Night was thick as ink.
Yet the late-spring wind carried a chill it had no business having, sliding slowly along the narrow stone path behind the Imperial Kitchen.
Qing Tian carried a plain silk lantern, walking step by step toward the western granary.
The flame swayed in the wind, stretching her shadow long and thin against the towering palace wall—like a bird trapped inside a gilded cage.
This was the third time she had checked the grain ledgers this month.
On paper, everything was flawless.
Allocations to each palace, rotational extra meals, imperial dishes, rations for the lowest laborers—every entry matched perfectly, even cleaner than before she had taken over.
And that was exactly what terrified her.
In the past few days, the Warm-Heart Soup had grown thinner.
Not more water.
Less substance.
The bone scraps were smaller. The bean residue scarcer. Even the cheapest coarse rice weighed noticeably less than before.
The lowest-ranking palace servants didn't dare speak.
But she had heard them anyway.
Someone sneaking into the firewood shed at midnight to gnaw on dry cakes.Someone mixing cold water into flour paste just to fool their stomach.
The Imperial Kitchen had never been rich.
But no one had ever gone hungry.
This wasn't a mistake.
This was a precise extraction.
The granary door loomed ahead.
A newly replaced bronze lock gleamed coldly in the lantern light.
Too new.
The Imperial Kitchen was frugal—locks like this were usually used for ten, even twenty years before replacement.
She stepped closer and lightly brushed her finger along the edge of the keyhole.
Her fingertip picked up a nearly invisible layer of grease.
The residue left by a new key inserted again and again.
—Someone had been opening it frequently.
Qing Tian's heart sank, inch by inch.
"Open it."
The young eunuch guarding the granary jolted, his face draining of color."S-Steward… the key… the key is kept by the Internal Affairs Office. I—I don't have—"
Qing Tian looked at him.
Her voice was terrifyingly calm.
"Use an axe."
"B-But… the lock—"
"Break it."
The axe came down.
The first strike cracked the latch.The second sent splinters flying.The third snapped the bronze lock clean in two.
The moment the door swung open, stale mold mixed with the cold breath of an empty storehouse rushed out.
Lantern light spilled inside.
Row after row of wooden crates stood neatly stacked.Seals intact.Red stamps vivid.
Everything looked… normal.
Qing Tian walked over and lifted the lid of the first crate.
Empty.
The second.
Empty.
The third.
Empty.
Ten crates.Twenty.Thirty.
An entire row—nothing but hollow shells.
Only a few scattered grains clung to the bottoms, like deliberate mockery left behind after everything had been shaken clean.
Qing Tian stood in the center of the granary, the silk lantern trembling faintly in her hand.
Her fingers shook.
Not because a few sacks had been stolen.
Not because someone skimmed the edges.
This was a system.
Ledgers.Keys.Seals.Internal Affairs authority.
A complete mechanism siphoning away the Imperial Kitchen's lifeblood—silently, continuously, without alerting a soul.
"They…"Her voice was low, tight at the throat."They even dare steal what keeps the lowest alive."
Footsteps sounded outside.
Unhurried.Unsurprised.
As if the visitor had known all along she would be here.
"Steward Qing—what a coincidence."
The voice was gentle.
And ice-cold down the spine.
Lantern light revealed a breathtakingly beautiful face.
Painted brows. Soft smile.
—Consort Shen, newly elevated.
She stood in the doorway as if she had merely passed by, her gaze landing precisely on the empty crates.
"I heard you were checking the grain," she said lightly, smiling as if to smooth things over."But these supplies… the Empress Dowager already allocated them to the Buddhist halls as offerings."
Her tone was warm, almost considerate.
"You wouldn't…"She lifted her eyes to Qing Tian, her smile unchanged."…count even the Empress Dowager's portions, would you?"
In that instant—
Qing Tian understood.
The grain hadn't been stolen.
It had been taken legally.
In the Empress Dowager's name.For religious offerings.Stamped and approved by power itself.
And the ones left starving were those without names, without backing, without even the right to cry injustice.
This wasn't corruption.
This was power, plundering in silence.
Consort Shen's gaze was soft—
Yet sharp as a blade.
"Steward Qing," she said gently,"Some accounts aren't unclear."
"They are… not meant to be counted."
Standing alone in the hollow granary, Qing Tian realized for the first time—
She was no longer just the steward of the Imperial Kitchen.
She had stepped onto the true battlefield of the inner palace.
And in this war,
The ones consumed firsthad always beenthe weakest.