After the Emperor's late-night "chance encounter" in the small kitchen, life seemed to flow on as usual.Yet between Tingyu Pavilion and the Hall of Mental Cultivation, an invisible thread had formed—silent, taut, and unbreakably firm.
The chicken-and-chestnut soup she sent to the Hall of Mental Cultivation was returned the next day by Gao Dequan, the bowl empty, accompanied by a flat comment: "Acceptable."From then on, Qing Tian preparing late-night snacks or small refreshments for the Emperor became an unspoken routine—never announced, never recorded, yet mutually understood.
Her days remained busy, moving between the Imperial Kitchen and Tingyu Pavilion. The only difference was that she now lingered longer in her small kitchen, thinking more carefully, refining more meticulously.
The food was always simple. Never ostentatious.
Sometimes it was a few pieces of baked yam-and-poria cake, light and easy to digest.Sometimes a small plate of crisp lotus root slices lightly soaked in plum juice.Sometimes merely a cup of warming tea brewed from aged white tea, dried tangerine peel, and red dates.
The portions were modest—just enough to fill the gaps between endless affairs.
The Emperor rarely gave direct rewards or praise.Yet Qing Tian learned to read the signs from the empty containers Gao Dequan returned, or from the occasional brief remark.
"His Majesty says the sourness of today's lotus root could be reduced by half, to better bring out its natural sweetness.""His Majesty asked whether the poria came from the Yunling region—the aroma feels purer."
And once, Gao Dequan returned a plate of almond pastry with only one piece missing, carrying a sentence spoken almost without emotion:
"His Majesty said… the sweetness reminded him of sugar cakes his wet nurse used to secretly make for him when he was young. Sweet to the point of being cloying—but… unforgettable."
At that final word, Qing Tian's fingers paused as she cleaned the food box.
Unforgettable.
Beneath its plainness lay a faint echo of personal memory.
That young Emperor—lofty, absolute, holding life and death in his hands—had not been born upon a cold dragon throne. He, too, had a childhood. Perhaps an ordinary one. Perhaps one with fleeting warmth.
And food, she realized, was one of the keys that could open the door to those memories.
Piece by piece, these fragments formed a clearer image of Tang Yi in her mind.Not just a sovereign, but a man worn down by governance, particular about taste, capable of being drawn back—by a single bite—into distant recollections.
This understanding subtly changed how she cooked.
Beyond seasons, nourishment, and flavor, there was now instinctive care. She avoided ingredients that might stir unpleasant associations. She sought, within safe limits, to offer a sense of comfort—of quiet familiarity.
Through food and intermediaries, a deeply private, carefully restrained exchange took shape. From it grew a fragile trust and an unspoken accord.
Qing Tian knew—this was her most precious asset.
At the same time, her reforms within the Imperial Kitchen, quietly shielded by approval from the highest place, began to take root like spring rain soaking into dry earth.
The "Request Slip" system spread further. After tasting the relief of fewer misunderstandings, more consorts adopted it—not only Consort De and Consort Xian, but others who had once hesitated.
Qing Tian became a subtle mediator.
As "Meal Consort," she translated vague or overly harsh requests into instructions the kitchen could actually execute. When demands were unreasonable, she explained gently and offered better alternatives.
Conflicts dissolved before they could form.
Between the consorts and the Imperial Kitchen, she became an unofficial—but remarkably effective—bridge. To the consorts, she felt less like a rival for favor, and more like a partner who understood how good food truly came to be.
The rotating extra meals—warm soup and coarse-grain cakes—became a small but genuine brightness in the daily grind of the lowest kitchen servants. The food was simple, but the feeling of being seen and considered spread warmth where numbness and resentment had long settled.
There was less silent resistance. More helping hands.
Even Matron Liu's sharp scoldings softened at times, especially when an old eunuch held a bowl of hot soup with visible relief. She may not have understood principles—but she understood this: when hearts were warmer, work went smoother.
As for the Imperial Culinary Study Hall, its first seven or eight students became a quiet current of change.
They were no longer faceless laborers. Light had entered their eyes—the light of learning, of becoming useful. Qing Tian taught thoroughly: knife work, fire control, ingredient recognition, basic cost calculations, and how to use scraps efficiently.
Their progress was evident. Some were even called by senior chefs to assist with more technical tasks.
Hope, like grass pushing through stone cracks—small, but tenacious.
Everything shifted subtly, steadily, beneath a calm surface.
Until that crisp autumn afternoon, when a single imperial decree fell like thunder—shattering the fragile balance, and thrusting Qing Tian into a far more visible position, and into far deeper waters than before.