Life for Qing Tian, now known as Shan Meiren, settled into a strange and carefully balanced rhythm.
By day, she often appeared in the courtyard of the Imperial Kitchen, dressed in her old clothes, checking on the simmering pot of Warm-Heart Soup and exchanging a few quiet words with the servants on rotation duty. At other times, she made use of her rare privilege to move freely in and out of the kitchens, observing the processes of purchasing, storage, and distribution—mentally marking those seemingly ordinary steps where hidden hands and subtle manipulations liked to linger. On the afternoons of every fifth and tenth day, she would stand in the back courtyard's open space, engaging in what she deliberately called "exchanges": simple, foundational lessons shared with eyes hungry for knowledge.
More often than not, however, she remained in the small kitchen of Tingyu Pavilion.
It was quiet there. Safe. A space she could fully control.
Becoming a Meiren had not distanced her from the stove. On the contrary, she devoted herself to it with even greater care.
She understood better than anyone that in this treacherous inner palace, the emperor's favor was her only shield—and her strongest one. And that favor was inseparable from the food she prepared. It was not merely appreciation of skill, but a subtler connection, born of understanding. Somehow, she always seemed to know what he needed.
Deliberately, she began to gather information.
From Gao Dequan's occasional, carefully chosen words. From patterns in what entered and left Yangxin Hall each day. Even from faint rumors drifting in from the outer court—disasters in distant provinces, unrest along the borders—that might weigh on the emperor's mind. Combining these fragments with her intuition and her knowledge of ingredients, she began preparing small, tailored "supplies" for the young ruler.
In dry spring weather, she selected the freshest snow pears and loquats, slowly simmering them into a light, soothing paste, asking Gao Dequan to place it on the emperor's desk when the moment was right. On nights when state affairs dragged late into the darkness, she prepared dense, portable nut pastries, or a small box of honey-cured ginseng slices to restore strength. Sometimes, it was nothing more than a cup of digestive tea brewed from aged tangerine peel, dried hawthorn, and a touch of honey—sent after dinner, when fatigue set in.
None of it was ostentatious. The portions were small. There was no formal presentation ceremony. Everything went through Gao Dequan, casually, "by the way."
The emperor rarely commented. No praise. No extra rewards.
But the food always appeared when he needed it most—and it was always finished.
It was a silent, unspoken understanding.
Qing Tian guarded this thin yet vital thread with utmost care, never daring to overstep or grow careless. She knew this quiet relationship—this form of nourishment—was the foundation that allowed all her other efforts to exist at all.
That night, she was once again busy in her small kitchen, experimenting with something new.
Fresh young lotus leaves from early summer were used to wrap glutinous rice that had been gently braised in chicken broth, mixed with finely diced ham. Steamed into small, neat portions, the lotus-scented rice balls were easy to eat, delicately fragrant, and perfect for easing the stifling heat of summer nights.
She was carefully lifting the steamed rice balls from the basket when a hushed, nervous voice sounded outside the door.
"Meiren… Eunuch Gao is here."
Qing Tian paused, quickly wiped her hands, and went out to greet him. Gao Dequan did not enter the room. Instead, he handed her a small celadon cup—the one that had held the digestive tea she sent the night before. It was empty.
"His Majesty asked this to be returned," Gao Dequan said softly. After a brief pause, he lowered his voice even further. "His Majesty also said… 'There was a bit too much mint. Next time, reduce it by half.'"
Qing Tian's heart skipped.
She accepted the cup, which was still faintly warm, and bowed at once. "Yes. This concubine will remember. Thank you for His Majesty's guidance."
Gao Dequan glanced at her, said nothing more, and turned to leave.
Back in the small kitchen, Qing Tian cradled the cup in her hands, her fingers tracing its smooth surface.
Half a portion less mint…
He had noticed?
Last night, she had added one extra small mint leaf, thinking the early summer heat might call for more cooling. She never imagined he would pay attention to such a minute difference—especially amid exhausting state affairs.
Yet not only had he tasted it, he had sent feedback.
That single sentence stirred her emotions more than any reward ever could. It was a quiet exchange, an intimate dialogue conducted through flavor alone. He was not merely accepting her intentions—he was truly tasting them, and responding.
Alongside her caution, a subtle, secret joy bloomed in her heart.
She washed the cup carefully and set it aside, committing the note to memory.
Next time, only one and a half mint leaves.
At the same time, the written request system she had introduced in the Imperial Kitchen, after initial hesitation and resistance, was slowly but steadily taking root.
Not all consorts accepted it. Some clung to vague verbal instructions, believing written words lacked refinement and sentiment. But with Consort De and Consort Xian—two women of real influence—leading by example, the system gained legitimacy. Lower-ranked, mild-tempered consorts and noble ladies, especially those who disliked making things difficult, began to follow suit.
The benefits were immediate.
With clear instructions, the chefs no longer had to guess. Returned dishes decreased. Pressure on the Imperial Kitchen eased significantly. Chief Steward Li, in particular, felt as though a great weight had been lifted. His attitude toward Qing Tian shifted—from reluctant respect born of imperial decree, to genuine admiration and reliance.
In private, he even sighed to her, "Meiren Qing, this method truly saved half the Imperial Kitchen."
Yet beneath the calm surface, hidden currents continued to flow.
In the palace, no change—no matter how gentle—ever came without consequence.
And the invisible threads Qing Tian had begun to weave were already tightening, quietly drawing more eyes, more interests, and more dangers into their delicate web.