Time flowed on like the Golden Water River outside the old kitchens—quiet, unremarkable at first glance, yet it had already carried away several springs and autumns.
No one called it the Imperial Kitchen anymore.
The weathered plaque that had hung there for decades had long been taken down. In its place stood three powerful characters, personally written by the Emperor himself—Office of Imperial Provisions. The name had changed, yes, but far more than that, the spirit within had been completely transformed.
Step into the courtyard of the Office of Imperial Provisions, and you would still find the familiar bustle and rising steam of daily work—but now there was order, rhythm, and vitality. Clear signboards marked each division: procurement, inspection, storage, preparation, distribution. The workflow was transparent and efficient.
Palace servants moved through the courtyard in neatly pressed cotton uniforms, clean and uniform in color. Regardless of rank, their faces were healthy, their steps steady. When they greeted superiors, they bowed respectfully—but their eyes no longer carried the old fear or numbness. Instead, there was calm. Confidence. Grounded assurance.
"Enough food, enough warmth. Clear rules. Merit rewarded. Grievances heard."
These simple principles, engraved on the screen wall at the entrance, were no longer hollow slogans. They had become common sense—something everyone trusted.
The monthly Review Assembly included not only stewards, but also elected representatives from ordinary posts, free to speak openly about difficulties and suggestions. And tucked away in a corner stood a modest room labeled Petition Office. Its door was usually closed—but no one dared dismiss it. Everyone knew: grievances filed there were answered. Action followed.
The greatest transformation lay in the expanded Culinary Academy at the rear.
No longer was it the makeshift space where Qing Sweet once stood with a single carrot, awkwardly teaching technique. Now it boasted bright classrooms, structured programs—foundational, advanced, and specialized tracks in medicinal cuisine, pastries, and banquet design.
On class days, the halls were packed.
Instructors included veteran master chefs and younger cooks who had risen through the Academy with outstanding results. Graduates—now certified provision artisans—became the pride of the Office.
They were highly sought after by princely estates and noble households. Some, bold and meticulous, saved enough silver and left the palace with official certification and a modest start-up grant. Outside the palace walls, they opened snack stalls and pastry shops, bringing clean techniques and careful craftsmanship refined in the palace to common folk.
Among the people, a saying quietly spread:
"From the Office of Imperial Provisions—honest flavors, honest people."
And at the heart of it all stood Qing Sweet.
No longer the lowly kitchen maid. No longer merely the "Food Beauty."She was now Consort Chen, and concurrently Director of the Office of Imperial Provisions.
Her residence had moved from the secluded Listening Rain Pavilion to a more spacious palace—still modest, never lavish. The most prominent features remained unchanged: a fully equipped small kitchen filled with warm aromas, and a study stacked high with ingredient samples, handwritten recipes, ledgers, and policy drafts.
Time had left little trace on her appearance. Only her gaze had grown deeper, clearer—her presence calm yet resolute, carrying a gentle, unwavering strength.
She still visited the Office often. Sometimes to inspect operations. Sometimes to personally guide the refinement of a new dish. More often, she simply watched—quietly—observing systems running smoothly, young faces lit with hope.
One day, the Office welcomed a special visitor.
Master Zhang, the former Imperial Chef.
Age had finally caught up with him. Years earlier, with Qing Sweet's insistence and the Emperor's approval, he had retired honorably. She had arranged a peaceful courtyard outside the palace and proper care. Yet the old man never truly stayed away—often "invited back for consultation."
Now he strolled slowly through the renewed courtyard, hands clasped behind his back. He looked at the familiar-yet-changed stoves, the clear regulations on the walls, the young cooks working in smooth coordination.
His cloudy old eyes shimmered—nostalgia, awe, and above all, pride.
Old colleagues greeted him warmly. Younger staff bowed and addressed him respectfully as "Master Zhang." The wrinkles on his face eased into a smile.
"Master," Qing Sweet said, approaching with a small plate of pastries, "try this—red date and yam cake. I adjusted it based on your advice from back then. See if it's smoother?"
He tasted it carefully, nodded."The heat's right. Sweetness just so—not cloying."
He looked at her—this once-fragile girl now standing firm and radiant. Words crowded his throat. In the end, only one sentence emerged, repeated countless times yet never losing its weight:
"Good. Truly good… You've done it. Even better than I ever imagined."
Her eyes warmed as she supported his arm."Without your teaching—and your protection back then—there would be no me today. Just enjoy your days. Come back whenever you wish. That's the greatest blessing for us."
He patted her hand. His fingers trembled slightly.
Not long after, Chief Steward Li also reached his time to retire.
On the day he left the palace, the sky was clear. Qing Sweet led all off-duty staff of the Office to see him off at the gate. There were no grand ceremonies—only neat lines and eyes full of respect.
Li looked at these faces—people he had once managed, once struggled beside in despair. Now they stood tall, eyes bright. He looked toward the Office's banners fluttering in the distance. Then back at the palace gate—the long corridors, the carvings that had caged his entire life.
The old eunuch, who had seen all the coldness of the inner court, could no longer hold back. Tears streamed down his deeply lined face.
His trembling hand reached out. Qing Sweet stepped forward at once and held it tightly.
After a long pause, he finally spoke, voice breaking:
"Good… truly good… To see this with my own eyes at the end of my life… It was worth it. All of it."
She nodded hard, tears shining."Rest assured, Director. The Office will only grow better. Please come back and visit often."
He nodded firmly, released her hand, and took one last look—at them, at the palace walls that had imprisoned him yet left him one final warmth.
Then he turned and walked toward the open world beyond the gates.
His back was slightly hunched—but lighter than it had ever been.
A warmth, once kindled, now endured.