The city lord's manor woke before dawn. Lamps flickered on in long corridors. Servants hurried with water buckets and brooms. In the kitchen yard, smoke rose from clay stoves, and the sound of chopping filled the air.
A thin boy carried a sack of onions across the yard. He moved quickly and kept his head low. Grease stained his sleeves. Steam made his eyes sting.
His name—at least, the one he remembered waking with- was still Shen Kai.
This time he was not a sect disciple. He was not a beggar on the street. He was a kitchen runner in a noble household.
He had been sold here two winters ago, before his memories awakened. The madam of kitchens liked that he was quiet and quick. He slept on a straw mat in a corner behind the firewood. He ate leftovers and never complained.
No one here knew he carried a cracked mirror inside his dantian.
No one here needed to know.
"Faster, Kai!" the madam shouted, waving a spoon like a club. "The lord wants rice porridge, not excuses!"
"Yes, madam." He set the sack down and ran to the water cistern. He filled a pot and set it on the stove. The fire hissed as he fed it more sticks.
The older kitchen hands smirked as they worked. One nudged another. "Quiet boy moves quick. Thinks hard too. Watch it- madam might make him a taster."
"Taster? He'll die in a week."
They laughed and went back to chopping.
Kai ignored the jab. He had learned to ignore many things. He watched the rice foam rise. He stirred the pot clockwise, then counterclockwise. He breathed slow. He relaxed his shoulders.
As steam rose around him, he let his mind turn inward.
The Mirror floated in his dantian like a moon over a dark sea. Its surface still was cracked, the lines glowing faintly. It did not speak with words. It pulsed.
When it pulsed, memories bled through him.
A throne room. A golden cup. Fingers that trembled, then froze. A voice: "To our eternal line." A bitter taste. Darkness.
The Emperor who had died by poison. It was a past life of his. The Mirror kept showing it. More and more, lately.
He stirred the pot and swallowed.
This life will test me with poison, he thought. Fine. Then I will learn poison.
By midmorning, the kitchen calmed. Bread cooled on racks. Meat hung ready to roast. Kai was sent to the herb room to fetch star anise.
He stepped inside and breathed in the sharp scents- dried ginger, orange peel, fennel, peppercorn. Small windows let in thin slashes of light. Dust danced in the beams.
A man in gray stood near the jars. He had narrow eyes and a thin mouth. His name was Steward Liang, and he oversaw purchases and stocks. He smiled when he saw Kai. The smile did not reach his eyes.
"You're the quiet one," Liang said. "Shen Kai, is it?"
"Yes, Steward."
"Madam says you're quick. Good. A quick boy is useful." He drew closer, as if sharing a secret. "The lord's health is delicate. His stomach is soft. He needs a taster before meals. The last one… took ill."
Kai kept his face blank. "Yes, Steward."
"You will taste," Liang said. "If your belly holds, the food goes. If not"- he shrugged- "we will find another quiet boy."
Kai bowed. "Yes, Steward."
Liang patted his shoulder. His hand lingered a heartbeat too long. "You'll do fine. You are good lad."
Kai stepped back, tray in hand. He met those narrow eyes for a moment. A cold prickle crawled up his spine.
The Mirror pulsed.
A shard in its cracked surface shimmered. He saw a face in a crown. He saw a smiling steward with soft hands and a ring with a lion motif. He saw a small bottle hidden in a sleeve.
Not the same face. Not the same ring.
But the feeling- that smile- was the same.
Kai exhaled slowly and lowered his eyes. "I will do my duty, Steward."
"Yes," Liang said, still smiling. "You will."
The city lord liked simple food in the morning. Rice porridge with ginger. A small dish of pickled greens. Weak tea.
Kai stood at the side of the dining room with the tray. Two guards watched him. Liang watched too. The city lord, a big man with a thick beard, rubbed his eyes and yawned.
"New taster?" the lord asked.
Liang bowed. "Yes, my lord. The last fell ill."
"Mm. What's his name?"
"Shen Kai."
"Quiet?" the lord said.
"Very."
The lord nodded. "Proceed."
Kai stepped forward. His hands were steady. He took a spoon of porridge, blew on it, and swallowed. He waited. He took a pinch of greens and chewed. He sipped the tea.
