The last thing Lin Wei remembered was the blinding white of laboratory lights.
A sweetness coated her throat—synthetic, cloying—before turning violently bitter.
Then everything went dark.
When she opened her eyes again, the first thing she felt was cold.
Not the chill of air conditioning.
This was a damp, bone-deep cold, seeping through fabric and skin, wrapping around her like something alive.
She stared up at low wooden beams, blackened by years of smoke. Beneath her was a hard plank bed, covered by a threadbare blanket so thin light slipped straight through.
"C17! Still lying there? Looking for a beating?"
A hoarse woman's voice snapped from outside.
Lin Wei jolted upright.
No—
Not Lin Wei.
This body answered to Qingtian.
C17.
Memories that didn't belong to her surged forward, sharp and overwhelming.
Fifteen years old.
Entered the palace at twelve.
Lowest-ranked kitchen maid in the imperial kitchen.
Orphaned.
No backing.
Placed here only because a distant cousin held a meaningless minor post.
Her duties were carved into her bones:
Scrubbing floors.
Washing vegetables.
Emptying waste.
Cleaning stoves.
The dirtiest. The heaviest. The most invisible work.
Qingtian lowered her gaze.
Small hands.
Rough knuckles.
Calloused palms.
These were not hands that held pipettes and keyboards.
She had transmigrated.
Not into a noble lady.
Not into a favored concubine.
Just a nameless kitchen maid at the very bottom.
Reality settled like a weight on her chest.
She said nothing.
Pulled on the dull gray uniform.
Splashed icy water on her face.
Followed the silent stream of maids toward the imperial kitchen.
Morning mist still clung to the palace.
The towering walls swallowed the sunlight, leaving the corridors cold and echoing with hurried footsteps.
But the kitchen courtyard was already alive.
Steam rose into the air.
Dozens of stoves roared.
Knives chopped. Water splashed. Dough thudded.
Eunuchs barked orders.
It was chaos.
And heat.
Qingtian was sent to the farthest corner—washing vegetables.
Early winter water burned her fingers as she scrubbed mountains of radishes, cabbages, and potatoes. Her hands quickly turned red and numb.
She didn't complain.
Compared to endless nights in a lab, this pain was... simple.
She worked quietly, letting herself absorb everything.
The smells were layered and rich—rice, oil, smoke, meat, spices.
And something else.
Something faint.
Almost like... emotion.
When her fingers brushed a dirt-streaked radish, a strange calm settled in her chest.
A wilted cabbage leaf carried a whisper of melancholy.
Qingtian paused.
Emotion?
Was it imagination?
Or... something left behind by a life devoted to food?
"Daydreaming again?!"
A cane slammed against the wooden basin, water splashing everywhere.
Matron Liu glared at her.
"If these vegetables aren't done before the morning bell, don't even think about lunch!"
"Yes, Matron."
Qingtian lowered her head and scrubbed faster.
At noon, she received two coarse grain buns and a small bowl of thin vegetable soup.
She sat in the shadows and ate slowly.
The bread scraped her throat.
The soup barely had taste.
Still, she chewed carefully.
Alive.
Able to eat.
That alone made this life better than the freezing lab she had died in.
In the afternoon, someone injured their hand.
Qingtian was called to cut radish shreds.
"Uniform! Thin! Even!" Matron Liu shouted.
"This is the imperial kitchen. Our reputation is on the line!"
Qingtian wrapped her fingers around the heavy knife and took a slow breath.
The moment steel touched radish—
Something clicked.
She felt it.
The texture.
The grain.
The precise angle the blade should take.
It wasn't memory.
It wasn't training.
It was instinct.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
The knife moved smoothly.
The shreds fell like silk—thin, even, almost translucent.
The kitchen grew quiet.
Maids paused mid-task.
Even Liu Mama narrowed her eyes.
"Stop."
A calm male voice cut through the silence.
Qingtian looked up.
A lean man stood nearby, dressed in deep blue. The copper tag on his chest marked him as Chef Zhang, second-in-command of the imperial kitchen.
He didn't look at her at first.
He picked up a few radish shreds, held them to the light, then tasted them.
"How long since this knife was sharpened?" he asked.
Matron Liu's face turned pale.
"Y-yesterday..."
"This knife couldn't do this," Chef Zhang said calmly.
He finally looked at Qingtian.
"You cut these?"
"Yes. C17."
"Trained before?"
"No." She hesitated, then answered honestly.
"I just felt it should be cut this way."
He studied her for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"Good."
"You'll get an extra dish tonight."
Gasps rippled through the maids.
Chef Zhang turned to the supervising eunuch.
"The Eight Treasures Mushroom Soup was overcooked. It can't be served."
"Pour it out," he said lightly, "or give it to the kitchen helpers."
The eunuch froze.
"But those are high-grade ingredients!"
Chef Zhang replied evenly,
"Rules are dead. People are alive."
That night, Qingtian received a slightly larger bowl of rice.
She ate pickles and listened to whispers ripple through the room.
"Chef Zhang is so kind..."
"That soup was incredible..."
"It was meant for the master..."
Qingtian sipped her clear soup.
She tasted something faint in it.
Regret.
And warmth.
It reminded her of her previous life.
Late nights in the lab.
The noodle shop downstairs.
Eat well, the owner used to say, sliding over an extra spoonful.
Then you can keep going.
A thousand years apart.
Inside palace walls.
Some truths remained unchanged.
Food wasn't just for survival.
It carried warmth.
That night, lying on her hard bed, Qingtian stared into the darkness.
Her arms ached.
Soft breathing filled the room.
She thought quietly:
This imperial kitchen... is where it begins.
From a bowl of soup.
From a single shred of radish.
If the heavens had given her a second life—
And this strange ability—
Then this time, she wouldn't live as a machine crushed by exhaustion.
She would use her hands—
To cook warmth
In this cold palace.
Eat well, she thought.
So your heart won't turn bitter.
Perhaps a lesson from a past life.
One worth sharing in this one.