Spring Equinox had already passed. By all logic, even the Imperial Kitchen should have begun to feel a little warmth.
In the far corner of the courtyard, an old peach tree was swelling with soft pink buds, ready to burst into bloom. It looked hopeful. Almost cheerful.
But the people working by the stoves felt none of it.
The air inside the Imperial Kitchen no longer carried the crisp sweetness of fresh spring ingredients. Instead, it was thick—tight and suffocating, like cold grease clinging to the lungs. Everyone could feel it. Something was wrong.
The spark came from Consort De's palace.
The dish was called Emerald Shrimp Rings—translucent shrimp wrapped in a thin layer of jade-green vegetable glaze, topped with threads of golden dried scallop. Light, elegant, clean. Exactly her usual taste.
On any other day, she would have finished it quietly.
This time, the food box came back almost untouched.
The eunuch who delivered the message was unfamiliar, his chin lifted, his eyelids heavy with disdain."Her Ladyship says she's been feeling irritated and overheated. Seeing even a hint of grease makes her uncomfortable. This dish glistens too much. Is the Imperial Kitchen trying to upset her?"
Li, the Chief Steward, was already trembling when he opened the box. The shrimp were still warm. The broth was crystal clear. There wasn't a single visible oil droplet.
But in the palace, when a master says there is grease, then there is grease.
Chef Zhang stepped forward, picked up a clean pair of chopsticks, and tasted a piece. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully… then shook his head.
The dish was fine.
This was not about food.
And that was only the beginning.
Soon after, trouble came from Noble Consort Liu's palace.
A bowl of Clear-Broth Bird's Nest was sent out—made from the finest blood bird's nest, soaked in a broth simmered for an entire day with more than a dozen old pigeons. The soup was clear as melted snow, rich enough to coat the tongue.
It was one of her signature dishes.
The box returned even faster.
The young eunuch delivering it dropped to his knees, forehead pressed to the floor."Her Ladyship… she only tasted one spoon. She said… she said it tastes the same every year. Has the Imperial Kitchen run out of ideas? His Majesty works tirelessly. The harem needs fresh pleasures. Is this how you serve us now?"
"Run out of ideas."
Those words hit Li like a block of ice.
Chef Zhang tasted the soup himself. His brow creased almost imperceptibly, then smoothed again. The flavor was identical to previous years—if anything, richer. There was nothing wrong with it.
Then came Consort Xian.
She didn't send food back—but her requests flooded in like falling willow catkins.
Three-year-old duck, simmered six hours with Chinese yam, goji berries, and polygonatum. The broth must be clear, the meat tender but unbroken.Sweet tonic soup with lily bulb, lotus seeds, poria, and sour jujube seed. Lily bulbs must be Lanzhou bitter lily. Lotus seeds must be de-cored. Poria sliced thin…
The instructions were brutally precise.
And every time something was even slightly off, her personal matron would smile sweetly and say,"Her Ladyship is delicate. The Imperial Kitchen must be more attentive. If her health suffers, and the Empress Dowager asks… no one will look good."
Attentive?
How much more attentive could they be?
Li was breaking out in mouth sores from stress. Three powerful consorts, striking at once—each from a different angle: too greasy, too boring, not attentive enough—but all saying the same thing.
The Imperial Kitchen was at fault.
Chef Zhang bore most of the pressure.
Every rejected dish, he retasted and reworked.
Less glaze on the shrimp. Plain asparagus instead.A hint of fresh orange juice in the bird's nest for brightness.Exacting control over every herb and every hour of simmering.
And still—
Consort De said the asparagus tasted earthy.Consort Liu said the orange ruined the purity of the bird's nest.Consort Xian's matron casually noted that there seemed to be slightly less polygonatum than last time.
Li's temper worsened by the day. His scolding grew louder, sharper. The Imperial Kitchen felt like it was trapped under a layer of solidified grease—heavy, unbreathable.
The lowest-ranking workers paid first.
Their meals were cut again. Harder buns. Thinner soup. Sometimes not even a leaf of greens. They worked all day on empty stomachs, resentment burning quietly like buried coals.
Qing Tian felt it everywhere.
The air was thick with anxiety, frustration, humiliation, suppressed anger. It was so intense she could almost taste it—bitter on the tongue.
She saw Chef Zhang's back bending further each day.Xiaoman wiping tears as she stoked the fire.Fugui splitting wood with savage force, as if chopping at something else.
And the food—the rejected food—carried something ugly on it.
Not dissatisfaction with flavor.
But rage.
The kind that came from above, poured downward through the safest channel: food. Because food could always be blamed.
This was not about taste.
This was a silent purge.
And the Imperial Kitchen—especially Chef Zhang—was standing right in the crosshairs.