He let the food slide down. He waited.
At first, nothing. Then his tongue tingled.
It was faint. The porridge tasted normal- rice, ginger, a touch of salt- but beneath it, there was a bitterness like damp bark.
His mind reached into his dantian without thinking. The Mirror pulsed. An echo flared- an old palace physician's lesson, a recipe for heartseed powder and how it tasted when mixed into warm rice.
Heartseed. In large doses, it stopped hearts. In small doses, it muddied thoughts and made men weak.
Kai looked up.
Liang was watching him.
The lord frowned. "Well?"
Kai bowed. "The porridge is acceptable, my lord."
He felt his own pulse. It was steady. The dose was small. It would not kill, not now. But over days… the lord would weaken.
Kai set the spoon down. He stepped back to the wall.
He watched the lord eat half the bowl. He watched Liang's eyes follow each bite.
He said nothing.
Not yet.
That night, Kai lay awake on his straw mat behind the firewood. The red glow of dying coals made the room a cave of embers.
He closed his eyes and breathed.
The Mirror trembled. The Emperor's final cup rose to his lips again. He tasted honeyed wine. He tasted almond bitterness. He saw his heir's face, smiling and pale. He tried to speak. No sound came. He fell.
Kai gasped and sat up, hand at his throat. He swallowed air.
It keeps pushing this life at me, he thought.
His chest ached with a fear that was not his own. His mind filled with suspicion that did not belong to this small kitchen runner. He wanted to send everyone away. He wanted the doors locked. He wanted to taste every plate and trust no one.
He pressed his palms together until they hurt. He breathed until the ache inside him softened.
"Every gift carries its price," he whispered to the dark. "I remember."
If he drew power from the Emperor's shard, he would also draw the Emperor's obsession, the Emperor's fear. If he wanted the knowledge of poisons, he had to bear the paranoia that came with it.
He exhaled and lowered his hands.
"Fine," he said softly. "I'll carry it."
The Mirror pulsed once like a heartbeat.
The next days settled into a simple pattern.
Kai worked in the kitchen from dawn. He fetched water. He scrubbed pots. He chopped vegetables. He carried trays.
At each meal, he tasted first.
He ate one spoonful of porridge. One bite of meat. One sip of tea. He let it sit on his tongue, learning every flavor. He watched the city lord eat. He watched Liang stand too close to the wall. He watched the guards' hands on their swords.
He waited.
Each night, he returned to his straw mat and turned inward. The Mirror pulsed. The Emperor's shard fed him traces of knowledge, little by little.
He learned how foxglove tasted in soup—sweet at first, then metallic. He learned the numbness of snow drop mixed into salt. He learned how grains of paradise could mask the scent of winterbane.
He learned to wait ten breaths after each taste and count his heartbeats. He learned to slow his breath and let his dantian pull the qi from the food, purify it, push it out.
His Soul Lamp- hidden under the Mirror's veil- burned a little steadier each day.
No one saw it. No one felt it. He kept his face blank and his steps quiet.
But inside, he grew.
The heartseed in the morning porridge came every second day. The dose was tiny, designed to weaken slowly, to make the city lord dull. The lord slept more. He complained of heaviness. He said, "Perhaps I ate too much."
Kai watched Liang's hands.
He waited.
He mapped the kitchen in his head. Which jars Liang touched. Which cooks he whispered to. Who handled the bowls that went to the lord and who handled the bowls that went to the guards.
He saw a pattern. On heartseed days, Liang hovered in the herb room before dawn. On other days, he stayed with the steward scribes instead.
Kai did not confront him. He said nothing to the guards, who liked to drink after their shift and would not believe a kitchen boy. He did not speak to the madam, who feared losing her position and would not accuse a steward on a boy's word.
He watched. He waited. He learned enough.
The Mirror pulsed more often now. Sometimes it felt heavier, as if karma itself had a weight. At night, Kai dreamed he wore a crown. In the morning, he woke reaching for a ring that was not on his finger.
He forced his hands to stillness and carried water.
