When Qing Tian finished speaking, deathly silence fell over the pavilion.
Only the faint chime of bells at the eaves trembled in the breeze, accompanied by distant, indistinct birdsong. Sunlight filtered through the carved lattice windows, scattering light and shadow across the stone floor. Even the fragrance of flowers in the air seemed to freeze, heavy and unmoving.
Consort Liu's expression could no longer be described as merely unpleasant.
It was a terrifying blend of shock, fury, and the humiliating rage of being openly challenged—her face turning a livid, iron-gray shade. She had never imagined that this frail, insignificant kitchen maid would possess such audacity.
Not only had the girl dared to use food as a metaphor before the Emperor himself, she had openly and fiercely pleaded for Chef Zhang's innocence—no, more than that. Her words had subtly but unmistakably pointed their blade toward Consort Liu herself… or rather, the power standing behind her.
"What a sharp-tongued little wretch!" Consort Liu's chest heaved violently. Her carefully manicured nails dug deep into her palms as she struggled to contain her fury. "How dare you twist right and wrong before His Majesty, slandering the inner palace!"
She turned sharply toward the Emperor, her voice trembling despite her efforts to remain composed.
"Your Majesty! This maid is clearly an accomplice of Chef Zhang, spouting wild lies to confuse the imperial judgment! Her intentions are unforgivable! I beg Your Majesty to issue an immediate decree—punish this servant together with Chef Zhang, to uphold palace law!"
Her words spilled out in a rush—decisive, forceful, leaving no room for hesitation. It was as if she intended to crush the fragile spark Qing Tian had just ignited, extinguishing it with thunderous authority.
Everyone's heart leapt into their throats.
Chief Steward Li felt his legs go weak, nearly collapsing on the spot. Gao Dequan held his breath, his eyes fixed on the Emperor, waiting.
Would His Majesty believe the Consort's accusation… or—
The Emperor did not speak at once.
His gaze slowly shifted—from Qing Tian, kneeling stubbornly on the ground with tears streaming down her face and blood at her brow, to the enraged Consort Liu. Then his eyes drifted to the empty bowl on the table. Finally, he looked beyond the pavilion, toward the blooming imperial garden—resplendent with spring, yet hiding countless unseen blades beneath its beauty.
He recalled the bowl of noodles from moments earlier.
It truly had been… acceptable.
Not astonishing. Not extravagant. But clean, solid, comforting. Every flavor honest and clear, without deceit—much like the gaze of the girl named Qing Tian.
He also remembered the scattered reports from his shadow guards. The kitchen maid who quietly shared small snacks among the lowest servants. The apprentice whom Chef Zhang valued deeply. The same pair of hands that, more often than not, produced night snacks that suited his palate remarkably well.
And then there were her words.
Good flavor never lies. Neither do good people.
Naïve? Perhaps.
In the depths of the imperial palace, how many "good flavors" were built on schemes? How many "good people" wore the skins of wolves?
Yet coming from a girl who had poured everything she had into a single bowl of "Truth Noodles," eyes filled with desperate sincerity, those words carried a strange, undeniable power.
And Chef Zhang—losing his sense of taste, yet becoming the finest teacher.
Wasn't that itself thought-provoking?
A man who had lost the very sense most crucial to his craft, yet became more steadfast, more devoted to its essence. Just like this bowl of noodles—stripped of all ornate embellishments, leaving only what truly mattered.
At last, the Emperor spoke.
"Let us… take another look."
Three simple words.
His voice was calm, emotionless, yet the tension in the pavilion snapped taut in an instant.
He neither responded to Consort Liu's plea nor passed judgment on Qing Tian's words.
Just three words.
Consort Liu's eyes flew open. "Your Majesty?!"
But the Emperor did not look at her.
Instead, his gaze returned to Qing Tian, as if asking casually, "You are C17?"
Still reeling from the shock of those words—and the faint, fragile hope they carried—Qing Tian froze for a moment before hurriedly kowtowing.
"…Yes. This servant is called Qing Tian."
"Qing Tian." The Emperor repeated her name, his tone unchanged, as if merely confirming it.
Then he stood.
The hem of his bright yellow dragon robe brushed past the stone bench, radiating inviolable authority.
"Prepare to depart," he instructed Gao Dequan.
Without another glance at anyone, he turned and walked out of the pavilion, his steps steady and unhurried.
"Your Majesty!" Consort Liu called out urgently, trying to follow—only to stumble slightly.
Those words—take another look—were like an icy thorn driven straight into her heart.
This was not the outcome she wanted
The Emperor had not immediately punished the audacious maid. Worse—he had chosen to "reconsider" Chef Zhang's case.
That single phrase tore a crack into the so-called ironclad verdict she had already secured.
Gao Dequan quickly gestured for the guards and procession to follow. As he passed Chief Steward Li and Qing Tian, he murmured in a low voice, swift as the wind:
"Thank His Majesty and withdraw. Now."
Chief Steward Li jolted awake as if from a dream. He grabbed Qing Tian, bowing again and again toward the Emperor's retreating figure.
"Thank Your Majesty! Thank Your Majesty!"
Only when the imperial procession vanished at the end of the garden path did Chief Steward Li collapse onto the ground, gasping for breath. His back was soaked through with cold sweat.
Qing Tian remained kneeling.
Her forehead pressed against the icy stone, tears pouring silently down her face, mingling with blood and dirt—utterly disheveled.
Yet her lips trembled, lifting into the faintest of smiles.
Take another look…
Master, there is hope.The Imperial Kitchen… there is hope.
She did not see it.
Not far away, Consort Liu—supported by palace maids, her face pale as paper—was staring at her.
That gaze was no longer filled with disdain or mockery.
Only naked, venomous killing intent.
This kitchen maid named Qing Tian had not only survived today—she had planted a seed of doubt in the Emperor's heart.
She had to die.
She had to be eliminated—quickly.
The spring sunlight over the Imperial Garden remained warm and brilliant, illuminating flowers in full, dazzling bloom.
But beneath that warmth, a colder, deadlier current had already taken shape.
And it was beginning to surge.