The incense in the Buddhist hall burned slowly.
Plain sandalwood—nothing rare, nothing extravagant.Its thin thread of smoke rose straight into the air, restrained, disciplined, as though even fragrance feared to wander freely here.
The bronze censer before the Buddha had long since dulled with age. Its edges, worn bright by decades of polishing, gleamed faintly under the soft glow of lamplight.The offering table, carved from dark rosewood, sat low yet carried an undeniable gravity.
The Buddha's expression was one of eternal compassion.Eyes lowered.Watching all beings.Or perhaps watching none.
On the table rested a single bowl.
Plain Offering Rice.
White porcelain. Warm glaze.Each grain distinct.
But the rice was already cold.
The steam had long faded, leaving behind only the faintest trace of fragrance—not rich, not false.
The Empress Dowager sat upright upon her meditation cushion, spine straight as a blade.
She did not lift her chopsticks again.Nor did she order the bowl removed.
She simply looked at it.
The hall was so silent one could almost hear ash settling from the incense stick.
At last, she spoke.
"This… is the Buddhist hall's grain allocation?"
Her voice was not loud.
It did not need to be.
The senior matron standing beside her felt her heart tighten. She lowered her head instinctively, replying in a hushed tone:
"Reporting to Your Majesty… the Imperial Food Bureau said it was prepared strictly according to the grain issued by the Household Department."
"Not one grain more.Not one grain less."
The Empress Dowager gave a soft "Mm."
Then she smiled.
Barely.
The corner of her lips moved a fraction—but there was no warmth in it.
"I have eaten in this palace for forty years."
Her fingers rested lightly on the table.Nails trimmed, immaculate, unadorned.
"I can tell at a single bitewhether rice has been stretched,whether the fire was rushed,whether hands grew lazy."
Her gaze lifted.
Not sharp.
Yet it fell like silent frost.
"Bring me the Food Director."
The matron's pulse skipped. She dared not question, only bowed and withdrew swiftly.
The hall returned to stillness.
Incense burning.Smoke rising.
The Empress Dowager no longer looked at the bowl.Her eyes lingered upon the Buddha's face.
Less than half an hour later—
Footsteps sounded outside.
Measured. Unhurried.But steady.
Qing Tian paused at the threshold, smoothing her sleeves before stepping inside.
She wore no courtly splendor.
Only the pale teal official robes of the Food Bureau—clean, precise, sleeves neatly bound.No trailing hem.No disorder in her hair.
She looked like a blade freshly wiped.
Quiet.
Deadly.
"Your servant, Qing Tian, greets the Empress Dowager."
She knelt flawlessly, forehead touching the floor—yet there was no trace of fear in her posture.
The Empress Dowager studied her for three breaths.
Three breaths were enough to measure a person.
Fabric.Bearing.And whether guilt lurked behind the eyes.
"You are skilled at cooking?" the Empress Dowager asked casually.
"I only know how to prepare proper foodfrom proper grain."
"You are skilled at accounts?"
"I only know how much ricea bowl requires."
Silence.
Tight. Heavy.
The matron's spine stiffened further.
Then—
A soft, amused exhale.
"What a sharp tongue."
It was not praise.
It was recognition.
The Empress Dowager set down her chopsticks, voice slowing.
"Then tell me—how did the Buddhist hall's grainbecome this?"
Qing Tian did not bow lower.Nor did she rush to defend herself.
From within her sleeve, she withdrew a ledger.
Worn.Carefully flattened.Edges rounded from repeated handling.
She raised it with both hands.
"This is the comparative recordof grain issued versus grain usedfor the Buddhist hall's offeringsover the past three months."
Her voice was calm.
"Shortfall:1,746 jin."
The number landed like a stone.
The air seemed to freeze.
Even breathing grew cautious.
The Empress Dowager accepted the ledger.
Turned one page.Then another.
Slow.
Meticulous.
The ink was clear.The entries exact.
Dates. Quantities.Warehouse movements.
No embellishment.No excess words.
Only truth, laid bare in numbers.
At last—
"Where did the grain go?"
Qing Tian answered quietly:
"Into the books."
A beat.
"And into private storerooms."
Her eyes lifted.
"But never into the mouthsof those meant to eat it."
No names.
Yet the accusation cut deeper than any direct charge.
The Empress Dowager closed the ledger.
Her fingertip tapped once against its cover.
"Whom are you trying to expose?"
Her tone cooled.
"I would not dare," Qing Tian replied.
Head lowered—
But unwavering.
"I only fear…"
She raised her gaze again.
Voice clear. Steady.
"That one dayeven the rice offered before the Buddhawill diminish."
"That even here—"
A pause.
"—the fire may go cold."
Dead silence.
Even the incense smoke seemed to halt.
This was no mere complaint.
This was elevation of the matter to sacrilege:
Disrespect to the Buddha.Disrespect to ancestors.Disrespect to the Empress Dowager herself.
For the first time—
A flash of frost entered the Empress Dowager's eyes.
"Did Consort Shen interfere?"
The question sounded light.
It was a killing stroke.
Qing Tian did not answer directly.
She merely said:
"The newly replaced warehouse lockwas crafted by artisans from the Shen estate."
Not accusation.
But the shadow of evidence.
The Empress Dowager rose slowly.
Sleeves falling like silent authority.
No visible anger—
Yet the entire hall felt the shift in gravity.
"Summon the Household Department."
A pause.
"And bring Consort Shen."
She turned slightly, gaze dropping to Qing Tian.
"You."
"Remain."
Qing Tian bowed deeply.
"Yes."
But inside—
Her heartbeat was terrifyingly steady.
Because she knew—
The first move had succeeded.
The moment the Empress Dowager herself spoke Shen's name,
half the game was already lost.
And what followed—
Would not be warning.
It would be reckoning.