On a rest day, when the kitchen had fewer tasks, the madam sent Kai to the market to buy fresh ginger and garlic. She pressed coins into his hand and told him the fair price.
The market was loud and bright. Chickens squawked. People shouted prices.
Kai moved slowly between stalls, breathing in smells. The Emperor's shard stirred at the scent of bitter almonds from a candy seller. He paused and looked at the sugar, at the nuts, at the glaze.
The candy seller smiled at him. "A handful for a copper. Buy now, boy."
"No, thank you," Kai said, and moved on.
He reached the herb stall. An old woman sat behind jars and bundles. Her eyes were sharp. She watched him as he counted ginger roots, as he weighed garlic by hand.
"You smell like a kitchen," she said.
"Yes, grandmother."
"You taste for a lord, maybe?"
Kai lifted his head. "Why do you say that?"
"Your eyes move before your hands," she said. "You scan everything that comes near your body. You taste the air as if it hides poison."
Kai lowered his gaze. "I am careful."
The old woman's laugh was soft but not unkind. "Good. Careful boys live longer. Here." She reached under the stall and brought out a small pouch. "Chew one seed when you must swallow what you do not trust. It will pull poison down and bind it."
Kai took the pouch and opened it. The seeds were small, gray, with tiny red stripes. He brought one to his tongue and touched it. A cold numbness spread along his gums.
"What is it?" he asked.
"A mountain seed," she said. "Name's not for free. The pouch costs three coppers."
He paid. He hesitated. "Grandmother… if a steward smiles too often, but his hands never touch the bowl, what then?"
"Then his hands touched other hands," she said. "Or he owns the jar." Her eyes crinkled. "Or you are tasting too slow."
"Too slow?"
"Poisoners like a quiet boil," she said. "Slower than a sudden burn. If you taste a little and wait, you will live. Your lord will die by grains. If you taste everything in front of them, bold and wide, some poisoners panic. They reveal too much."
Kai bowed. "Thank you."
He returned to the manor before the rain began. But one thing he forgot to ask her.
"How you know all these?"
At the next meal, the city lord asked for duck soup. The smell filled the dining room—rich, fatty, with star anise and ginger.
Kai set the bowls down. He took his place. He did not take a single spoon and wait ten breaths this time.
He ate.
He took a full spoon of the soup, then a second, then a third. He chewed the meat, sucked the bone, drank the broth. He let it roll over his tongue and down his throat in waves.
The guards blinked. Liang's eyes widened the smallest fraction, then smoothed.
The lord snorted. "Hungry, boy?"
"Yes, my lord," Kai said, and bowed.
He walked backward three steps and took his place at the wall. His tongue tingled. His lips numbed. A prickle ran along his gums.
The Mirror pulsed.
Snow drop, the Emperor's shard whispered. Ground fine, mixed in salt, sprinkled at the end.
Small dose again. Not enough to kill on the first bowl. Enough to numb a tongue. Enough to make a man clumsy in thought.
But Liang had not expected the taster to swallow so much. If there was more poison in the deeper spoonfuls, if the pattern had changed, he would reveal it.
Kai stood still. He breathed. He measured his heartbeats. He was ready to chew a mountain seed if the numbness deepened.
It did not. The dose was still small.
Liang moved his fingers inside his sleeves. The city lord slurped his soup and sighed. "Good today," he said. "Stronger. I like it strong."
Liang's smile was made of wax.
Kai understood something then. The man was testing exact limits. How much the lord would take on his tongue. How much would pass the boy. How slowly he could weaken his lord without a fuss.
Fine. Then Kai would pretend.
He put a hand to his stomach and let his face pale.
Liang watched him. The corner of his mouth lifted, almost hidden.
Kai lowered his head further. He pretended to sway a little on his feet.
He filed away the look on Liang's face for later.
By now, Kai could map the poison's path.
The heartseed came from a jar that changed shelves every other day. Only the steward and one cook, a nervous man named Chen, touched it. The snow drop came already ground with the salt. Only the steward signed for that bag.
The madam of kitchens pretended not to see.
Kai saw. He could not unsee.
He did not know who paid Liang. He did not know if it was the lord's heir, or a rival, or simply Liang's own ambition.
