The imperial decree fell like a boulder thrown into the calm surface of the palace lake.
The establishment of the Office of Imperial Provisions, with a former kitchen maid—now a consort—appointed as its Third-Rank Director, entrusted with overseeing the palace's food and welfare system, was nothing short of revolutionary. In an instant, it became the hottest topic across the Six Palaces and even the outer court.
Shock. Doubt. Resistance. Watchful silence. Curiosity.
All of it tangled together.
Yet with the Emperor's unmistakable support—and the recent downfall of Consort Liu as a blood-red warning—the loudest voices of opposition quickly fell quiet. More people chose to observe in silence, or cautiously test the waters.
Qing Sweet had no time to care about gossip or scrutiny.
An imperial command was responsibility incarnate. The moment the decree was issued, she threw herself headfirst into the overwhelming task of building the Office from nothing.
The first hurdle was space and structure.
The Emperor granted them a vacant compound beside the Imperial Kitchen. With minor renovations, it became the Office's first headquarters. Director Li—now Deputy Director Li—handled personnel assignments and daily administration. Chef Zhang, leveraging decades of experience and unquestioned authority, led the drafting of dietary standards, preparation protocols, and formal training curricula.
Qing Sweet herself focused on regulations and coordination. Drawing from her original proposal and the proven successes of the Needs Forms, Warm-Heart Soup, and Culinary Academy, she began turning ideals into enforceable systems.
The greatest challenge, however, lay not in paperwork—but in overturning deeply rooted habits and beliefs.
When she proposed tiered nutrition standards, ensuring even the lowest laborers received two hot meals a day with both grains and protein, the treasury clerks nearly lost their minds."Outrageous costs! Completely against precedent!"
When she demanded full ingredient traceability—who purchased the food, when it entered storage, who inspected it, where it was sent—panic spread. Not just among corrupt figures like Wang Youcai, but even among those accustomed to fuzzy accounts.
When she announced the Culinary Academy would be formalized, open to all low-ranking servants, with certification tied to promotion, even veteran chefs balked. Culinary skill had always been guarded, passed privately from master to disciple—how could it be made public?
Resistance piled on resistance. Every step forward felt like wading through mud.
Qing Sweet did not force the issue blindly.
She understood that reform required patience. For expenses, she presented meticulous budgets and waste-reduction plans, and secured a special pilot fund approved by the Emperor. For traceability, she began with ritual offerings and consort meals before expanding. For the chefs' concerns, she had Chef Zhang reassure them that only fundamentals would be taught, core techniques respected—and introduced mentor stipends to reward participation.
And she never forgot warmth.
The Office's first tangible action was launching basic nutrition meals in the most grueling palace departments—the Laundry Bureau, the labor yards. When servants who had lived on cold buns and pickled vegetables received steaming soup with visible oil and solid grain bread, many clutched their bowls with reddened eyes.
Concrete kindness spoke louder than any decree.
Complaints dwindled. Efficiency rose. Resistance softened.
Beneath the frozen ground, seeds of change quietly took root.
Inside the Office, lives transformed.
Xiao Man—the fire-girl with extraordinary pastry talent—passed her certification with flying colors. After excelling during an emergency banquet, she was promoted to assistant pastry supervisor. Qing Sweet honored her promise, helping her buy her freedom. The day she left the palace, Xiao Man sobbed in Qing Sweet's arms, vowing her future bakery would be named "Remembrance of Warmth."
Fugui found happiness too. He saved enough to confess to a laundress he admired. She had long heard of his reliability—and of Warm-Heart Soup. She accepted.
Qing Sweet hosted their modest but heartfelt wedding under the Office's name and gifted them generously. Fugui chose to remain, saying simply,"This place has rules—but it also has humanity."He was appointed procurement inspector, honest and meticulous.
Watching familiar faces build new lives, Qing Sweet felt a quiet, inexhaustible strength bloom within her.
The inner palace shifted as well.
Perhaps Consort Liu's fall sobered ambitions. Perhaps people glimpsed another path. At the right moment, the Emperor issued another decree:
Any consort wishing to leave the palace—to return home or pursue spiritual retreat—would be granted generous compensation.
It opened a window.
Several low-ranking consorts and aging palace women chose freedom with grateful tears. The harem thinned. Rivalries faded. For the first time in years, a sense of peace settled over the Six Palaces.
The Emperor observed all of this.
He rarely interfered directly, but when Qing Sweet encountered insurmountable obstacles, his support came—sometimes as a firm edict, sometimes as a casual inquiry that made saboteurs retreat.
Between them remained that quiet, peculiar bond—born from food and understanding.
Only now, layered atop it, was something deeper:authority, trust, and alliance.
A new chapter had begun.