Buddhist Hall Grain Depot. Midnight.
No bells.
No chanting.
No sound of prayer beads.
The depot stood severed from time itself—swallowed by darkness, breathing only in whispers.
No lanterns were lit along the corridor.Only a single oil lamp burned beside the ledger desk,its flame thin and fragile in the cold draft,casting trembling light over lines of ink.
The supervising monk knelt straight.
Too straight.
His knees touched the floor,yet his posture looked less like obedience—
and more like something nailed into place.
Qing Tian stood before the grain crates.
One.
Then another.
Then another.
She lifted each lid herself.
Not hurried.
Not dramatic.
Meticulous.
The wooden covers opened with soft, brittle clicksthat echoed unnaturally loud in the silent night.
Husks.
Rice mixed with sand.
Old grain flecked with mold.
In some crates, the rice had turned gray—carrying a faint but unmistakable sour stench.
This was grain meant for offerings.
For the palace.
For the army.
For survival.
Qing Tian slid her fingers along the rim of a crate.
Then into the bottom.
Her hand stopped.
She bent lower, brushing her fingertip gently across the base.
When she lifted it—
a smear of dark red stained her skin.
Dry.
Old.
Not fresh.
Her voice cut through the darkness.
"…This is blood."
The monk's face drained instantly.
He jerked his head up—
then forced it down again, as if strangled by fear.
"B–Benefactor, you must not speak recklessly!"
Qing Tian did not answer the warning.
Her eyes remained on the grain.
Her tone remained calm.
Cold.
"You've touched military grain."
The words fell softly.
Yet the air seemed to collapse.
The monk finally broke.
His forehead slammed against the floor with a dull thud.
Again.
Again.
Again.
"It was not my decision! I swear it!"
His voice cracked into near hysteria.
"Someone demanded it—said it was only a temporary loan!"
"They promised replacement within days!"
Qing Tian's reply was barely above a whisper.
"Who?"
The monk trembled violently.
Wind rushed through the corridor.
His throat bobbed.
Time stretched.
Then, as if tearing the truth from his own chest—
he forced out the name.
"…The Liu Clan."
Qing Tian did not gasp.
Did not rage.
Did not flinch.
Because in that instant—
everything aligned.
Why Master Zhang had been framed.
Why the Imperial Kitchen had to fall into chaos.
Why the Warm-Heart Soup had to disappear.
Because once food collapsed—
once everyone was scrambling merely to live—
no one would dare examine the grain.
She closed the ledger.
The sound was sharp.
Final.
Like a lock sealing shut.
"Does the court know the military grain is short?"
The monk shook his head miserably.
"The upper ranks count numbers…"
"The lower ranks count lives…"
Hall of Mental Cultivation — Dawn
The confidential memorial arrived without ceremony.
No vermilion seal.
No gilded casing.
Only three thin pages—
heavy enough to still the Emperor's breath.
Tang Yi read it once.
Then again.
Then slowly rose to his feet.
His hand pressed against the desk.
Knuckles pale.
"Who authorized them…"
"…to touch military grain?"
The voice was quiet.
But frostbitten.
Gao Dequan dropped to his knees instantly.
"Your Majesty…"
"This matter involves the Buddhist Hall…"
"The Empress Dowager's allocations…"
"And…"
He swallowed.
"…the Liu Clan."
The Emperor closed his eyes.
For a moment—
he saw the entire chain.
"No wonder…"
His voice lowered.
"The border army reported instability before spring floods."
"The rot began here."
Consort Shen's Palace
Doors slammed shut.
No servants dared enter.
"She dares?"
Consort Shen paced like a storm trapped in silk.
"A Seventh Grade inspector—"
Her senior maid interrupted softly.
"Your Highness."
"She now bears the Emperor's inspection authority."
The words struck like ice.
Consort Shen's nails bit into her palm.
"Then she must…"
"…never live to submit another report."
That Night — Bureau of Provisions
Fire.
Sudden.
Violent.
The auxiliary kitchen erupted in flames.
The blaze was contained quickly—
too quickly.
But not before consumingthe archive room storing old ledgers.
Ash blanketed the ground.
Smoke curled into the night sky.
Voices murmured in hushed tones.
"What a pity…"
"Those records…"
"…will never be traced again."
Spring Tao's voice trembled.
"My lady… the ledgers…"
"…they're gone…"
Qing Tian stood before the ruins.
Wind stirred ash into her hair.
Then—
she smiled.
Slowly.
"Who said they're gone?"
From her sleeve, she withdrew another ledger.
Slightly worn.
Perfectly preserved.
"The real records…"
"…never stay in one place."
Third Day
An urgent military dispatch thundered into the capital.
Eight-hundred-li express.
Military grain deficit: thirty percent.
The court shook.
This was no embezzlement.
This was death.
Buddhist Hall
For the first time—
the Empress Dowager summoned the Emperor privately.
Prayer beads halted mid-turn.
"Emperor."
Her voice was soft.
Deadly.
"I ask only once."
"Will you investigate the grain…"
"…or preserve imperial dignity?"
Tang Yi met her gaze.
Long.
Unwavering.
"Mother."
"If the border army starves…"
"…what falls is not dignity."
He paused.
"…but the empire."
Silence.
Absolute.
And in that silence—
the Empress Dowager finally understood.
This was no longer about Qing Tian.
The Emperor had chosen.
And he intended to use her bladeto cleanse the palace in blood.
That Night
A slip of paper arrived in Qing Tian's hands.
No signature.
No seal.
Only a single line.
"Tomorrow. Midnight.""Old canal entrance along the grain route."
She read it.
Folded it.
Closed her fingers slowly.
Because she knew—
the true "Ghost of the Granaries"
had never lived inside the palace.
And tomorrow night—
the hunt would finally begin.