He knew only this: the Mirror had dragged him here to settle Emperor Karma. He could not watch another man go down by grains.
He had two choices: expose the steward and earn a noose, or act quiet.
Quiet was safer.
Quiet was longer.
Quiet fit the kitchen.
He gathered ginger, clove, and charcoal. He dried ginger peels and ground them fine. He burned a piece of willow and scraped the char into powder. He tucked them into a cloth and kept it in his sleeve.
These were simple antidotes. They would not cure a killing dose, but they could bind small grains and pull them down faster.
He chewed a mountain seed each morning before tasting. He let its numbness coat his mouth like a shield.
He sipped tea after each bite of food, not water. Tea carried the binding powders better.
He taught himself to cough at the table, behind his sleeve, when he needed to spit a mouthful into the cloth without raising a ripple.
He saved the spit cloths. He dried them. He looked at the black dust caught on the weave. He learned how much came on which days.
He counted.
He waited.
It took three weeks.
The city lord's face grew a little brighter. He slept less. He laughed more. He asked for more meat.
Liang smiled less.
One night, when the kitchen fires were down to coals and most servants slept, Kai went to the herb room to finish a silent chore—the madam had ordered him to sort peppercorn from husks.
He lit a small lamp and sat. He moved his fingers over the bowls. He listened to the house breathe.
The door opened without a sound.
Steward Liang stepped in, closed it, and slid the latch.
Kai looked up. He kept his breath slow.
Liang's smile was back. The waxy one. He did not look at the peppercorn. He looked at Kai's sleeve.
"I've been watching you," Liang said. "You taste differently. You swallow too much. You never sway anymore."
Kai kept his hands in his lap. "I do my duty, Steward."
"You do more than that," Liang said. He stepped closer. "I smell ginger on you. Charcoal. Willow. Your grandmother was a herbalist?"
"I don't have a grandmother," Kai said.
Liang's smile thinned. "No. You don't."
He took a step more. The lamplight turned his eyes into flat coins.
"Loyal boys make rooms safe," he said. "Disloyal ones make rooms loud."
Kai said nothing.
"Tell me," Liang said pleasantly, "what do you think you've tasted these last weeks?"
"Rice," Kai said. "Soup."
"And in them?" Liang asked, still pleasant.
Kai held his gaze. "Salt."
Liang laughed. It was a dry sound. "You do have a tongue. Good. Come." He tilted his head toward the back shelf. "Pick up that bag."
Kai stood. He walked to the shelf. He lifted a small cloth sack. It was heavy with fine powder. It smelled faintly of the river after rain.
"Bring it," Liang said.
Kai set it on the table. Liang pulled the tie and dipped two fingers. He tapped a small pile onto the wood.
"Snow drop," he said softly. "A friend. Very gentle, very patient." He tilted his head again. "Eat it."
Kai felt the Mirror pulse in his gut. The Emperor's shard tugged at his heart, cold and shaky.
He looked at the powder. He looked at Liang's thin smile. He lifted his eyes and let his face go blank.
He pinched the powder and brought it to his tongue.
It was soft and cold and slightly sweet. Numbness spread fast across his gums. A heartbeat later, it reached his throat. His tongue felt thick.
He chewed a mountain seed behind his teeth and swallowed the juice. He let the numbness meet the other numbness. He breathed slow.
Liang watched his throat. He watched his eyes.
"You hide much," Liang said. "But boys who sleep in kitchens have no fathers to speak for them. The lord would trust a steward over a boy. If you talk, you die. If you keep quiet"—the smile returned—"you live a little longer. If you obey, you live longest."
Kai opened his mouth. His voice came out steady. "What do you want me to do?"
Liang's eyes warmed, finally. Real pleasure. "See? Loyal. You will taste, as always. If you think the dose is high, cough twice. If you think the dose is low, do nothing. If anyone asks you later whether the food troubled you, say no." His gaze sharpened. "There will be a day I tell you to cough three times. When I say that, you will cough three times. As hard as you can."
Kai kept his face empty. "Yes, Steward."
Liang nodded. "Good boy." He wiped the powder with his sleeve and retied the bag. He lifted the lamp and left. The latch clicked behind him.
