The day Yunxiang was buried, a thin rain fell.
Not a storm.Just that endless spring drizzle—fine as silk, cold as bone.
The southern road had turned to mud. Each step clung to the soles like regret that refused to be shaken off.
Few came to the funeral.
Xiaoman stood before the grave, trembling, clutching an old ledger to her chest.Its cover was worn pale, edges softened by years of use. Inside were Yunxiang's careful records—grain prices beyond the palace, shop accounts, movements of private storehouses.
Now, it was all that remained of her.
She held it as if holding Yunxiang herself.
Qing Tian stood at the front.
She carried no umbrella.
Rain soaked her hair, slid down her sleeves, darkened the hem of her robes. No one dared ask her to step aside.
She bent, lifted the final handful of earth—
—and let it fall.
Once.
Twice.
The sound was dull. Heavy. Final.
She did not speak.
Because some hatreds, once voiced, lose their weight.
Only those kept buried in the heart grow sharp enough to kill.
By the time Qing Tian returned to the palace, dusk had already swallowed the sky.
The lamps in Tingyu Pavilion flickered to life. Spring Peach hesitated before asking softly,
"Your Highness… should you rest?"
Qing Tian shook her head.
The first thing she did was not to grieve.
Not to petition the Emperor.
Not to seek the Empress Dowager.
She did something far quieter.
Far more dangerous.
She changed the menu.
That night, the Imperial Kitchen blazed with light.
Qing Tian personally drafted a new schedule. All rotating late-night broths were removed, replaced with a single formula:
Ginseng and Astragalus Nourishing Soup.
A tonic served to the Emperor.To the Empress Dowager.To Consort Shen.
Restorative.Balanced.Medicinal properties mild and stable.
Even the most fastidious imperial physician would find no fault.
Whispers stirred among the cooks.
"Is this goodwill?"
"No one dies from this soup."
Qing Tian offered no explanation.
She verified every herb's origin, every simmering hour, every delivery time. Even the bowls were changed—plain white porcelain, unadorned.
The cleaner the surface—
…the deeper the trap.
The next day, Consort Shen smiled.
Draped in crimson silk, she reclined among the concubines, elegance untouched, as though the storm at the Buddhist hall had never happened.
"Director Qing," she said lazily, lifting the bowl,"Are you trying to curry favor with me?"
She sipped.
The broth was clear. Fragrant. Warm.
"…Not bad."
Her lips curved.
"This soup pleases me."
Qing Tian bowed.
"Your Ladyship's constitution is delicate. This tonic is most suitable."
She paused.
A deliberate pause.
Consort Shen's gaze sharpened.
"However?"
Qing Tian raised her eyes.
"This prescription contains an auxiliary herb."
"It must not be interrupted."
Consort Shen arched a brow.
"And if it is?"
Qing Tian's voice was calm.
"If discontinued for three days…"
She held Shen's gaze.
"…the qi and blood will reverse."
"Palpitations. Dizziness. Night terrors."
"A condition indistinguishable from poisoning."
Silence rippled through the hall.
Consort Shen's smile thinned—just slightly.
Three days later—
Consort Shen fell ill.
Sleepless nights.Tightness in the chest.Mind clouded by day, haunted by visions at night.
She dreamed of the dead.
Again and again—
Yunxiang's face.
Physicians rotated through her chambers.
Pulse steady.Organs balanced.Soup free of toxins.
Nothing was wrong.
And within the palace—
that was the most terrifying diagnosis of all.
A sickness with no poison.A symptom with no cause.A fear with no enemy.
Consort Shen began to unravel.
She suspected her maids.Her physicians.Every bowl placed before her lips.
Her palace descended into quiet chaos.
On the fourth night, Qing Tian came in person.
She carried a bowl of steaming soup into Shen's dim chamber.
Candles burned low.
Consort Shen sat on her couch, face pale, shadows bruised beneath her eyes.
Her voice was raw.
"…Was it you?"
Qing Tian set the bowl down gently.
Her hands did not tremble.
"This servant is responsible only for nourishment."
She leaned closer.
"Your illness…"
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"…comes from discontinuing the auxiliary herb."
Consort Shen's breath hitched.
"You withheld it."
"I did not."
Qing Tian's tone remained even.
"It was delivered."
"But someone in Your Ladyship's palace replaced it."
Consort Shen's pupils contracted.
Qing Tian straightened.
"Because that herb…"
A beat of silence.
"…was your antidote."
The truth struck like ice water.
Consort Shen finally understood.
Qing Tian had not poisoned her.
She had laid a snare.
A psychological siege.A controlled unraveling.
A trap designed to force Shen to look inward—
—to expose the one hand daring enough to tamper with her medicine.
Who had access to the soup?Who could alter the herbs?Who would benefit from breaking the cycle?
That person—
Was the ghost in the granary.
The thief of grain.
The murderer of Yunxiang.
Consort Shen's fingers curled, trembling.
"What do you want?"
Qing Tian's gaze was unwavering.
"Grain."
"A list of names."
"And—"
She paused, eyes cold as winter steel.
"…Yunxiang's life."
The soup between them had not yet cooled.
But blood—
Blood was already approaching.