Night had fallen deep.
Yet the lights in the Bureau of Garments still burned.
Rows of embroidery frames stood in silence.
By day, the silk was soft and radiant.
Now, beneath flickering lamplight—
it looked like sheets laid over the dead.
Qing Tian stood outside the door.
She didn't enter.
She waited.
For the one person—
willing to speak.
"Director Qing…"
A voice, barely above a whisper.
Not a maid.
But an old seamstress.
Her back was bent.
Her fingers thick and pale, worn from years of needlework.
The kind of person no one ever noticed.
She walked slowly up to Qing Tian.
From her sleeve, she took something out.
A needle.
Not new.
The tip slightly bent.
The tail stained with a dull, rusty red.
"This…"
"…was used three nights ago."
"In the Bureau of Garments."
"To mend the robes for 'temple offerings.'"
She lifted her eyes.
Clouded—
yet unnervingly clear.
"That batch of cloth…"
"…was dusted with rice flour."
"Not clean rice."
"Granary rice."
Qing Tian took the needle.
Her fingers paused—just slightly.
"Why tell me?"
The old woman smiled faintly.
"My grandson…"
"He boils water in the Imperial Kitchen."
"These past few days…"
"He said the soup is getting thinner."
One sentence—
tightened something in Qing Tian's chest.
She didn't ask more.
She turned—
and pushed the door open.
Light spilled out.
Revealing faces.
Maidservants.
Seamstresses.
Washerwomen.
Some lowered their heads.
Some trembled.
Some clenched their sleeves so tightly their knuckles turned white.
Qing Tian said only one thing:
"I won't ask who did it."
"I only ask—"
"Are you willing to tell what you know?"
Silence.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Then—
a laundry maid spoke.
Her voice hoarse.
"I… I saw it."
"At night."
"Behind the Bureau of Garments."
"They swapped grain sacks…"
"…for fabric crates."
"The crates were labeled—"
"Temple offerings."
Something broke open.
Like a dam collapsing.
"I saw it too."
"I heard them say—"
'The people below won't notice anyway.'"
"They mixed old grain into the rice—moldy ones…"
"But on the books…"
"…it's listed as fresh tribute grain."
One voice after another.
Qing Tian stood in the center.
She didn't interrupt.
Didn't rush them.
And for the first time—
she understood, clearly:
She wasn't investigating alone.
Behind her—
stood people who had starved.
People who had been exploited.
People treated as expendable.
She raised her hand.
"What you say tonight…"
"I won't report immediately."
Shock rippled through the room.
"But from this moment on—"
"Every one of you—"
"Remember."
"Who touched the grain."
"Who altered the accounts."
"Who handled it."
"Write it down."
"Clearly."
Her voice was calm.
Steady.
"Because very soon…"
"…we're going to fight a battle."
"We don't need sympathy."
"We need—"
evidence.
The crowd slowly dispersed.
Chun Tao stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"Director…"
"Is this… too risky?"
Qing Tian looked at the needle in her hand.
Then spoke quietly:
"It is."
"But if we don't take this step…"
"…they'll only grow bolder."
She lifted her gaze.
For the first time—
there was something sharp in her eyes.
"I save people."
"But I also need them—"
to be afraid.
Yangxin Hall · Same Night
Cheng Yan reported in a low voice:
"She's started gathering witness testimony."
Tang Yi was reading a border defense report.
At that—
his brush paused slightly.
"Faster than I expected."
Cheng Yan hesitated.
"Your Majesty… should we close the net?"
Tang Yi shook his head.
"No."
"Let her continue."
"This time…"
"…I'll stand behind her."
Late Night · Food Office
Qing Tian sat alone under the lamp.
The needle lay on the table.
Beside it—
the first list.
Incomplete.
But real.
She spoke softly:
"So the ghosts…"
"…were never in the granary."
"They were in people's hearts."
And this time—
she would not step back.