Kai stood in the dim herb room and listened to his heart.
He spat the paste of seed and spit into his cloth. He leaned on the table until feeling returned to his tongue.
The Mirror pulsed, deep and slow.
A past steward told you to lift a cup, the Emperor's shard whispered. You lifted it. You smiled. You died.
Kai closed his eyes.
"Not this time," he whispered.
It came four days later.
A messenger from the governor arrived with a letter. The city lord read it and laughed until his face went red. He ordered wine. He ordered duck, pork, and fish. He ordered a feast.
The kitchen worked hard that day. Pans clanged. Fire flared. The madam shouted orders. The air smelled of garlic, soy, and caramelizing fat.
Kai set the table and stood by the wall. Liang leaned near the door, hands in wide sleeves.
The lord waved his chopsticks. "Eat after me, boy," he said, cheerful. "After me. I feel kind today."
Kai bowed. "As my lord wishes."
Dishes lined the table—steamed fish with ginger and scallion, red-cooked pork, duck with crisp skin, greens with garlic, tofu with mushrooms. The colors glowed in the lamplight.
Kai tasted each dish in order. Fish: salt, ginger, scallion, soy. Pork: sweet, star anise, cinnamon. Duck: five-spice, orange peel. Greens: clean, bright. Tofu: savory, mushrooms earthy.
His tongue tingled lightly at the tofu. A touch of numbing. Not enough to bind his lips. Not enough to slow his breath.
Liang's eyes flicked toward the duck. His mouth curled a hair's width. It was so small most men would not see it.
Kai lifted a piece of duck skin with his chopsticks. He bit. He chewed.
Beneath the crackle of skin and the fat's salt, there it was: a fine dust. It tasted of damp cellar and left a shadow on the back of the tongue.
Foxglove. Dried and powdered. Carried in oil. Hidden in fat.
He swallowed. His heartbeat stayed even. The dose was careful. Slower than fast. Stronger than days past.
Liang spoke then, casual and soft. "Boy, if the duck's too rich, you should cough."
Kai set his chopsticks down. He looked at Liang's narrow eyes. He heard the line that was not spoken: Cough three times.
The Emperor's shard slammed into him like a wave. He saw the cup again. He saw his heir. He felt the bitter almond. He felt his throat close.
He stood there in the dining room and felt two lives pulling him apart. One told him to obey. One told him to act.
He took a breath. He coughed once, polite, into his sleeve. The lord laughed and waved him on.
Kai coughed twice, harder, like grease had gone the wrong way. He bent at the waist. The guards looked up from the wall.
Kai straightened.
He did not cough a third time.
He picked up the chopsticks and took another bite of duck.
He chewed. He swallowed. He made his face smooth.
"The duck is very good," he said.
Liang watched him across the table. For the first time, the steward's smile slipped fully.
Something cold slid behind his eyes.
Kai returned to the wall and stood still. His palms were damp. He felt the Mirror throb in his core like a drum.
The city lord ate with a good mood. He praised the madam. He told a story about hunting as a young man. He drank two cups of wine and slapped the table. He ate more duck.
Liang stood thin and quiet, the wax back on his face.
Kai counted heartbeats. He breathed slow.
He chewed two mountain seeds, one after another, while the lord was not looking, letting the numbness flood his mouth and throat. He let his dantian pull the qi from the meal and refine it like a bellows.
His stomach felt heavy but not leaden. His pulse stayed steady. The lord's face stayed red but not purple. The night passed.
The next morning, the lord did not rise with a heavy head. He did not clutch his chest. He did not call for a physician.
He asked for congee and pickles and a boiled egg. He ate and went to his study.
At noon, a runner came from the guard barracks. He spoke to the lord in a low voice. The lord's shout shook the hall. Soldiers marched. The steward's room was opened. Boxes were pulled out. Jars were counted. Ledgers were read.
By evening, Steward Liang was gone. He did not return from "errands." No one found him. The madam said very loudly that she had always trusted the steward and was shocked that the guards had questions. The guards said nothing.
Kai washed bowls in the kitchen and kept his head low. He did not stare out the door. He did not listen hard when the young scullions whispered, "They say they found a hidden door in the herb room."
