Chapter Forty-Seven: The Bitterness of Stolen Merit

Waiting was interminable. According to the rules of the Imperial Kitchen, after preparing the morning dishes, no one was allowed to leave immediately; they had to remain until the Imperial Steward arrived to announce which dishes the emperor favored—or despised.

Most of the time, the emperor offered no comment at all. After all, he had dined on delicacies since birth; it was hardly likely any dish would move him to high praise. Thus, more often than not, what the chefs awaited was not a declaration of approval, but rather one of disfavor.

Compared to pleasing the emperor, displeasing him was all too easy. His palate was so exacting that even the addition of a single gram of salt, making a dish too salty, could cost a chef his life.

Therefore, this period of waiting was less a wait than a trial—like standing before a judge.

Sure enough, after an hour, the Imperial Steward arrived.

“Imperial Kitchen, hear the decree!”

His shrill, unsettling voice made everyone rise as one, forming a neat row before him.

The man’s face was shaped like an inverted sunflower seed, with dead, crescent-shaped fish eyes utterly devoid of vitality. In truth, it was not so much his features as the cold, unwholesome aura he exuded that made people uneasy. His tall hat, his slender frame swathed in a long black robe trimmed in gold, gave him the look of an isosceles triangle.

Honestly, if you stuck a talisman on that lifeless face, he’d make a perfect Black Impermanence in a Chinese opera—he was born for it, a natural character actor.

The Steward’s lips curled slightly. “Though His Majesty has been gravely ill and has not praised the kitchen for over a year, today a chef’s dish has won the Emperor’s favor. In fact, His Majesty’s appetite improved greatly thanks to this dish; he took thirty-six bites in total! Well done!”

Murmurs of amazement swept through the assembled chefs, leaving even Zhao Ke gaping in astonishment.

A “bite,” in this context, referred to the number of times the emperor picked up his chopsticks during the meal.

Consider: every day, the emperor was served a cornucopia of rich dishes and rarely had much appetite. Usually, if he took more than twenty bites, it was cause for celebration—after all, with eighty-eight dishes on the table, not even the heartiest eater could sample them all.

But thirty-six bites in one meal? That was unprecedented!

Thirty-six bites meant the chef of the first dish would receive lavish rewards. If the emperor took two bites of the same dish, the reward would increase exponentially.

The only question was—which dish was it?

Every chef was restless with anticipation, faces alight with hope that the Steward would call their name.

“The first dish His Majesty tasted was…” The Steward deliberately slowed his already languid speech, relishing the suspense.

Come on, man, hurry up—I really need to pee!

Meng Tian was nearly bursting. The wait had been too long, and with injuries making his body burn, he’d drunk a lot of water. Now, standing in line, his bladder felt ready to explode.

But the moment the Steward announced the result, his urge vanished instantly.

“The dish is: Phoenix Crystal!”

An uproar ensued. The Steward continued unhurriedly, “His Majesty took eleven bites of this dish and praised it without reservation.”

Eleven bites—for a single dish!

That might not seem much, but for the Imperial Kitchen, it was unheard of. The highest previous record was five bites of “Golden Fairy Enters the Sea,” prepared years ago by Qian Shanduo.

And now, a cold dish had doubled that record. How could the crowd not be stunned?

Every chef was left ashen-faced—not out of anger, but because they were dumbfounded by this unprecedented event.

Even Meng Tian was momentarily dazed.

He’d thought the emperor, weary of rich food, would appreciate something light and refreshing and that three or four bites would already be an achievement. Never could he have imagined such an effect—eleven bites!

That meant nearly a third of the emperor’s thirty-six bites had been of his dish.

“Congratulations, my friend!” Zhao Ke was even more excited than Meng Tian, tugging at his sleeve as he hopped with delight. “The emperor ate eleven bites—you’ve made it big!”

Yes—he’d made it!

