Xiao Yu’s gaze was calm as still water, yet carried the weight of a thousand pounds, pressing down on Lin Qianshan so heavily that she could hardly breathe.
Her mind went blank, leaving only Madam Zhao’s warning—“Do not show mercy, even to death”—buzzing relentlessly in her head. Her survival instinct kicked in, and she quickly knelt down, forehead touching the cold floor.
She carefully placed the clay bowl at her side, and a few drops of scalding soup spilled onto the back of her hand, causing a faint sting.
“Your servant… I’m your servant, the new kitchen maid Lin Qianshan,” her voice trembled slightly from fear, but she forced it to remain clear. “Because… I was unbearably hungry, I dared to use some discarded kitchen scraps to cook… I beg Your Grace to forgive me!”
She didn’t dare look up, only seeing the tips of the man’s black brocade boots, embroidered with intricate cloud patterns in silver thread, glinting coldly in the dim glow of the dying fire.
Time seemed to freeze.
The kitchen was silent except for the occasional crackle of the firewood and her own heart thudding like a drum.
The thunderous wrath she had imagined did not descend immediately.
The man in black remained silent, his gaze returning to the bowl of soup, still steaming.
The night wind slipped in through the door crack, bringing a chill, and carried the simple yet enticing aroma of the soup directly to his nose.
It was… a strange scent.
There was none of the greasy richness of his usual meals—only the pure, essential fragrance of grain cooked in water, intensified by the steam, mingled with the faint charred aroma of sautéed lard, and a barely perceptible, appetizing tang.
The gnawing pain in his stomach, which had persisted through the night like an invisible hand clenched around it, strangely eased for a moment under the influence of this warm, fragrant aroma.
Lingering behind Xiao Yu, Leng Feng frowned, hand on his sword hilt, ready to drag the audacious and suspicious maid out at a word.
He was secretly annoyed—tonight, the prince’s stomach ailment had kept him awake, and he had hoped for a quiet stroll in the manor, only to stumble upon such misfortune.
“Lift your head.”
After a moment, the voice sounded again, impassive yet slightly softer than before.
Lin Qianshan obeyed, slowly raising her head. She still did not dare meet his eyes, letting her gaze settle instead on the jade pendant at his waist, carved with coiling dragons and smooth to the touch.
Xiao Yu finally saw her fully.
She was very young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, pale and wan, lips chapped from thirst, yet her eyes were remarkably bright. Though filled with fear, there was a depth of unexpected calm in them, and even… a sense of judgment and calculation—something he had never seen in any maid before.
Absurd.
He actually felt that a mere kitchen maid was assessing the situation before her.
“Did you make this?” he asked, pointing at the bowl of soup.
“Y-yes… your servant made it,” Lin Qianshan replied softly, her heart still hammering. She could not gauge the intentions of this “noble lord.”
“Using only discarded ingredients?”
“Yes. I did not dare touch anything precious in the manor,” she answered cautiously, her nails digging into her palms.
Xiao Yu said nothing further.
Suddenly, he leaned forward. To the astonishment of both Lin Qianshan and Leng Feng, he reached out with his long, elegant fingers and picked up the chipped clay bowl.
The bowl was warm, the soup clear, with uniformly thin, soft noodles floating amidst a few slightly charred vegetable leaves. Surprisingly, it looked appealing.
“Your Grace! This is… not allowed!” Leng Feng shouted in alarm. “The source of this dish is unknown—it might—”
“Your Grace?” Lin Qianshan’s heart skipped a beat.
This was the master of the Jing Prince Manor, the legendary Xiao Yu, famed for his military achievements and ruthless reputation. And here she was, caught red-handed while stealing food, by the very person considered the ultimate “boss”!
Xiao Yu raised a hand, stopping Leng Feng mid-sentence.
A seasoned warrior, he had endured countless harsh conditions; a bowl of soup made from discarded scraps was hardly fearsome. He was merely… lured by the aroma, or perhaps driven by the rare, fleeting comfort it brought to his aching stomach.
He picked up a rough wooden spoon nearby, scooped a bit of soup, blew on it, and tasted it.
The moment the soup touched his lips, a subtle flicker passed over his brows.
There was none of the unpleasant flavor one would expect from discarded ingredients.
The taste was light yet refreshing, perfectly balanced in saltiness with a faint tang that stirred the appetite. It calmed the nausea that had churned in his stomach. The noodles were soft and silky, almost melting in the mouth, while the warm liquid slid down his throat like a gentle hand soothing the painful area.
He had eaten every delicacy imaginable; imperial chefs’ skills were nothing new to him. Yet this utterly simple soup, at this exact moment, perfectly met his most pressing need.
He ate quietly, deliberately, with focused intent that brooked no interruption.
Leng Feng stared in disbelief, his grip on the sword hilt loosening involuntarily.
Lin Qianshan held her breath, confused and amazed.
The prince… did not punish her. Instead… he was eating?
The bowl was quickly emptied. Xiao Yu set down the clay bowl and spoon with elegance, as if he had just savored a refined imperial dish rather than a humble noodle soup.
The cramping pain in his stomach eased significantly, and the irritating tension melted away. He looked at Lin Qianshan, still kneeling, her expression fluctuating wildly.
“Your name is Lin Qianshan?”
“Yes.”
“Have you learned cooking before?”
Lin Qianshan’s heart tightened.
She answered cautiously: “My family once ran a food stall, so I’ve picked up some basic cooking skills.”
Xiao Yu’s piercing gaze lingered on her. It was sharp enough to seem as though it could penetrate flesh and see into the soul. Cold sweat ran down Lin Qianshan’s back, fearing he might press for more details.
Fortunately, he did not.
“Cooking without permission and using kitchen items is indeed a violation of the manor’s rules,” Xiao Yu said, his voice returning to its usual cold neutrality.
Lin Qianshan’s heart sank again.
“Since this is your first offense and somewhat understandable… and…” He paused, glancing at the now-empty bowl. “…this soup is acceptable. I will let you off this time.”
Relief surged through Lin Qianshan like a tidal wave, nearly causing her to collapse. She kowtowed immediately. “Thank you for your mercy, Your Grace!”
“Rise.” Xiao Yu said lightly. “Leng Feng.”
“At your command.”
“Tomorrow, inform Madam Zhao to transfer her to the small kitchen, responsible solely for… the stove.” Xiao Yu gave the order casually, yet it sealed Lin Qianshan’s entirely new fate.
From a lowly maid in the service quarters to the official stove attendant in the prince’s kitchen—this was a leap of fortune!
“…Yes,” Leng Feng suppressed his surprise and bowed to acknowledge.
Xiao Yu no longer looked at Lin Qianshan, as if everything just now had been a trivial interlude. He turned, his dark robe slicing a cold arc through the night as he left the kitchen.
Leng Feng followed, glancing back once at Lin Qianshan before leaving—a complex look, part scrutiny, part warning.
Only after their footsteps faded did Lin Qianshan finally relax, collapsing onto the floor, gasping for breath, her back soaked with cold sweat.
She had survived. Not only survived, but through a twist of fate… she had been promoted?
She looked at the now-empty clay bowl, the rim still streaked with traces of soup.
This Jing Prince, it seemed, was not as entirely unapproachable as the legends suggested. At least, when it came to food, he had a tolerance beyond what she had imagined.
The night deepened. The kitchen returned to silence. But Lin Qianshan knew that from this moment on, her destiny in this unfamiliar world had quietly shifted. Whether what lay ahead would bring fortune or misfortune remained unknown.