He just scrubbed.
At night, he lay on his straw mat and turned inward.
The Mirror pulsed slow and deep. The Emperor's shard- heavy with fear, with shame, with the taste of bitter almond- softened like ice under spring sun.
A stream of clear qi slid into Kai's dantian. It was not strong. It was steady. It felt like water after thirst.
His Soul Lamp brightened a fraction under the Mirror's veil. His meridians warmed. His breath smoothed.
The karma tied to poison loosened a knot.
He exhaled and let his shoulders drop.
He did not smile.
He slept without dreaming of crowns for the first time in many nights.
The manor grew quieter after that. The city lord's cheeks regained a little color. He walked the courtyard with his guards and did not sigh as much. He asked for duck only once a week. He said, "Not so rich," and laughed.
The madam counted jars with sharp eyes. The new steward, a younger man with honest hands, asked Kai direct questions about tasting. "Tell me if your tongue goes numb," he said. "Tell me if you feel heavy at the heart."
Kai nodded. "I will."
He continued to taste every meal. He chewed mountain seeds before soup. He kept ginger and charcoal in his sleeve. He wrote nothing. He told no one his tricks.
His cultivation crept forward, a drop at a time. He felt it in the clarity of his senses. Smells separated. Flavors didn't blur. Sounds lined up in layers. His body grew a little stronger. He could carry heavier pots. He could stand longer without swaying.
He did not chase realms. He did not speak of Nascent Soul or Dao Manifestation. Those words did not fit a kitchen.
He gathered skill instead. He learned knives. He learned heat. He learned how long a pot took to simmer through to the center. He learned how a drop of vinegar woke a dull broth. He learned where cooks hide salt under stress.
He kept the Mirror hidden. He let it feed him little by little, the way it liked.
Summer slid toward autumn. The first cold wind blew through the alley behind the kitchen. Leaves skittered over the stones.
One evening, Kai carried a tray to the dining room and found a guest seated with the city lord. The guest wore travel clothes. He had dust on his boots and a clean face under it. He smiled easily.
"An old friend," the lord said, clapping the guest's shoulder. "Passing through. We'll share wine."
The guest turned his head and looked at Kai as he set down small dishes—nuts, dried fish, pickles, tangerine peel. His eyes were kind. His smile warm.
"Thank you," the guest said.
"Welcome," Kai said, and stepped back.
He tasted first. He swallowed. He waited.
The guest poured the wine. His wrist was smooth. The wine smelled of plums.
Kai's throat tightened for a heartbeat. The Mirror pulsed once, sharp and bright. The Emperor rose in him again, not heavy now, but watchful.
The guest lifted his cup. The city lord lifted his. They toasted old roads and long years.
They drank.
Kai tasted a cup after them. It was sweet. It was clean.
They talked of hunting and river crossings and the changes in the capital. The guest laughed easily. He told a story that made the lord wipe tears from his eyes. He ate slowly and complimented the kitchen.
He did not touch the duck.
When the meal ended and the lord called for hot tea, the guest stood, cup in hand. He reached to pour for the lord as a sign of respect.
His sleeve slid back a finger's width.
A small lion was carved into the ring he wore.
It was not the same lion from the Emperor's shard—but the symbol pulled something deep in Kai's gut. He heard the echo of a court. He smelled polished wood. He felt a blade in the back of a man who trusted.
His chest went tight.
The guest handed the cup to the lord, smiling. The lord smiled back.
Kai moved.
He stepped forward and reached for the cup with both hands, head bowed deep. "Forgive me," he said, voice steady. "Taster must taste."
The lord blinked, then chuckled. "I forgot. Take it, take it."
The guest's smile didn't change. He let the cup go.
Kai touched it to his lips. He took a small sip. He let the tea slide over his tongue.
It tasted of plum blossoms and smoke.
Underneath, there was a whisper of sweet that turned bitter at the very back of the palate.
Not heartseed. Not snow drop. Something else. He did not know the mountain name. He knew only the turn.
He chewed half a mountain seed, just enough to wake his tongue. He swallowed, bowed, and stepped back.
"Acceptable," he said, and set the cup in front of the lord.
