As Madam Zhao’s words fell, the air in the small kitchen seemed to freeze.
Chef Zhang’s face shifted from pale to flushed, veins bulging on the back of his hand holding the knife.
He had been the head chef here for five years, and never once had the prince personally requested a specific dish—let alone demanded that a newly arrived kitchen maid, someone who had only been here a day, prepare it!
This was, quite literally, a slap in the face in front of everyone!
Lin Qianshan felt the almost tangible weight of his jealous gaze like needles on her back. She took a deep breath, steadying her racing heart. This was not the time for hesitation; the prince had spoken, and she had no room to retreat.
“Your servant… will obey,” she said, lowering her head. Her voice was quiet but clear and resolute.
Madam Zhao gave her a long, appraising look, said nothing more, and turned to leave, leaving a suffocating tension behind.
“Hmph!” Chef Zhang slammed his knife onto the cutting board with a heavy thud, then moved to a chair at the side and sat down, eyes closed, pretending to ignore the scene.
Chuntao glanced at Lin Qianshan anxiously, silently mouthing, “What do we do?”
Lin Qianshan gave her a reassuring look and walked to the ingredient area. Here, an array of fresh seasonal vegetables, exotic delicacies, and rare ingredients was laid out. Yet she didn’t linger on the luxurious items.
The prince’s stomach was delicate; anything rich or oily was strictly forbidden. The reason he had been able to eat the soup last night was its simplicity and gentle warmth. Now that ingredients were plentiful, restraint was even more crucial.
She finally selected only a short section of the freshest lotus root, a few dried scallops, and a small piece of finely marbled lean meat. She also took the simplest ingredients: some old ginger and white parts of scallions.
Though Chef Zhang’s eyes were closed, his ears were alert. When he heard the meager, ordinary selection, a mocking sneer crept across his face. With these, she thought she could make soup to satisfy the prince? Absurd!
Lin Qianshan ignored the gaze behind her.
She carefully peeled the lotus root, avoiding a metal knife (to prevent oxidation and discoloration), using instead a clean bamboo knife to slice it paper-thin, placing it in clear water to soak.
The scallops were soaked in warm water and shredded by hand into fine strands. The lean meat was gently pounded with the back of the knife into a soft paste, mixed with a little water and salt, and beaten in one direction until smooth and elastic.
Her movements flowed with an almost hypnotic rhythm, no gesture wasted. She treated the ingredients as if they were rare treasures rather than ordinary lotus root and scallops.
Chuntao watched, mesmerized. She had never seen anyone make cooking look so… beautiful.
The stove had already been carefully adjusted to a steady, gentle flame. Lin Qianshan took a wide-mouthed clay pot, filled it with clear spring water, added the shredded scallops, a few slices of ginger, and scallion segments. When the water began to show tiny bubbles but hadn’t fully boiled, she gently spooned in the meat paste bit by bit.
The meat coagulated instantly into pale pink, delicate clusters floating in the now-clear broth. She carefully skimmed off any scum, leaving the soup crystal clear.
Only then did she add the drained lotus slices. Lotus root cooks quickly, and she timed it perfectly—just until tender but still crisp—then sprinkled a pinch of salt before removing the pot from heat.
No complex seasonings, no flashy techniques—only meticulous respect for heat and the natural essence of the ingredients.
When she lifted the lid, a faint but captivating aroma filled the kitchen. It was not the heavy, overwhelming fragrance of oil and seasoning, but a layered aroma of sweet lotus root, savory scallops, and gentle, warm meat, thread by thread weaving into the air, making the mouth water.
Chef Zhang, eyes still closed moments before, twitched his nose and suddenly opened his eyes, staring in disbelief at the pot.
The broth was clear to the bottom, adorned with pale pink meat clusters, white lotus slices, and golden scallop strands—like an elegant ink-and-wash painting, fresh and refined.
Impossible… such simple ingredients could release such pure, high-level aroma?
Lin Qianshan carefully ladled the soup into a warm celadon bowl, filling it just to eighty percent.
It was Leng Feng again who came to collect the meal. He entered the small kitchen, catching a whiff of this unusual aroma, and a flicker of surprise crossed his normally stern face. His gaze toward Lin Qianshan was complex; he said nothing, lifted the food box, and left in silence.
The kitchen fell quiet again, yet the atmosphere was completely different from before.
Chef Zhang’s face shifted through emotions, but in the end he snorted coldly and left without even bothering to tidy up.
Chuntao finally exhaled, rushing over with shining eyes. “Qianshan, you’re amazing! The soup smells incredible! Chef Zhang’s face has completely turned green!”
Lin Qianshan did not feel a trace of pride. She stared at the night darkening outside the window, uneasy. The prince’s tastes were unpredictable; whether this soup would please him again was unknown. Moreover, she had now thoroughly offended Chef Zhang. In this sprawling manor, it was easy to avoid open conflict, but almost impossible to dodge hidden schemes.
About half an hour later, Leng Feng returned.
He walked straight to Lin Qianshan, expressionless as ever, but the words he spoke left both her and the eavesdropping Chuntao stunned.
“The prince ate half a bowl of the soup,” Leng Feng said evenly. “He instructed that from now on, his dinner should always include a bowl of this clear soup.”
Half a bowl! And specified it should be served regularly!
In the prince’s recent, near-fussy diet records, this was unprecedented recognition.
Chuntao nearly jumped in excitement.
Lin Qianshan felt a weight lift from her chest, but a deeper concern quickly settled in. This was not a long-term solution. Lotus root is cold in nature and should not be eaten often.
The prince’s stomach ailment required careful, sustained care. And this sudden “favor” was like a child clutching gold in the market—fortune and misfortune were unpredictable.
Late at night, Lin Qianshan cleaned the clay pot alone in the small kitchen. Moonlight filtered through the window lattice, casting a pale glow across the floor.
Suddenly, a deep voice, tinged with barely perceptible fatigue, sounded at the doorway:
“Is there any left?”
Lin Qianshan’s hand trembled. She turned sharply.
There stood Prince Xiao Yu, somehow already there, dressed in his usual black attire. Tall and upright, yet carrying a trace of nocturnal chill. He looked at her, his gaze deep, no longer the commanding, inscrutable aura of the day, but touched with a loneliness unique to the midnight hour.
He asked… if there was any left.