to break.
She drained them and placed them into a warmed porcelain bowl.
Greens on one side.
Chicken on the other.
Clear broth poured gently over.
And at the center—
A single pinch of golden sesame salt.
A quiet crown.
No decoration.
No extravagance.
Just noodles, vegetables, meat, broth, and salt.
Each flavor distinct.
Each honest.
None hiding behind another.
Qing Tian stared at the bowl.
This is not a dish, she thought.
This is a statement.
The door opened.
Li the Chief Steward looked down at it.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
His throat tightened.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
Without another word, he lifted the tray and turned toward the pavilion where fate waited.
And Qing Tian—
Standing alone in the silent kitchen—
Lowered her head.
And prayed…
That truth would be enough.