The Shangshi Bureau was quieter than ever that night.
Too quiet.
Rows of candles burned steadily, yet their light could not pierce the shadows beneath the beams.
Qing Tian stood in the main hall, a roster laid open before her.
Her fingertip stopped on a single name.
— Zhou Shun.
A young kitchen worker she had personally selected from the Imperial Culinary School.
Steady hands. Tight lips. Not greedy.
Exactly the kind of person who would be watched.
"Your name is Zhou Shun?" she asked.
He knelt upright. "Yes, Director."
Qing Tian closed the roster.
"Starting tonight, you will patrol the grain stores."
Silence fell.
Zhou Shun's head snapped up.
Patrol?
In the Shangshi Bureau's current state, those three words were the same as placing your life in someone else's hands.
"Director…" His throat tightened. "Have I… done something wrong?"
Qing Tian looked at him.
There was no warmth in her gaze.
Only assessment.
"Are you afraid?"
Zhou Shun hesitated.
Then lowered his head.
"Yes."
A beat.
"But I am more afraid of drinking that kind of soup again."
Qing Tian nodded once.
"Good."
She turned to the attendant sent by Gao Dequan from the Ministry of Internal Affairs.
"Give him one of the three keys."
The attendant stiffened.
"Director… isn't that too dangerous?"
Qing Tian's voice was calm.
"The one who holds the key becomes the target."
And tonight—
She needed a target.
The news spread quickly.
Deliberately quickly.
Within half an hour, Zhaohua Palace had received word.
Shen Zhaoyi sat before her dressing table while a maid removed her hairpins.
"Night patrol?" she repeated softly.
A faint smile curved her lips.
"She's fishing."
"And Your Ladyship?"
"Let the fish bite."
She rose gracefully.
"Remember," she said gently, "do not touch Director Qing."
"Touch her people."
Midnight.
Behind the grain warehouse.
The wind cut like blades.
Zhou Shun stood at the door, cloak pulled tight, key gripped in his hand.
He counted his breaths.
One.
Two.
As he turned—
Click.
A faint sound.
His body froze.
Someone stood behind him.
"Don't move."
A cold hand pressed against the back of his neck.
Steel touched skin.
"Give me the key."
The voice was low.
"Slowly."
Zhou Shun's mind went blank.
He remembered the soup from noon.
Thick.
Warm.
He remembered Qing Tian's words.
You chose correctly.
His hand trembled as he lifted it.
Just as he seemed about to surrender—
He lunged forward.
"Thief—!!!"
The shout tore through the night.
In the same instant—
Figures dropped from the warehouse roof.
Torches flared.
"Ministry of Internal Affairs!"
"Seize him!"
The chaos lasted less than ten breaths.
The assailant was slammed to the ground.
The mask was ripped away.
Firelight illuminated the face beneath.
Zhou Shun stared.
He knew him.
One of the older kitchen workers who had been distributing soup earlier that day.
"…You?"
The old man closed his eyes.
As if he had known this moment would come.
Main Hall. Shangshi Bureau.
Qing Tian stood at the top of the steps.
The man was forced to his knees.
"Speak," she said calmly.
"Who sent you?"
The old worker laughed hoarsely.
"Director… do you really believe—" His eyes were wild now. "That we act willingly?"
He slammed his forehead against the floor.
"My grandson serves at Zhaohua Palace. If I didn't do this, he wouldn't live to see morning!"
The air froze.
Zhou Shun clenched his fists.
Qing Tian closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them again—
Her voice was almost cruel in its steadiness.
"You tell me this now—so that I spare you?"
The old man's voice broke.
"I want… someone to know."
"That this wasn't greed."
"It was blackmail."
Silence lingered.
Then Qing Tian turned away.
"Detain him."
She looked at Zhou Shun.
"You did well tonight."
Her gaze shifted back to the kneeling man.
"As for you…"
Her tone remained even.
"I will record your words."
A pause.
"But you are not the one I intend to catch."
At the same time—
Zhaohua Palace.
Shen Zhaoyi listened to the report, fingers pausing lightly over her teacup.
"He was captured?"
"Yes."
"And she did nothing?"
"She detained him. No public action."
Shen Zhaoyi smiled.
"Of course."
"She won't flip the board yet."
"Then what will she do?"
Shen Zhaoyi turned to the window, staring into the night.
"She will wait."
"She wants more of them to jump out on their own."
Late night.
Qing Tian sat alone at her desk.
The candle flame flickered.
She picked up her brush and slowly wrote three characters on fresh paper:
Hostage Register.
Because she understood now—
This was no longer about one bureau.
Or one consort.
The entire palace had begun placing bets.
And she—
Had just moved her piece into the center of the board.