Qing Tian had "fallen ill."
Ill in a way that looked terrifyingly real.
At the third watch of the night, whispers slipped out of the Food Bureau like ghosts through cracks in stone:
Director Qing struck by sudden relapse. Severe abdominal pain. Imperial physicians summoned.
Before dawn, the news had already crept along the seams of the palace walls, silent and swift, infiltrating every major residence.
Among those who heard it—
some rejoiced.
Some grew uneasy.
Some began calculating.
Tingyu Pavilion
The air was thick with the bitter fragrance of medicine.
Qing Tian lay upon the couch, face pale as frostbitten jade. A sheen of sweat glimmered at her temples. Her breathing was shallow, fragile, convincing.
Too convincing.
An Imperial Physician knelt beside her, voice low and careful:
"Director Qing's spleen and stomach are constitutionally cold. She has long been overworked."
"This episode… resembles a recurrence of her old condition."
"She must rest. No exertion."
Gao Dequan stood nearby, brows drawn tight.
"Anything unusual?"
The physician hesitated—just for a heartbeat.
Then shook his head.
"The pulse… appears ordinary."
Ordinary.
Which was precisely what made it extraordinary.
Because nothing about Qing Tian was ever ordinary.
Beneath the silk covers, her fingers were steady.
She knew the truth.
The gansui powder had been replaced.
What she drank had been nothing more than calming soup.
But reality was irrelevant.
What mattered—
was that everyone believed she had taken the bait.
Food Bureau
The bureau trembled on the edge of chaos.
"Director Qing collapsed?"
"Now? Of all times?"
"I heard it was the soup last night—"
"Quiet! Do you want to die?!"
Fear rippled through the lower ranks.
Supervisors exchanged tense glances.
Clerks began stalling decisions.
And somewhere beneath the surface—
hidden hands started moving.
Consort Shen's Palace
A soft laugh broke the stillness.
Consort Shen traced a lacquered nail guard idly, lips curving with quiet satisfaction.
"As expected."
"A woman can only carry so much before she breaks."
Her tone was gentle.
Her eyes were not.
"Go."
"Inform the Internal Affairs Bureau."
"Tell them the Food Bureau's director is bedridden. Affairs delayed."
"And kindly remind them—"
She smiled.
"The Spring Ancestral Rite approaches. The imperial kitchens cannot falter."
A bloodless strike.
Yet every step aimed for the throat.
Pressure.
Doubt.
Administrative suffocation.
If the Food Bureau stumbled now, Qing Tian would not merely lose face—
she would lose legitimacy.
But Consort Shen did not know.
Could not know.
That inside the Food Bureau's accounting chamber—
a new lamp had been lit.
And beneath that lamp sat not Qing Tian—
but the Imperial Audit Officer personally appointed by the Emperor.
Three Days Earlier
On the night before Qing Tian's "collapse,"
she had walked alone into Yangxin Hall.
No witnesses.
No attendants.
Only a sealed booklet placed upon the imperial desk.
Thin.
Yet unbearably heavy.
The first page contained a single line:
"Three-Year Phantom Grain Accounts of the Food Bureau — Submitted for Your Majesty's Review."
Morning Court
The session had ended.
Yet the Emperor did not rise.
He remained seated upon the Dragon Throne, flipping through a memorial with unsettling calm.
Then—
casually—
he spoke.
"Has anyone reported on the Food Bureau recently?"
Silence answered him.
Ministers stiffened.
Eyes lowered.
The Emperor lifted his gaze.
"I recall Director Qing was reforming bureau provisions not long ago."
"Strange."
"Why does no one mention her today?"
An official from the Internal Affairs Bureau stepped forward, spine rigid with dread.
"Your Majesty… Director Qing has taken ill. She is currently recuperating."
"The bureau is under temporary management by her deputy."
"Deputy?"
The Emperor smiled.
A thin, glacial curve of the lips.
"Excellent."
"Then summon this deputy."
"I would like to ask—"
His voice dropped.
Cold as a blade drawn across bone.
"Who is responsible for the thirty-seven chests of empty grain in the imperial stores."
The court exploded into stunned silence.
Faces blanched.
Someone's sleeve trembled.
Because everyone understood—
this was no longer about illness.
This was about accounts.
And accounts—
were death sentences written in ink.
Tingyu Pavilion
Sunlight filtered softly through gauze curtains.
Qing Tian's eyes fluttered open.
Weak.
Yet razor-clear.
"Chun Tao…"
Her voice was hoarse, fragile, deliberate.
"Go to the Food Bureau."
"Tell them…"
A faint smile touched her bloodless lips.
"I may be ill."
"But my memory for numbers—"
"…has not blurred."
This game had begun with a bowl of soup.
But it would never end with one.
Consort Shen believed she had engineered a collapse.
A perfectly timed sickness to push Qing Tian off the board.
What she failed to see—
was that Qing Tian had staged her own fall.
And in doing so,
set into motion a reckoning not only for the Food Bureau—
but for the hidden power structure of the entire inner court.
The sickbed was merely the curtain.
Behind it—
the purge had already begun.