The guest watched him with friendly eyes.
The lord drank and sighed. "Good. That takes the dust out of the throat."
Kai stood at the wall and measured beats. One hundred. Two hundred. Three.
The lord's eyes stayed bright.
The guest's smile stayed warm.
When the meal ended, the guest bowed to the lord. He bowed to Kai too, like a man bowing to a well-set bowl. He left soft-footed, with no guards behind him.
Kai exited through the service door and leaned against the cool stone of the corridor. He breathed.
The Mirror pulsed, once, twice.
Not all debts are mine to pay tonight, the feeling said. It was not words. It was a loosening inside him.
He let it go.
The first frost came a week later. The city lord woke with a cough. He ordered ginger porridge and hot wine.
Kai tasted the porridge. Warm. Clean.
He tasted the wine. Sweet. A little sharp at the back.
He chewed a mountain seed, lightly.
He stood at the wall.
The lord drank and laughed at a joke. He raised his cup and let it fall back to the table.
He clutched his chest, not in pain, but in surprise. He opened his mouth. No sound came.
The guards shouted. The madam screamed. The new steward ran for the physician. Servants scattered.
Kai moved.
He dropped to the lord's side and pressed ear to mouth. Breath came shallow and then stopped. The lord's eyes rolled, then steadied, then rolled again.
Not poison. A clot. A vessel in the chest or head. The man had been eating rich food and not walking enough. His laughter had jolted something loose.
Kai pressed the heel of his hand to the lord's chest and pumped. He breathed into the lord's mouth. He counted beats. He pumped again.
The world narrowed to his hands and the lord's lips and the Mirror's dull throb in his belly.
The physician arrived. He pressed needles. He burned moxa. The lord gasped once and then went still.
Silence filled the dining room.
The new steward bowed his head. The madam lowered herself to the floor with a wail. The guards stood with eyes wide and hands useless.
Kai stayed on his knees. His hands were empty. He had nothing left to do.
He looked at the lord's face, slack now. He thought of heartseed grains that had not eaten him slowly. He thought of duck fat that had not stopped his breath on a feast night. He thought of a steward in the dark and a bag of snow drop and a lion ring and all the little choices.
He exhaled. His shoulders dropped. Something in his chest loosened and hurt at the same time.
We did not save him, he thought. But we did not let him burn by grains either.
The Mirror pulsed deep, like a drum in a far room.
The physician turned to the steward and spoke low. The steward nodded. The guards shifted. The madam sobbed into her sleeve.
They did not look at the taster by the table.
Kai stood. His knees ached and cracked. He bowed to the lord for the last time. He walked out of the dining room through the service door and sat on the kitchen step.
Frost glittered on the stone like ground sugar. The sky was a flat sheet. Smoke from the stoves rose straight up.
He put his hands together and felt the trickle in his dantian.
The Emperor's shard eased another notch. The poison karma in him untied another knot.
Clear qi slid under the Mirror's cracks and fed his Soul Lamp. It was only a little. It was enough.
He exhaled.
He sat there until the kitchen women began to cry and the guards' boots thundered again. He stood and went back in to wash the cups.
He scrubbed until they shone.
Winter grew. The manor changed hands. Servants left or were sold or stayed. Kai did his work and kept his secret.
When hunger came to the city after a bad harvest, the kitchen cut rations. Fights started over scraps. A fever ran through the dormitory. People coughed through the night and slept through their chores.
Kai boiled water for everyone and lined up cups. He chewed mountain seeds when his throat burned. He crushed ginger for the old ones. He stood in doorways and counted breaths.
He caught the fever anyway.
He lay on his straw mat and watched the roof beams blur. The Mirror floated in his dantian like the moon through fog. He reached for it and the past lives rose—swords, crowns, alleys, kitchens. He smiled a little.
"Every gift carries its price," he whispered to the smoky dark.
His chest burned. His breath grew shallow. He felt light.
He did not struggle. He was not afraid. He had done enough this life. He had changed a line on a ledger that had been inked too long.
He closed his eyes.
The Mirror pulsed once, bright and soft.
The fever took him like a tide going out.
He slept.
He did not wake in the manor again.