The rain started sometime after the Hour of the Ox.
At first, it was nothing more than a thin drizzle, tapping lightly against the blue-gray tiles of the Imperial Kitchen—soft, scattered, easy to ignore.
But by the middle of the night, the sky seemed to tear open.
Wind howled. Rain slammed against the windows like fists, shaking the frames as if something outside was desperate to break in.
Qing Tian lay curled in the corner of the communal quarters, eyes open, listening.
Too loud. Too long.
A vague unease pressed against her chest.
With weather like this... the supply carts won't make it.
Before dawn, the bad news came.
"The official road collapsed!"
Wang Youcai burst into the hall, soaked from head to toe, rainwater dripping from his cape and pooling on the floor. His face was ashen.
"The food convoy is stuck at the relay station—thirty miles out! No way through!"
A teacup slipped from Chief Steward Li's trembling hand, splashing hot tea across the tiles.
"What about the nobles' breakfast?!"
"There are leftovers in the storehouse," Wang Youcai said hoarsely. "Barely enough for the masters. As for the rest of us..."
Chief Steward Li's expression hardened.
"You all heard him," he said coldly, sweeping his gaze across the room. "The weather is heaven's will, but the nobles' meals are not to be diminished by even a hair."
"From today onward—all fresh vegetables and prime meat are reserved for the masters."
"As for you lot—half rations."
A pause.
"Anyone caught stealing, hiding food, or complaining will receive twenty lashes and be sent to the laundry yard."
The room fell silent.
Then came suppressed sobs.
Nearly two hundred workers. Endless labor. Half rations.
It wasn't punishment.
It was slow starvation.
Qing Tian's fingers tightened.
She already knew—the storeroom was emptier than their stomachs.
The rain did not stop.
For days, it poured as if the sky had overturned a bottomless pot. Drainage failed. Water pooled ankle-deep in the lower courtyards.
On the nobles' tables, dishes were still plated beautifully—but the portions betrayed the truth.
Shrimp were smaller. Ham cubes fewer. Even the treasured conpoy soup held only fragments.
And the kitchen staff?
Two rock-hard grain dumplings mixed with bran per meal.
A bowl of clear soup, so thin it reflected faces.
For fire tenders, porters, and dishwashers, it wasn't food.
It was mockery.
Hunger wrapped around the kitchen like a cold, invisible snake.
Cleavers struck chopping boards without rhythm. Fire attendants stared blankly into the flames. Even Xiao Man—normally lively—sat hugging her small savings jar like it was the last source of warmth in the world.
Qing Tian chewed slowly, throat aching with every bite.
Around her, she felt it.
Dejection. Anxiety. A creeping despair.
Food shortages didn't just drain strength—they hollowed hearts.
On the evening of the third day, the rain finally weakened.
Drizzle replaced downpour.
Then came worse news.
"The road repairs will take at least five more days."
The last of the kitchen's stock was nearly gone.
Not even enough for the nobles.
That night, Qing Tian went to the storeroom.
All that remained was a small basket of wilted greens—some already yellowed—and a few thin, twisted carrots.
She turned to leave—
Then stopped.
In the farthest, darkest corner, something caught her eye.
A neglected heap.
Cracked pumpkins leaking juice.
Potatoes blackened and soft with rot.
Broken tofu, dried and curling at the edges.
Darkened meat scraps tangled with sinew.
Forgotten mushrooms and strips of dried seaweed.
In the Imperial Kitchen, these were waste.
Too low even for servants.
Normally, they would be thrown out without a second glance.
But to Qing Tian—
They weren't silent.
The wilted greens clung to reluctance.
The broken tofu carried resentment.
The meat scraps radiated loneliness.
And the dried mushrooms and seaweed...
They were quiet, patient—dense with restrained richness.
Her heartbeat quickened.
A spark flared in the darkness.
If these won't feed the nobles...
Then maybe they can save everyone else.
Qing Tian slowly clenched her fist.
For the first time since the rain began—
She saw a way forward.