The incident of the "warming stew" spread like a stone dropped into still water.
The splash itself had been quiet—but the ripples traveled far.
On the surface, the Imperial Kitchen returned to its familiar rhythm. Knives rose and fell in steady cadence. Woks hissed. Supervisors barked orders. Noble dishes were plated with the same flawless elegance as ever.
Yet Qing Tian felt it.
Something had changed.
As she crossed the courtyard, unfamiliar junior servants—low-ranking eunuchs, nameless maids—would give her the briefest nod as they passed. So quick it could almost be dismissed as coincidence. When she collected her assigned ingredients, the elderly storekeeper would wordlessly add a little extra to her basket. Once, near the laundry grounds, a broad-shouldered matron struggling with a sodden padded robe paused and glanced her way.
On that face cracked by cold sores and years of labor, a faint smile appeared.
Barely visible.
But real.
Qing Tian understood at once.
This was not authority.
Not reward.
Not protection from above.
It was reputation.
A reputation born from one pot of stew shared at the coldest moment—when hunger was sharpest and warmth was rarest.
The realization settled quietly in her chest.
And with it, her eyes opened to things she had never truly noticed before.
She saw that Uncle Wang, the elderly eunuch tasked with sweeping fallen leaves outside the kitchen, had developed a worsening cough. He had no money for bribes, no courage to ask for leave. He survived by boiling thin slices of dried ginger given to him by Old Madam Chen.
She heard that in the laundry division, a young maid named Shuangxi had accidentally knocked over a supervisor's washbasin. As punishment, she was made to kneel in icy water for two full hours. That night, she burned with fever. Afraid of being implicated—or catching illness—the girls in her room didn't dare offer her even a sip of water.
She also noticed that Laishun, a prep assistant, had been distracted lately. His knife slipped more than once, narrowly missing his fingers. Zhao Sanniang later explained why: his widowed mother outside the palace was gravely ill, and his meager wages could barely afford the cheapest medicine.
"In this palace," Zhao Sanniang said quietly, slicing meat with steady hands, "who doesn't carry their own troubles? But rules are rules. Everyone sweeps only the snow in front of their own door. If you're sick, you endure it. If something happens at home... you either find a way yourself, or you accept your fate."
The words pierced Qing Tian like a fine needle.
In her previous life, work had been exhausting—but illness came with insurance. Emergencies could be met with help, with systems, with people.
Here?
One fever.
One accident.
That was enough to destroy someone.
A thought slowly took shape.
She did not act immediately.
Instead, she watched.
She confirmed Xiao Man's quiet kindness. Fu Gui's unshakable gratitude. Old Madam Chen's natural compassion. She paid attention to two young eunuchs who often worked together—Xiao Anzi and Xiao Luzhi. Silent, diligent, never cutting corners. When others struggled, they stepped in without being asked.
The moment came without ceremony, on an afternoon scented with osmanthus blossoms.
Qing Tian was sent to deliver a cup of honeyed osmanthus tea to Chef Zhang during his rest.
He didn't drink it.
Instead, he gazed out the window at ginkgo leaves turning gold and spoke casually, "I hear the laundry division has been... unsettled lately."
Qing Tian's heart tightened. She replied carefully, "I don't know much about matters outside the kitchen."
"Mmm." Chef Zhang turned the warm cup slowly in his hands. "That's just as well. In this place, knowing too much—or caring too widely—isn't always a blessing."
He paused.
"But if everyone looks out only for themselves..." His voice lowered. "Then this palace becomes stagnant water."
"And stagnant water," he said calmly, "will rot."
He looked at her then.
His gaze was quiet. Deep. Unreadable.
"That day, when you made the stew, you gathered the hearts of the kitchen. Hearts are not easy to gather," he continued, "but very easy to lose."
"If you want that goodwill to last," he said softly, "food alone will not be enough."
Qing Tian did not fully understand.
But she heard what lay beneath his words.
And she sensed—permission.
That night, under the excuse of helping Old Madam Chen sort medicinal herbs, Qing Tian gathered Xiao Man, Fu Gui, Xiao Anzi, and Xiao Luzhi in Chen's small room.
Bundles of dried plants crowded the space, filling it with the clean, bitter scent of medicine.
A fragile circle was quietly formed.
And somewhere beneath the palace's deep walls, something unseen began to move.