The bell tolled at midday.
Once.
Twice.
Low and resonant, the sound rolled across the Empress Dowager's palace like a funeral chant for someone not yet buried.
Outside Cining Palace, incense smoke coiled thickly into the air. The sandalwood fragrance, once serene, now clung to the throat—sweet, suffocating, oppressive.
This place had always been untouchable.
A sanctuary.
A sacred ground where scandals went to die quietly.
But today—
The courtyard was filled.
Officials from the Ministry of Internal Affairs knelt in rigid rows along the white stone steps. Behind them, more ranks: the Shangshi Bureau, the Procurement Office, the Treasury Division—every department whose ledgers bore even a single line connected to the word:
Offerings.
Gao Dequan stood at the front, imperial decree cradled in both hands. His voice cut clean through the heavy air.
"By the Mandate of Heaven, the Emperor decrees—effective immediately, a full investigation into three years of accounts under the Buddhist Hall of Cining Palace."
A pause.
"Any who used the name of devotion to conceal embezzlement, diversion, or falsification—"
His gaze hardened.
"—shall be punished without exception."
The silence shattered.
Several kneeling officials began trembling visibly.
Because everyone understood:
This was no symbolic inquiry.
This was an execution ground disguised as paperwork.
The great doors of the Buddhist Hall creaked open.
The red lacquer panels groaned like an omen long delayed.
Chest after chest of account books was carried out. Their covers were immaculate. Ink strokes neat. Seals unbroken.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
The first ledger was opened.
A eunuch read aloud.
"Third Month of Last Year. Offering of eight hundred dan of premium rice."
He turned the page.
"Actual delivery to the Hall—"
His voice faltered.
"…Zero."
A ripple of shock tore through the courtyard.
Another page.
"Twelfth Month. Offering of three hundred dan of refined flour."
"…Actual delivery—zero."
The murmurs grew louder.
Panic began spreading like cracks through ice.
At last, one official collapsed forward, forehead slamming into stone.
"Your Majesty, mercy! These entries were approved! We followed procedure!"
Gao Dequan's voice came cold and sharp.
"Approved by whom?"
The man's lips quivered.
His voice barely escaped.
"…Red slips bearing the personal authorization of Consort Shen."
Behind the half-closed window of the side chamber—
Shen Zhaoyi stood frozen.
Her face drained of all color.
Impossible.
The Buddhist Hall had been her safest shield.
Her most flawless mask.
How had it become—
The first blade raised against her throat?
"Absurd!"
Her voice rang out before fear could silence it.
Heads snapped upward.
Shen Zhaoyi stepped into the courtyard, clad in understated elegance. Pale robes. Perfect coiffure. Beauty sharp enough to command attention even now.
"The Buddhist Hall oversees countless ceremonial matters. Errors are inevitable."
Her gaze swept across the kneeling ranks.
"Do you intend to condemn years of sacred devotion over a few irregular pages?"
Her tone sharpened.
"Or is someone here bold enough to question the Empress Dowager's piety?"
The accusation struck like lightning.
Cruel.
Calculated.
Because no one dared challenge the Empress Dowager.
Not openly.
Not and live.
"Your Ladyship speaks heavily."
A calm voice drifted from the rear.
Soft.
Steady.
Yet it silenced the entire courtyard.
Qing Tian stepped forward.
She wore no formal regalia—only light-colored robes. Her frame still slender from recent illness, her features touched with fragile pallor.
But her posture—
Was unbending.
Her eyes—
Clear as drawn steel.
"I do not question the Empress Dowager."
She bowed with flawless decorum.
"I merely worry."
A faint pause.
"That Her Majesty's name has been borrowed… for less sacred purposes."
Shen Zhaoyi's lips curved in scorn.
"A kitchen-born woman dares speak of the Buddhist Hall?"
Qing Tian lifted her gaze.
There was no anger there.
Only devastating composure.
"Because I work with food," she said quietly,
"I know exactly how many lives three hundred dan of rice can sustain."
The words fell.
Not as argument.
But as judgment.
Shen Zhaoyi's smile froze.
Qing Tian continued, voice level, merciless in its gentleness.
"True offerings measure sincerity, not excess."
"Yet for three years, the offerings grew larger…"
Her eyes swept the courtyard.
"…while the servants grew thinner."
A beat.
"Does that not seem…"
She tilted her head slightly.
"…too coincidental?"
The wind stirred.
Incense smoke scattered.
For the first time—
Someone had spoken the forbidden truth within the Empress Dowager's walls.
Hunger.
Shen Zhaoyi's expression cracked.
She inhaled sharply, ready to strike back—
"Enough."
The Emperor's voice descended like thunder.
No announcement.
No herald.
He was simply there.
Every soul dropped to their knees.
The Emperor's gaze passed over the ledgers, the trembling officials, the incense-choked air.
"We acknowledge only accounts," he said evenly,
"And only accounts that feed the living."
Shen Zhaoyi's head snapped up.
"Your Majesty—!"
He did not look at her.
"Effective immediately, Buddhist Hall offerings shall be reduced by half."
"The remaining grain—"
His tone sharpened.
"—is to be transferred to the Shangshi Bureau."
Then, at last, his eyes fell upon her.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
"We ordered you confined."
A pause heavy as death.
"Why, then, do you stand here?"
The courtyard froze.
That single question erased what no formal punishment yet had:
Her authority.
Her protection.
Her illusion of relevance.
Everyone saw it.
Everyone understood it.
Shen Zhaoyi was no longer a favored consort.
She was a discarded piece still pretending to belong on the board.
She stood there, lips parted, dignity collapsing in silence.
Because she finally realized—
She had not merely lost control of the ledgers.
She had lost the Emperor's tolerance.
The court's fear.
The palace's belief.
By nightfall, the news swept across the Six Palaces.
No one laughed.
No one gloated.
Because terror traveled faster than triumph.
The Shangshi Bureau could no longer be dismissed.
And no one—
No one—
Would dare touch the word "offerings" again.
Tingyu Pavilion.
The lamplight was soft.
Qing Tian sat quietly at her desk, sipping warm rice porridge. Steam curled upward, gentle, unthreatening.
Chuntao whispered reverently,
"Your Ladyship… today was extraordinary."
Qing Tian smiled faintly.
"I did not fight."
She lowered the spoon.
"They simply could no longer stand."
Outside, the night deepened.
Inside, something far more dangerous settled into place.
She had not relied on favor.
Nor cruelty.
Nor intrigue.
Yet the entire palace—
Had bowed.