More than twenty years ago, the Imperial Kitchen was just as busy as it was now.
But back then, Chef Zhang was not yet "Chef Zhang."
He was only Zhang the Apprentice—a young man with an uncanny sensitivity to ingredients and a stubborn dedication that made the head chef of the palace take notice.
That head chef was Master Hu, a legend in soup and broth. Among all his skills, one dish stood above the rest:
Snowcloud Soup.
When properly made, its broth was as pure as fresh snow, its body shimmering like glowing sunset clouds. The flavor was layered beyond description, and it was said to nourish the body as well as the spirit.
Master Hu was old, with only one son.
Unfortunately, that son, Hu Yong, had neither patience nor talent. He relied on schemes instead of skill. After much hesitation, Master Hu made a decision that would change everything.
He chose to pass the secret recipe of Snowcloud Soup…
to Zhang the Apprentice.
It was like pouring cold water into a boiling pot of oil.
Hu Yong's hatred ignited instantly. Outwardly he smiled. Inwardly, he sharpened knives.
There was another apprentice in the kitchen back then—Lin Fu. Younger, quick-witted, good with carving and plating. Hu Yong saw both boys as thieves stealing what should have been his.
The chance came during the trial of a new dish: Eight-Treasure Gourd Duck.
Boiling oil roared in a massive iron wok. Hu Yong was in charge of the heat. Zhang and Lin Fu worked nearby, preparing garnishes.
Then—
Whether by "accident" or intent, Hu Yong's long-handled ladle slipped.
A full scoop of scalding oil flew straight toward Lin Fu.
Lin Fu froze in terror.
Zhang reacted on instinct.
He lunged forward and shoved Lin Fu away with all his strength.
The oil missed Lin Fu—
And poured all over Zhang's face and neck.
His scream tore through the kitchen.
The pain was like molten iron seared into his flesh. Worse, droplets splashed into his mouth. In that moment, his tongue felt as though it were being roasted alive… then went numb.
He survived. The palace doctors used the best medicines.
But his face and neck were scarred forever.
And the most sensitive parts of his tongue—
were destroyed.
"The heart of Snowcloud Soup," Chef Zhang said quietly, "is not the ingredients… but the final step—the Harmony of Five Flavors."
He gently stroked the black iron blade.
"At the very last moment, the chef must balance sour, sweet, bitter, salty, and umami by the smallest sensation on the tip of the tongue. Too much, it fails. Too little, it collapses. Even a hair's breadth of error ruins the dish."
His reflection trembled on the blade.
"With my taste ruined, I could never make Snowcloud Soup again. Hu Yong believed the recipe was dead. If he couldn't have it, no one could. So he stopped—for a while."
"Before Master Hu died, he gave me this knife. He said nothing. Only sighed."
The kitchen felt heavy, suffocating.
Qing Tian's hands were ice-cold. She could almost feel the burning oil, the helplessness, the despair of a genius stripped of his wings.
"Then… Lin Fu?" she asked shakily.
Chef Zhang's eyes hardened.
"He lived. Just a few scratches and a fright."
"And I was pushed off the front line of cooking. I became a knife master. A teacher."
"And Lin Fu…" A bitter curve twisted his lips. "With cleverness, skill—and repayment for that so-called 'life-saving grace'—he climbed upward."
Zhang turned to the dark window.
"Now he serves in Changchun Palace. At Consort Liu's side. The man who runs her private kitchen."
"People call him…"
"Eunuch Lin."
Qing Tian inhaled sharply.
Changchun Palace.
Consort Liu.
The invisible threads pulling the Imperial Kitchen tight—
finally revealed themselves.