The Imperial Garden was in full bloom.
Flowers blazed with color. Butterflies drifted lazily through warm air. It should have been peaceful.
But inside the pavilion—
Everything was tense.
The Emperor sat at the stone table, fingers tapping absently against the surface. His gaze lingered on a flowering crabapple tree in the distance, his expression unreadable.
Beside him, Consort Liu toyed with her silk fan, hiding the lower half of her face. Only her eyes showed—sharp, assessing, impatient—as they flicked again and again toward the palace kitchens.
Behind them, Gao Dequan stood silently, eyes lowered.
Then footsteps.
Chief Steward Li approached, carrying a tray. Behind him walked a small kitchen maid in plain cloth robes, head lowered, steps careful.
Consort Liu frowned.
That's it?
A nobody?
Her lips curved faintly. The Imperial Kitchen must truly be desperate if they were sending someone so insignificant.
Qingtian felt the weight of their gazes the moment she entered. One was deep and unfathomable. The other was cold and cutting.
Her palms were soaked with sweat—but her back remained straight.
At the pavilion entrance, Li stopped and bowed.
"Your Majesty, Your Highness. The Imperial Kitchen presents the 'Relief Noodles.'"
Qingtian dropped to her knees.
"This servant, Kitchen Maid C17, greets the Emperor and Consort."
"Rise," the Emperor said.
She obeyed, eyes lowered.
Li placed the tray on the stone table.
A simple white bowl.
Clear broth.
Silver noodles.
Jade-green vegetables.
Snowy chicken.
A small dusting of gold.
It was almost... too plain.
Consort Liu let out a soft laugh, hiding it behind her fan.
"This is it? Some thin soup and noodles? The Imperial Kitchen has truly become... creative." She turned to the Emperor, her voice sweet with venom. "Your Majesty, even street stalls serve better than this. Such crude food should not be allowed to touch the dragon body."
Li's face went pale.
Qingtian did not speak.
The Emperor ignored the Consort.
His gaze rested on the bowl.
Clear. Clean. Almost stubborn in its simplicity.
It reminded him—strangely—of the late nights when certain simple dishes had soothed him more than any luxury. Of a quiet little maid with steady hands and honest eyes.
"Bring it here," he said.
Gao Dequan tested it with silver needles, tasted the broth and noodles himself, then carefully placed the bowl before the Emperor.
The Emperor lifted his chopsticks and picked up a strand of noodles.
Thin as silk.
He ate.
The taste surprised him.
Not bland—pure.
The wheat released its natural fragrance as he chewed. The texture was perfect—springy yet tender. The ginger and scallion warmed the broth just enough to lift the noodles without overpowering them. The greens were crisp and fresh. The chicken added quiet substance.
And then—
The sesame salt.
A clean, bright saltiness, followed by deep roasted fragrance, exploded across his tongue like a spark in darkness, pulling every flavor into sharp, harmonious clarity.
Nothing was hidden.
Nothing was exaggerated.
The bowl didn't try to impress.
It simply told the truth.
The Emperor ate slowly.
No one dared breathe.
Even Consort Liu's mocking gaze had hardened into something cautious.
When the bowl was empty, the Emperor set down his chopsticks and wiped his lips.
Then, at last—
He lifted his eyes.
They fell on Qingtian.
And for the first time since she entered the pavilion...
The world was waiting for his judgment.