The Emperor's gaze was not sharp.
It was worse.
It was deep—like an ancient well whose bottom could not be seen, a place where countless secrets had sunk and never resurfaced. It was the gaze of a man who had witnessed betrayal dressed as loyalty, devotion rotting into ambition, and truth buried beneath layers of ritual and lies.
When that gaze settled on Qing Tian, it felt as though invisible stone pressed down upon her shoulders.
For a single heartbeat, her breath nearly failed her.
Her palms were damp. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
One step wrong here, and she would not even die loudly.
She would simply vanish.
But she did not look away.
Slowly—steadily—Qing Tian lifted her head and met the Emperor's eyes.
And in that instant, Tang Yi saw something he had not seen in a very long time.
No rehearsed obedience polished by fear.
No trembling ambition clawing for favor.
No frantic calculation hiding behind lowered lashes.
What stood before him was something dangerously rare.
Stubborn honesty.
A reckless, all-or-nothing courage.
And beneath it all, a quiet belief—aching, naïve, and unyielding—that justice still existed.
It was the same sensation he had felt when the bowl of noodles had touched his lips.
Clean.
Direct.
Impossible to fake.
Silence stretched across the pavilion.
Even the spring breeze seemed to pause.
At last, the Emperor spoke.
"This dish," he said, his voice level and unreadable, "what do you call it?"
Every breath in the pavilion stalled.
Qing Tian swallowed.
Her throat was dry, but her voice did not waver.
"This servant names it…" She paused for a fraction of a second. "…the Bowl of Truth."
A subtle ripple passed through the air.
"Truth?" The Emperor's brow lifted, just slightly. "And what do you mean by truth?"
The pressure intensified instantly.
Consort Liu's fingers tightened around her fan.
Li Dehai felt his heart drop straight into his stomach.
Qing Tian spoke.
"Ingredients, in their true form, are truth."
Her tone was calm, but each word landed with quiet force.
"Good wheat has its fragrance. Clear water and ginger have their warmth. Vegetables have their sweetness. Chicken has its substance. A pinch of salt brings them together. That is all."
She took a breath, then continued.
"No rich broth to hide weakness. No heavy sauces to mask flaws. No decorations to distract the eye."
Her gaze never wavered from the Emperor's face.
"What it is… is what it is."
The silence deepened.
"In cooking," she said softly, "truth means letting each ingredient speak for itself. If it is clean, it will stand. If it is flawed, it cannot hide."
Her voice lowered—steady, unwavering.
"And in life, it means the same."
"If you have done something, you must bear it."
"But if you have not—"
Her eyes sharpened.
"—then no false stain should be forced upon you."
The words fell like stones into still water.
Ripples spread.
This was no longer about noodles.
This was an accusation.
Consort Liu heard it.
Everyone did.
"Enough!"
The sharp crack of a fan slamming against stone shattered the silence.
Consort Liu rose to her feet, fury blazing across her exquisitely painted features.
"You insolent wretch!" she snapped. "A mere kitchen slave dares to speak in riddles before the Emperor?"
Her eyes burned, cold and venomous.
"Are you questioning my judgment?" she demanded. "The investigations of the Inner Court? Or perhaps you believe yourself wiser than the Empress Dowager herself?"
The implication was lethal.
Ordinary servants would already be kneeling, forehead smashed to the ground, begging for mercy.
But Qing Tian—
Did not move.
She stood there.
Small.
Straight-backed.
Unbroken.
She did not argue.
Did not plead.
She simply held her ground, her truth clutched like a blade with no sheath left.
The Emperor watched her closely.
Watched the way she did not shake.
Watched the way fear existed in her eyes—but did not rule her.
For the first time in a long while, something stirred beneath the layers of imperial calm.
Interest.
And beneath that—
Suspicion.
Because lies screamed.
Truth did not need to.
The pavilion remained locked in silence, tension coiled tight as a drawn bowstring.
And in that fragile moment—
When a single word could decide life or death—
The storm, long brewing beneath palace roofs and perfumed smiles…
Had finally broken.