The days slid quietly toward Qingming, filled with unspoken hostility and endless work.
With the coming imperial rites, the Imperial Kitchen was drowning in orders for tribute pastries. Because of her steady hands and precise skills, Qing Tian was kept behind almost every night to help.
Tonight, she was placing the final batch of lucky-patterned rice cakes into the steamer when she realized something.
The kitchen was almost empty.
Only one oil lamp burned in the corner.And beneath its trembling light sat a lone figure.
Chef Zhang.
He was hunched on a low stool, slowly wiping an old kitchen knife again and again. It was not the one he used every day. This blade was ancient, dark as iron soaked in night, its handle polished smooth by years of use.
The lamplight slid across the metal and across his face, revealing a solemn, almost haunted expression.
He wasn't cleaning a knife.
He was polishing a memory.
Qing Tian quietly poured a bowl of almond tea from the leftovers she had made for herself—warm, lightly sweet, and soothing. She carried it over with careful steps.
"Master," she said softly, setting it beside him. "Please rest a little. Have some tea."
His hand paused.
But he did not take it.
His gaze drifted to the flickering flame of the lamp, as if staring through it into a distant past. The kitchen was silent except for the crackle of firewood and the faraway beat of the night watch outside the palace walls.
The silence was heavy.
Too heavy.
Lately, Master Zhang had grown quieter than ever. He used to speak little, but when teaching, his guidance was patient and detailed. Now, sometimes when Qing Tian asked a question, he would stare at the spices or ingredients in her hands as though pierced by something invisible.
The pain in his eyes wasn't just from a ruined sense of taste.
It was deeper.Like a soul that had been torn apart and stitched back together, only to bleed again when touched.
"Master…" Qing Tian hesitated.
Then he spoke.
His voice was dry and hoarse, like dead leaves scraping against the wind.
"Girl… do you know how this tongue of mine was destroyed?"
Qing Tian's heart slammed in her chest.
She knew he couldn't taste properly—but she had always assumed it was illness or accident. Hearing him speak of it like this made her breath catch.
She slowly shook her head.
"It wasn't an accident."A twisted smile tugged at his lips, worse than a cry. "It was done by someone… for a recipe."
"A recipe?"
"Yes." His eyes darkened."A single dish."
"Snowcloud Soup."
The name alone sounded exquisite.
Zhang Chef lowered his gaze to the black-iron blade, his fingers sliding along its cold spine as though touching frozen time itself.
Then, in a voice so calm it was terrifying, he began to speak of a past buried for over twenty years.
Each word felt like it was being chipped out of a frozen lake—cold, sharp, and soaked in blood.