The scene on the palace road—silent, crushing, unforgettable—was delivered to the Hall of Mental Cultivation like the most urgent military dispatch.
Emperor Tang Yi had already dressed for court.
He stood by the window, gazing at the still–gray sky. His face revealed nothing, but his eyes—deep and unfathomable—were colder than the frost outside.
Gao Dexuan knelt in the hall and reported everything he had seen, word for word. He repeated Fu Shun's speech without omission. His voice was steady, yet a faint tremor betrayed him.
The hall fell into absolute silence.
Only the ticking of the Western clock echoed—measured, merciless.
After a long while, Tang Yi turned slowly.
Morning light cut across half his face, shadow and brightness interlaced, his expression unreadable.
"They're all kneeling?" he asked calmly.
"Yes, Your Majesty. From the palace gates to before the Hall of Supreme Harmony. Both sides… nearly filled. Mostly low-ranking servants—Imperial Kitchen, menial palace staff."
"And Liu Chenghan?"
"Furious. He accused them of gathering to cause unrest and demanded immediate suppression."
Tang Yi's lips curved almost imperceptibly—a cold, humorless smile.
"Suppression?" he repeated, fingers tapping lightly against the rosewood window frame. "He's impatient."
Gao Dexuan dared not respond.
"Tell those kneeling outside," Tang Yi said, his voice flat but decisive, "that their intentions have been received. Order them to disperse, return to their duties, and resume their lives. Today's matter—"
He paused.
"—will not be pursued."
Gao Dexuan's heart jolted. "This servant obeys!"
"And one more thing," Tang Yi added.
"Summon Liu Chenghan and the loudest of those censorial officials to the Southern Study. Tell them—today, we will not discuss this matter. Let them wait."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
When Gao Dexuan withdrew, Tang Yi stood alone in the vast hall.
He walked to the imperial desk, his gaze falling upon the towering stack of memorials demanding Qing Tian's punishment.
Her face surfaced in his mind.
Those clear, stubborn eyes.The unadorned Truth Noodles that cut straight to the heart.The carefully timed soups and snacks that always arrived when he needed them most.The quiet but real changes in the Imperial Kitchen.Her thin figure, working late beneath a single lamp.And the reform proposal he had quietly shelved—yet already memorized.
Yes. She had crossed lines.
She had touched rigid palace rules and disturbed entrenched interests.
But what she did were real things.
What she gave were things long forgotten in the depths of the palace—warmth, dignity, hope.
And the hundreds kneeling silently on the palace road were the most ruthless proof of all.
An emperor's art lay in balance.
The Liu clan needed pressure.The conservatives needed guidance.Even palace rules—perhaps they could bend, just a little, with the times.
More importantly, Tang Yi needed a blade that was different—something to stir the stagnant waters of the court.
Qing Tian might be that blade.
Not sharp.Sometimes clumsy.But unmistakably different—and capable of reaching hearts no decree ever could.
"'Interfering in governance through food'…" Tang Yi murmured, fingers brushing the sharp characters on the memorial. A trace of mockery flashed in his eyes.
"Then let me see how this 'governance' is done."
His decision was made.
At dawn court, Tang Yi emerged in full regalia, crown upon his head, robes brilliant gold.
As he stepped onto the palace road, the kneeling servants were already dispersing under Gao Dexuan's orders—heads lowered, limbs stiff with cold, retreating like a silent tide.
Yet when the emperor appeared, a ripple passed through those who remained. Many stopped and knelt again instinctively, pressing their foreheads to the ground.
Tang Yi did not slow.
He did not look to either side.
He walked forward steadily, yellow robes brushing against frozen stone.
Just before leaving the road and entering the court plaza, his steps paused—almost imperceptibly.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a small figure near the wall—just rising, rubbing numb knees.
A thin fire-girl from the Imperial Kitchen.
Her eyes were still red.
His gaze lingered for less than a breath.
Then he looked away, face once more carved in imperial stone.
Only Gao Dexuan, walking beside him, noticed that fleeting pause—and the complex flicker deep in the emperor's eyes.
Court convened under heavy tension.
Many officials waited breathlessly for the verdict on the Food Consort affair. Liu Chenghan's faction was especially eager, ready to press harder the moment the emperor spoke.
But Tang Yi said nothing.
He addressed border grain supplies.The upcoming Heaven Sacrifice ceremony.Flood control.Administrative matters.
His tone was even. His rulings swift.
It was as though the impeachment memorials—and the kneeling masses—had never existed.
Liu Chenghan attempted to speak, more than once.
Each time, the emperor redirected the discussion effortlessly, not even sparing him a glance.
That silence was worse than rebuke.
Confidence drained from their faces, replaced by unease, then dread.
They finally understood: the emperor's stance was firmer—and far subtler—than they had imagined.
After court, the officials who had signed the impeachment were summoned to the Southern Study.
No scolding.No explanation.
Tang Yi merely instructed them to "reconsider the wording," "verify the facts," and "exercise caution."
Light words.
Freezing effect.
This was a warning.
The news swept through the palace.
In Changchun Palace, Consort Liu listened to her brother's furious, panicked report.
The jade ruyi slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor.
"He… he actually—" Her face drained of color, hatred blazing in her eyes.
The emperor hadn't abandoned Qing Tian.
He had protected her.
Which meant this strike—meant to crush—might instead recoil upon the Liu clan itself.
At Tingyu Pavilion, when Gao Dexuan personally delivered the emperor's message—the matter will not be pursued; the storm has temporarily passed—Qing Tian froze.
She had prepared for ruin.
She had never expected this.
The emperor had chosen her.
Or rather—he had chosen what she stood for.
She stepped into the courtyard, squinting against the autumn sun.
The kneeling figures.Fu Shun's trembling voice.
Only now did she understand—
This had never been her battle alone.
It was the cry of countless silent souls, struggling at the bottom of the palace.
And the emperor had heard them.
Tears spilled freely—not from fear or grievance, but from awe, gratitude, and a crushing sense of responsibility.
The danger was not over.
Consort Liu would not stop.The undercurrents of court still churned.
But light had broken through the clouds.
And Qing Tian would keep walking forward.
For those who had knelt in the cold.
And for the young emperor who, standing at the highest place, had chosen—against pressure and tradition—to leave room for those voices to breathe.