A strong musty smell mixed with the scent of firewood hit her nostrils immediately.
Lin Qianqian regained consciousness amid violent jolts and a suffocating sensation.
Her eyelids felt like lead, her throat burned with dryness, and every breath stung painfully.
Shouldn’t she be in Paris, preparing for tomorrow’s Michelin three-star review? That bottle of champagne she had opened to celebrate… its taste still lingered on her lips.
“Bang!”
A muffled thud, and she was roughly dragged out of the narrow, jostling space, landing heavily on the cold, hard ground. The piercing chill cut through her thin, coarse clothing, making her curl up, shivering uncontrollably.
“Madam Zhao, the person has been brought. For your inspection,” a coarse male voice called.
Lin Qianqian struggled to lift her head, her blurry vision slowly clearing.
Before her was the back gate of a grand mansion. High walls, deep courtyards, and an imposing atmosphere. A plaque hung above the door, inscribed with two large characters in majestic strokes: Prince Jing’s Mansion.
A middle-aged housekeeper in dark navy armor, her hair perfectly arranged, stood at the gate. Her eyes were sharp as knives, scanning Lin Qianqian from head to toe.
And she herself was dressed in tattered, filthy clothing, with bruises on her wrists from ropes.
Fragments of memories that weren’t hers surged into her mind like a flood.
The original owner, also named Lin Qianqian, had been the daughter of a small merchant family in Jiangnan. Her family had fallen on hard times, and her ruthless uncle had colluded with the local gentry to sell her into Prince Jing’s household—a place where slaves were worked mercilessly. Along the way, she had suffered hunger, cold, and abuse, and had just died…
“Lift your head.” Madam Zhao’s voice was icy, devoid of warmth.
Lin Qianqian obeyed, forcing herself to steady her breath. She had once stood at the pinnacle of the culinary world, witnessing countless grand occasions. Though now trapped in a dire situation, her innate pride and resilience kept her from breaking.
Madam Zhao’s eyes flickered with a trace of surprise as she examined her. Despite her haggard, gaunt appearance, the girl had excellent features.
Most striking were her eyes—they were wide and bright even in fear, with an inexplicable depth, unlike that of an ordinary peasant girl.
“Your appearance is passable. Since you’ve signed a death contract, you will serve as the lowest-ranking maid in the mansion. Follow the rules: see little, hear little, speak little, and do much. Should you harbor thoughts you shouldn’t, or make mistakes, you will be beaten to death without question. Understand?” Madam Zhao’s words were slow but heavy with weight.
“…Understood,” Lin Qianqian’s voice was hoarse but clear.
“Hmph.” Madam Zhao seemed satisfied with her response.
She gestured to a nearby matron, “Take her to the kitchen courtyard. She will handle chopping firewood, tending the fire, and washing vegetables. Show her where she may not go.”
“Yes, Madam,” the matron replied.
Lin Qianqian was half-pushed, half-led through the mansion’s back gate. Inside, the courtyards were deep, corridors winding. Servants passed silently, exuding a suffocating solemnity.
She was brought to a remote, cramped yard filled with stacks of firewood. The air was thick with damp wood and lingering cooking smoke. This was the lowest-level kitchen servants’ area of the mansion.
The matron pointed to a dim, damp corner, just large enough to squeeze into. “This is where you’ll sleep,” she said, then turned and left without another word.
Lin Qianqian stepped into the so-called “room,” which held only a pile of straw and a worn mat. Sliding down against the cold wall, a wave of overwhelming confusion and fear finally hit her.
She had traveled through time—from a respected, top-tier chef to a powerless servant in ancient times.
Her stomach twisted with hunger, a cruel reminder of reality. The original Lin Qianqian had long gone without proper food.
Her hand brushed against something tucked in her bosom. To her surprise, it was a small piece of hard black bread wrapped in grease paper, likely the original owner’s last hidden ration.
Her survival instincts surged.
She had to live.
Late at night, the entire mansion quiet, Lin Qianqian followed her memories and scents to the kitchen. The vast kitchen was empty, except for embers still smoldering in the stove, giving off a faint warmth.
Using the light from the dying embers, she searched quickly.
In a corner lay some discarded yellowing vegetable leaves, a half-bowl of clumpy, almost oil-free coarse salt, and a small jar of leftover lard forgotten by the chefs.
A resourceful cook can create miracles even with the humblest ingredients.
She worked swiftly, kindling a small fire and melting the lard in a tiny iron pot. Once hot, she tossed in the shredded vegetable leaves, stirring quickly to release a faint fragrance, then added water.
While waiting for it to boil, she mixed a bit of flour with water into a rough but even dough. Without a rolling pin, she used her wrist strength to stretch it on a greased board, then tore it into evenly sized pieces.
When the water boiled, the dough pieces flew into the pot like butterflies.
She used a chipped clay bowl to mix a pinch of salt with a small amount of what seemed like fermented sauce or vinegar, making the simplest broth.
In a short while, a steaming bowl of “vegetable leaf noodle soup” was ready. The broth was clear, the noodles soft, and the sautéed leaves gave off a rustic, smoky aroma. On this cold, desperate night, this hot bowl of soup was a lifeline.
She crouched by the stove, about to devour it—
“Impudent!”
An icy, authoritative voice, like thunder, exploded behind her.
Lin Qianqian’s hand shook, nearly dropping the steaming bowl.
She turned sharply and saw a tall figure standing at the kitchen door.
Moonlight from outside cast a cold glow, making his features hard to discern, but a powerful, intimidating aura emanated from him. He wore a dark patterned brocade robe, standing straight and imposing, his presence alone freezing the air in the kitchen.
Behind him stood a stern guard, sword at his waist.
Lin Qianqian’s heart sank to the bottom of her stomach, her body chilled.
She had been caught! In the mansion, secretly using the kitchen and its ingredients was a grave offense!
Madam Zhao’s warning—“beat to death without question”—still echoed in her mind.
The man in dark robes stepped forward, his footsteps distinct in the silent night. His gaze swept over her terrified face before settling on the steaming, strangely aromatic soup in her hands.
He leaned slightly, his deep eyes like a cold pond, locking onto her pale, fearful face. His voice was calm, emotionless:
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”