Meng Tian knew that his parents in faraway Sumen Town had spent their whole lives earning ten thousand taels of silver, while a single word of praise from the emperor could reward him with more than five thousand taels.

What did that mean? One compliment from the emperor could transform a penniless nobody into a wealthy landowner overnight.

Though his true goal was to assassinate the emperor and crown prince, there was no harm in collecting some benefits along the way.

Meng Tian’s heart raced with excitement.

He’d made it! He was rich! From now on, he’d eat two bowls at every meal—one to eat, the other to toss aside. He’d marry three hundred sixty-five concubines and play at a ménage-à-trois with a princess every day, never repeating a face for a whole year. Hahaha! He’d die of exhaustion, but what a way to go!

“Now, let the creator of Phoenix Crystal step forward to receive his reward.”

The Steward looked at Meng Tian, who was already preparing to step forward, flushed with joy.

But then—

“Qian Shanduo! Step forward to receive your reward!”

At those words, Meng Tian’s elation evaporated in an instant.

He watched as Qian Shanduo, beaming so broadly it seemed his fat cheeks might split, stepped forward to claim the honor.

An uproar filled the hall.

Meng Tian’s heart skipped a beat; his foot never touched the ground.

Unaware, the chefs from the Butchery Department applauded the fat thief, while those in the know—nearly half the chefs in the kitchen—cast sympathetic glances at Meng Tian.

“Thank you, everyone. Creating this dish was pure coincidence—if not for…” The fat man’s voice faded into oblivion as Meng Tian finally understood.

Back when he’d presented Phoenix Crystal, this fat man had intercepted the palace maid and said something. At the time, Zhao Ke had distracted him, and he’d forgotten about it—but now he realized what had happened.

Qian Shanduo had switched the name tags, claiming the dish as his own!

“Thank you, everyone!” Qian Shanduo finished his feigned humility, bowed to the chefs, and took the Steward’s reward.

What was this?!

Astonishment gave way to confusion, then to rage. Not a volcanic eruption nor a landslide, but a fury so absolute it seemed to shatter the world.

What did this mean?!

For the first time in his life, Meng Tian was truly infuriated.

Though he didn’t lose control, anger dulled his pain, and his wounds reopened without his noticing.

“Take it easy, my friend,” Zhao Ke said, patting his shoulder with a heavy heart. “Once he sets his sights on you, as long as you’re in this kitchen, Qian Shanduo won’t let you be. You’ve lost your first, and best, chance to defeat him.”

Zhao Ke’s words were not mocking; Meng Tian saw only sympathy and frustration on the old man’s face.

No doubt, Zhao Ke had suffered the same fate.

Looking around, Meng Tian saw in the eyes of a score of chefs not just sympathy, but the same look as Zhao Ke’s—men who had also been robbed.

Qian Shanduo was the chief executive chef, second only to the Steward, and with his “Gold Medal,” he wielded enormous power—not just over the kitchen, but over the entire Imperial Kitchen Bureau.

Thinking about it, this kind of theft must have happened often.

What a cruel joke!

At first, Meng Tian merely disliked the fat man for his ugliness and arrogance, but that was all. He had only planned to rescue the princess and avoid the pig forever—just endure a while longer.

But now things were different.

To steal his credit—fine, the reward was a small matter. But this sort of treachery would ruin his plans in the future. More than that, it was utterly despicable.

Never mind the others—their affairs were not his concern. But now that he was the victim, could he just let it pass?

Did Qian Shanduo think he was some kind of rabbit to be bullied at will?

Perhaps this fat man ruled the kitchen and could do as he pleased, but today—today, he had succeeded.

He had managed to enrage even Meng Tian, who was usually mild-tempered!

As the saying goes, fortune and disaster are two sides of the same coin. To steal another’s achievement in this way was inexcusable, and Meng Tian would make him pay—a terrible price.

Very soon, Qian Shanduo would know he had provoked the wrong person.

Meng Tian was furious—this was only the second time in his life he’d ever wanted to kill a man.

………………………

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