Yet Qing Tian seemed not to hear Consort Liu's sharp rebuke at all.
Her gaze never wavered.
It remained fixed—earnest, unwavering, almost desperate—on the Emperor alone.
As if in that very moment, her entire world had narrowed to a single man:
the one who could decide her master's life or death,
the one who could restore the dignity of the Imperial Kitchen,
the one who held truth in his hands.
She did not defend herself.
She did not panic beneath the Consort's fury.
Instead, she continued—following the path she had already chosen—finally releasing the truth she had buried deep in her heart for far too long, a truth that now threatened to burst from her chest.
"I entered the Imperial Kitchen only recently," Qing Tian said softly.
"My status is low. My experience is shallow."
Her voice steadied as she spoke, carrying the calm of someone who had already stepped past fear.
"But I was fortunate enough to be taken in by Chef Zhang. He taught me. And because of that… I know the kind of man he is."
She paused, as if choosing her words—or gathering courage.
"The first thing Chef Zhang ever taught me," she continued, her eyes brightening with conviction,
"was this: The foundation of cooking is cherishing ingredients—and caring for people."
She lifted her head slightly.
"He lives by those words."
Then, quietly—but with devastating weight—she said:
"Your Majesty may not know this… but Chef Zhang lost much of his sense of taste years ago, due to an accident. He can no longer fully taste flavor."
A ripple passed through the pavilion.
Even the Emperor—who had remained unreadable until now—showed the faintest flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Gao Dequan's brows lifted before he could stop himself.
The truth was not entirely secret—but spoken aloud, here, by a lowly kitchen maid before the throne—it carried an entirely different gravity.
"A chef who cannot truly taste," Qing Tian went on, her voice thick with emotion—pain, pride, and reverence intertwined,
"and yet he became the most respected master in the entire Imperial Kitchen."
"He may not judge a dish by sweetness or saltiness," she said,
"but he can tell whether an ingredient is fresh with a single glance.
He can feel the exact state of dough with his hands alone.
He can smell the depth of a broth and know whether it has reached its soul."
Her fists clenched.
"He devoted his entire life to this kitchen.
Every grain of rice, every leaf of vegetable, every drop of water—he treats them with reverence."
Her voice rose, trembling now with restrained fury.
"He always said: Food exists to keep people alive.
It must never be disrespected.
It must never be defiled."
She took a sharp breath.
"Your Majesty!"
She looked straight at the Emperor, unflinching.
"How could a man who carved 'cherish ingredients, cherish people' into his very bones—
a man who no longer even has the privilege of tasting delicacy—
a man who still stands by the stove every day, teaching others with unwavering dedication—
how could such a person ever allow something unclean to pass through his hands and onto the imperial table?"
Her voice cracked—not from weakness, but from rage.
"To him, this would not be negligence.
Not a mistake."
"It would be the most vicious insult—
the most complete desecration—
of everything he believes in."
She dropped to her knees.
This time, it was not ritual.
It was surrender—and defiance—woven together.
Her forehead struck the cold stone floor with a dull, heavy sound.
"Your Majesty!" she cried.
"The impurity in that 'Hundred Birds Paying Homage' soup was NOT Master Zhang's doing!"
"That was a filthy fabrication—
a deliberate attempt to destroy a man who has lived honestly his entire life!"
She lifted her head.
Blood had already blossomed faintly on her forehead.
Tears spilled freely now, streaking down her dust-stained cheeks.
Yet her eyes—
Her eyes burned brighter than fire.
"I am insignificant," she said hoarsely.
"I do not understand court politics. I do not understand palace rules."
"But I understand taste."
"My tongue knows when ingredients are honest.
It knows when a dish is made with care—or with deceit."
She gestured toward the empty bowl on the stone table.
"I made that bowl of Truth Noodles.
Your Majesty has tasted it."
"If it was acceptable—"
Her voice sharpened.
"Then I believe… Your Majesty can also taste the difference between what is false and what is real.
Between what is crafted—and what is sincere."
Her lips trembled.
She bit down hard, as if drawing out every last ounce of strength left in her body.
Then she shouted the words that had been pounding in her heart all along—
words reckless, naïve, perhaps even treasonous—
But utterly true.
"Your Majesty—good flavor never lies!"
Her voice broke for just a heartbeat.
Then she continued, louder, clearer, each word striking like a vow:
"And neither do good people."
Silence.
The wind swept through the pavilion, carrying pale flower petals that drift.