Qing Tian understood Zhao San-niang's hint.
Perfectly.
From that day on, she paid closer attention to the ingredients deemed unworthy of the imperial table.
Crooked carrot tops.
Uneven celery leaves.
Leftover meat trimmings.
Pastry skins peeled away and discarded.
In the Imperial Kitchen, these were trash.
But Qing Tian knew better.
They were still fresh.
Still nourishing.
Still alive.
After finishing her assigned work each day—when the fires in the main stoves had begun to die down—she would quietly slip to the smallest stove in the corner.
It was usually only used to heat water.
She had no proper tools.
Just an old iron pot with a chipped edge and a small, worn spatula.
That was enough.
She washed the scraps carefully, as if they were precious.
Carrots and celery leaves went into a bit of rendered pork fat, stirred until soft and fragrant. Minced meat followed, along with crushed bean skins. She seasoned everything with a pinch of coarse salt and a spoonful of aged sauce—clumped from moisture, forgotten in the corner.
The sauce carried a faint sense of abandonment.
And expectation.
Finally, she mixed in a little coarse grain flour and kneaded the mixture into palm-sized cakes.
She didn't fry them.
She baked them slowly, using the leftover heat of the stove.
Soon, a warm, simple fragrance filled the air—earthy grains, vegetables, and oil blending together.
Not fancy.
But honest.
The first to arrive was Old Eunuch Fushun, on duty at the back gate.
Drawn by the smell, he hobbled over, his cloudy eyes fixed on the golden cakes sizzling in the pot. His throat bobbed unconsciously.
Qing Tian picked one up, placed it on a clean lotus leaf, and handed it to him quietly.
"Eunuch Fushun," she said softly,
"thank you for your hard work. Please eat something to warm yourself."
He froze.
Then, hesitantly, he accepted it.
One bite.
The crust was lightly crisp.
The inside soft and filling.
Savory without being heavy.
He ate silently.
When he left, he didn't say a word.
But the gap in the back gate was left just a little wider.
After that, it became unspoken routine.
Every night around the Hour of You, figures would "coincidentally" appear near the small stove.
Young eunuchs waiting for shift change.
Servants exhausted from hard labor.
Even low-ranking guards chilled by the night wind.
Qing Tian never asked who they were.
She never said much.
One cake per person.
No more. No less.
Sometimes, someone would quietly leave behind a clean scrap of cloth.
Sometimes, a small bunch of wild chrysanthemums.
Most of the time, it was just a whispered,
"Thank you."
And then they vanished into the darkness.
To them, this was not a meal.
It was warmth.
She thought she was careful.
But kindness, in the palace, was never invisible.
At least—Chef Zhang noticed.
Snow fell that night.
Qing Tian was focused on the small stove, flipping the cakes, when snowflakes hissed as they landed on the hot rim of the pot.
Then—
"The heat's a little too strong."
The calm voice behind her made her jump.
She turned.
Chef Zhang stood there, wrapped in a half-worn cotton robe. It was impossible to tell how long he had been watching.
His gaze rested on the slightly overcooked cake in her spatula.
Qing Tian quickly set the tool down, her heart racing.
"Chef Zhang, I—"
"To cherish ingredients is a good thing," he interrupted gently.
He stepped forward.
Using the scraps still in the pot, he took the spatula from her hand.
His movements were slower than before.
Measured.
Almost heavy.
Ever since losing his sense of taste, his passion for cooking had dulled—but his skill remained razor-sharp.
He adjusted the cakes, repositioned them, controlled the heat.
Soon, the fragrance deepened—richer, more layered.
"The essence of cooking," Chef Zhang said quietly,
"is cherishing ingredients... and cherishing people."
He placed the finished cakes aside, golden and even.
"You have this kind of heart," he said.
"That's rare."
Qing Tian finally breathed out.
But his tone shifted.
"However—inside the palace, small kindness is the easiest thing to break."
He looked at her steadily.
"You can make cakes here because no one cares about scraps."
"But if someone accuses you of stealing ingredients...
Of currying favor...
Of harboring improper intentions..."
"What then?"
The warmth drained from Qing Tian's body.
Cold sweat spread down her back.
She had only wanted to help.
She had forgotten—
In the palace, every step could be turned into a blade.
"I..."
She had no answer.
"Compassion must have sharp edges," Chef Zhang said calmly.
"And kindness needs a solid foundation."
"These skills are enough for scraps," he continued,
"but not enough for the grand table."
"They won't protect the people you want to help."
"And they won't protect you."
He took out a book, carefully wrapped in oiled paper.
The pages were yellowed.
The corners worn.
There was no title on the cover.
"I wrote this during my years traveling and working," he said.
"It's not just recipes."
"It's about understanding ingredients.
Understanding people."
"And how to survive while doing things right."
He placed the book into Qing Tian's hands.
"To do greater good," he said softly,
"you must first stand firm."
Snow settled briefly on his graying temples before melting away.
"Read it. Hold your knife steady. Master the fire."
"Only when you stand higher can your kindness truly reach the ground."
With that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the dim light of the Imperial Kitchen.
Qing Tian stood there, clutching the book.
Warmth lingered on the cover.
The cakes in the pot had cooled, but the richer fragrance remained in the air.
She opened the first page.
Neat, powerful handwriting filled the paper:
"Food is not merely to fill the stomach.
It is to observe the nature of things,
follow the rhythm of time,
borrow the virtue of fire,
and balance the harmony of people.
Every bite reveals the heart."
Snow fell silently, dotting the page with tiny wet marks.
Qing Tian closed the book and pressed it to her chest.
The palace walls were deep.
The night was long.
But within her heart, a seed had finally broken through frozen soil.
Hope.
She knew the road ahead would be dangerous.
In the deep palace, kindness was the rarest—and most perilous—thing of all.
But she also knew this:
She was no longer empty-handed.
In her grasp—
A sharper knife.
And a map toward the future.
Only when you eat well, she thought,
can your heart remain unburdened.
And to feed more people—
She would first become strong enough to stand.