When Tang Yi opened his eyes, daylight was already spilling through the curtains of the Yangxin Hall.
He had not woken from a nightmare.
Not from a splitting headache.
Not from the careful whisper of a night-watching eunuch.
He had woken… naturally.
As though a tightly wound string deep inside him—stretched for years—had finally loosened, just enough to allow one complete descent into true, undisturbed sleep.
He lay still for a moment, absorbing the sensation.
No crushing exhaustion.
No throbbing at his temples.
Only a quiet, unfamiliar peace.
Tang Yi slowly sat up. His movements felt lighter than usual. Servants hurried in to help him wash and dress. Gao Dequan personally brought a bowl of warm ginseng soup, watching his master's face carefully.
"Did Your Majesty rest well last night?"
Tang Yi did not answer right away. His gaze drifted to the blooming narcissus in the corner, its petals glistening with morning dew.
The memory of that plain little cake—its gentle sweetness, its warmth—still lingered faintly on his tongue.
"…Adequately," he said at last.
Two simple words.
Yet Gao Dequan nearly held his breath.
In all the years he had served this Emperor, those two words were the highest praise Tang Yi had ever given to sleep.
Court convened. Memorials were read. Ministers argued.
The empire's problems had not vanished overnight.
The northern military deficit still loomed.
Flood relief remained a tangle of excuses and corruption.
But today, Tang Yi found his thoughts… clearer.
The fury that so often rose without warning was held back, separated from him by a thin but very real layer of calm.
Something had changed.
When court ended, Tang Yi returned to the Imperial Study and dismissed everyone except Gao Dequan.
"That pastry from last night," he said quietly. "Have you identified it?"
Gao Dequan bowed. "This servant questioned the Imperial Kitchen. Chief Steward Li claimed it was simply one of the standard night-snack items prepared for Your Majesty."
"Standard?" Tang Yi tapped his fingers against the rosewood desk. "I do not recall any 'standard' pastry that looks or tastes like that."
Sweat gathered at Gao Dequan's temples. "That is what Chief Li reported. Perhaps it was a… newly developed recipe."
"A new recipe?" Tang Yi's lips curved almost imperceptibly. "The Imperial Kitchen's new dishes are usually carved like dragons and inlaid with gold. Since when do they serve something so… humble?"
Gao Dequan had no answer.
"Go back," Tang Yi ordered. "Investigate again. Quietly. Tell them it is only casual curiosity. I want to know who made that cake, what went into it, and how it ended up before me."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
But the results did not change.
Every story matched.
Fu Hai had fallen ill.
Kitchen maid C17 had helped pack the food.
All the dishes had been prepared earlier as part of routine procedure.
Flawless. Proper. Untraceable.
Tang Yi listened in silence, then walked to the window, gazing at the pale sky framed by palace walls.
The Imperial Kitchen was hiding something.
Or rather—they were obeying a deeper rule: do not let a certain person or accident reach the throne.
That only made him more curious.
That cake had carried something he had never tasted in palace food before.
Not flattery.
Not extravagance.
But genuine comfort.
And that rare, dreamless night…
"Is it truly coincidence?" he murmured.
"Deliver my decree," Tang Yi said suddenly. "From today onward, the Imperial Study's night meals no longer need to follow fixed menus. Tell the Imperial Kitchen to… decide for themselves. I only require something light and agreeable."
"Decide for themselves?" Gao Dequan was startled. Such ambiguity was nearly unheard of in the palace.
"Deliver it exactly as spoken."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
As Gao Dequan withdrew, unease stirred in his chest.
Something had shifted.
A single unnoticed cake had landed like a stone in still water.
And the ripples were only beginning.