The wind shifted.
On the third day after Consort Shen's complete confinement, new eyes appeared outside the Imperial Kitchen.
Not openly watching.
But the kind of glances that dropped the instant you turned your head.
Qing Tian noticed.
Which meant—
someone had begun to move.
"Director Qing…"
Late afternoon. Side chamber of the Food Bureau.
An elderly court historian lowered her voice.
"Rumors are spreading."
Qing Tian set down her brush.
"What kind of rumors?"
The woman hesitated… then spoke anyway.
"They say Your Ladyship has overstepped."
"That a female official born of the Inner Palace has meddled in matters of the Outer Court."
"That you are shaking ancestral law."
A pause.
Her voice fell even lower.
"They also say… His Majesty has been bewitched through food."
Silence.
Then the final verdict—
Soft.
Deadly.
"A female official interfering in state affairs."
The words were barely audible.
Yet they struck like a nail driven into the air.
Because once such a charge took root—
It did not matter how much corruption she uncovered.
How many lives she saved.
This accusation required no proof.
Only hierarchy.
Only order.
That Night
Qing Tian did not increase guards.
Did not seal doors.
Did not hide.
She allowed the Warm-Heart Soup to be delivered as usual to the night-duty servants.
But inside the broth—
she added one ingredient.
Lotus plumule.
A herb to calm the mind.
Also—
unmistakably bitter.
Day Three
The backlash began to "naturally" ferment.
At morning court, a senior minister of Rites spoke with careful casualness:
"Palace dietary reforms have grown frequent of late."
"Though well-intentioned, they risk deviating from ancestral precedent."
Another voice followed.
Smooth. Agreeable.
"Women wielding authority has rarely ended without calamity."
A third added:
"The Food Bureau reporting directly to His Majesty…"
A measured pause.
"Is this not beyond propriety?"
No names were spoken.
Yet every blade pointed at one person.
The Emperor did not respond.
He only listened.
Eyes unreadable.
At the far end of the civil officials—
Qing Tian stood perfectly still.
Serene.
Because this…
was the day she had been waiting for.
That Evening — Tingyu Pavilion
She changed out of official robes.
Dressed simply.
Gao Dequan came in person.
"Director."
His tone was heavy.
"The political winds are unfavorable."
"His Majesty's meaning is clear."
"If you step back now…"
"…he can still protect you."
Qing Tian shook her head gently.
"This step cannot be taken backward."
"If I retreat…"
"…those beneath me will be crushed."
Gao Dequan studied her for a long moment.
Then sighed.
"And what will you do?"
Qing Tian lifted her eyes.
Cool.
Certain.
"I will let them see…"
"…whether I am truly 'interfering in state affairs.'"
The Next Morning
An unremarkable notice appeared outside the Food Bureau.
No imperial dragon seal.
No Grand Secretariat stamp.
Only a single line:
"All palace food provisions shall be publicly posted every ten days for review."
Below it—
columns of merciless clarity:
Grain received.Grain issued.Grain remaining.
Down to the last liang.
At first—
no one dared approach.
Three days later—
an old eunuch stopped before the board.
He stood there for an entire stick of incense.
Reading.
Re-reading.
Hands trembling.
Until finally—
he wiped his eyes.
"So… we truly were being docked this much…"
The truth did not surge upward.
It flowed downward.
Into the cracks.
To the lowest ranks.
To those who were never asked.
Never heard.
Whispers spread.
Quiet.
Steady.
Dangerous.
"Director Qing isn't fighting for power…"
"She's returning our grain."
Day Five
Everything changed.
A veteran palace servant collapsed during night-duty meal rotation.
He should have died.
Under the old rationing system—
he would have.
But he lived.
Before witnesses, the dietary physician declared:
"If provisions had remained at prior levels…"
"…this man would not have survived three days."
And just like that—
the accusation began to lose weight.
Because the court finally saw:
She had not touched power.
She had touched life.
That Night — Warm Annex of the Hall of Mental Cultivation
No attendants.
No ceremony.
Only lamplight.
Tea between them.
The Emperor looked at her.
His first words were not command—
but question.
"Are you afraid?"
Qing Tian considered.
Then answered honestly.
"Yes."
The Emperor nodded slightly.
"Then why not retreat?"
She met his gaze.
Because this truth—
could not be softened.
"Because if I step back…"
"…every woman who dares to speak for the powerless after me…"
"…will be buried beneath the same charge."
Silence filled the room.
Long.
Heavy.
At last—
the Emperor spoke.
Quiet.
Final.
"Then continue."
A pause.
"I will bear the consequences behind you."
Aftermath
That night—
the wind fully changed direction.
But Qing Tian understood something the court did not.
The true danger was never the accusation.
Never the ministers.
Never the noise.
It was—
those whose fortunes she had severed.
And who were still standing.