When the first steaming bowl of mixed stew was ladled out, the warmth seemed to take shape in the air.
The small stove room—cold and damp just moments ago—was instantly filled with a rich, grounding fragrance. It wasn't delicate or refined. It was real. Heavy. Comforting. The kind of smell that made empty stomachs ache.
Zhao Sanniang tasted it first.
She froze.
Her chopsticks hovered midair. Then she took another bite. And another.
Only after several mouthfuls did she finally exhale, long and slow, as if releasing days of tension trapped in her chest.
"...I never thought it could taste like this."
Fu Gui ate as if his soul had left his body. He shoveled the stew down despite the heat, hissing and sucking in cold air between bites, refusing to slow even for a breath.
The two young kitchen assistants bent low over their bowls, shoulders trembling—not from cold, but from relief. It was the first time in days their faces showed something close to satisfaction.
Xiao Man cradled her bowl carefully, taking small, careful bites.
Her eyes reddened without a sound.
The warmth of the stew reminded her of a long-forgotten memory—of her mother by a clay stove, sleeves rolled up, coaxing life from simple ingredients in a poor village kitchen.
Qing Tian tasted it too.
It wasn't elegant.
But the flavors—once scattered, once rejected—had fused through time and fire into something steady and reassuring. She could feel it clearly.
The resentment had softened.
The loneliness had quieted.
What remained was warmth. Fulfillment.
"Go," a voice said calmly. "Chief Steward Li. Quietly."
Chef Zhang had risen without anyone noticing.
Fu Gui hurried off.
Chief Steward Li arrived with irritation still clinging to his face, exhaustion weighing heavily in his eyes. But the moment he stepped into the stove room—when the aroma hit him, when he saw the thick stew rolling gently in the pot, when he caught the expressions on everyone's faces—
He stopped.
Didn't shout.
Didn't scold.
"Chief Steward Li," Chef Zhang said, personally handing him a small bowl. "Please. Have a taste."
Chief Steward Li glanced at him, then accepted the bowl.
He stirred once. Lifted a spoonful. Tasted.
His expression shifted—scrutiny fading into surprise, then into something far more complicated.
He took another bite.
Then another.
When the bowl was empty, he wiped his mouth slowly with a handkerchief.
"This," he said, pointing toward the dark corner of discarded ingredients, "was made from those?"
"Yes," Chef Zhang replied evenly. "Qing Tian suggested it. The others helped. Everyone's been starving these days. We thought... a pot of hot food might steady the heart."
Chief Steward Li's gaze swept across the room.
Hungry faces. Tired eyes. Quiet hope.
As someone who had managed the Imperial Kitchen for decades, he understood one truth better than anyone—
Hunger bred resentment.
Resentment bred chaos.
After a long pause, he spoke.
"Wake everyone."
His voice was cool, but no longer sharp.
"Serve it in the courtyard. Quietly. No noise. Once they've eaten, clean everything. Leave no trace."
"Yes!"
The reply came instantly.
The sleeping courtyard stirred awake.
Workers were summoned in whispers. Lanterns flickered to life.
When they saw the massive steaming pot, disbelief rippled through the crowd.
There weren't enough bowls.
Some used mess tins.
Some used clean lotus leaves.
They lined up silently.
Zhao Sanniang and Fu Gui served—one full ladle per person. No skimping.
Soon, the courtyard filled with soft eating sounds and suppressed sighs.
No one spoke.
Yet warmth flowed through the cold, rain-soaked night like a quiet current.
Some wiped their eyes when they thought no one was looking.
Some held their bowls with numb fingers, waiting for feeling to return.
Even the stern supervisors turned away, eating carefully, deliberately.
At Chef Zhang's suggestion, Steward Li took another half bowl.
He ate slowly—thoughtfully.
That night, nearly two hundred people were saved from hunger and cold by a single pot of stew made from what had once been considered refuse.
More importantly—
The fragile morale of the Imperial Kitchen, on the brink of collapse, was held together.
It should have ended there.
A quiet secret.
But three days later—after the roads reopened and supplies resumed—
An official from the Inner Administration arrived.
Registrar Cao.
His visit was sudden.
Chief Steward Li and Chef Zhang both tensed, already preparing for punishment.
Instead, Registrar Cao wore a faint smile.
"During the storm," he said mildly, "many departments reported unrest. Some even had fights among servants."
"But the Imperial Kitchen?"
"Not a single disturbance."
He looked between them, eyes sharp with interest.
"So tell me," he said softly,
"how did you manage that?"