Killer Queen: Tyrant, prepare to die!

The sky was clear and blue in the afternoon, but a light rain began to fall in the evening.

The raindrops tapped softly on the green tiles of Qingyan Pavilion.

The small kitchen was steaming hot, a stark contrast to the coolness outside the window.

Nangong Ye was wearing a set of coarse cloth clothes that fit him very poorly.

I don't know which palace servant they found on short notice.

The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing the toned forearms.

He was standing in front of the stove, frowning at the shapeless lump of dough in front of him.

Fine beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and a few strands of dark hair were stuck to his temples by the sweat, adding to his disheveled appearance.

He was surrounded by three pastry chefs from the imperial kitchen.

Everyone held their breath, wanting to offer guidance but not daring to speak.

His expression was as if he were looking at a fierce tiger while embroidering.

"His Majesty,"

The leading master, unable to bear it any longer, cautiously said...

"These peach kernels need to be roasted before being crushed, otherwise the aroma won't come out..."

"I know."

Nangong Ye interrupted him, his voice tense.

He certainly knew that when Jinshu was summoned for "questioning" yesterday,

It was stated clearly: Before the Empress married, her favorite treat was "Almond Buddha's Hand Pastry" made by an old nanny in the Shen household.

It should be crispy but not crumbly, sweet but not cloying.

The almonds need to be roasted until slightly golden and then crushed; the Buddha's Hand shape should be shaped delicately...

He thought he understood.

But you only realize it when you actually try it.

That lump of dough, that knife, those fillings

It was ten times more difficult than reviewing the most complex memorials or handling the most difficult political affairs.

The dough is either too hard or too soft, and it crumbles as soon as you squeeze it;

The almonds were either burnt or undercooked.

That Buddha's hand shape... something he sculpted.

Forget about Buddha's Hand citron, it's not even a decent steamed bun.

From the afternoon until now, a full two hours have passed.

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A basin was piled high with discarded dough and fillings in the kitchen.

The three instructors took turns demonstrating and explaining.

He seemed to have suddenly lost all the control he was born with.

So clumsy it's laughable.

On his last attempt, the scalding hot oil splattered, and he instinctively used his hand to block it—

"Your Majesty!" Xuan Ying's figure appeared at the kitchen door like a ghost, his voice filled with unusual tension.

Nangong Ye waved his hand,

Staring at the several blisters that quickly appeared on the back of his right hand,

He didn't even frown, simply saying, "It's alright."

He even felt that the stinging sensation was...good.

Compared to those who live in luxury, with courtiers kneeling before them,

But it was much better than never being able to touch the emptiness in the corner of her clothes.

He finally managed to squeeze out a plate of pastries that could barely be identified as "Buddha's Hand" and put them into the oven.

While waiting, he washed his hands, and Xuan Ying silently handed him burn ointment.

He wiped the fire haphazardly a couple of times, but his eyes never left the fire.

The rain gradually stopped, and twilight began to appear on the horizon.

When the plate of golden-brown (slightly burnt in some places) and reasonably delicately shaped almond Buddha's Hand pastries came out of the oven...

Even the imperial chefs breathed a sigh of relief.

Although its appearance is far inferior to that of the imperial-made, at least... it's edible.

Nangong Ye personally packed it in a food box.

He hadn't changed his clothes; he was still wearing those coarse cloth garments.

With noticeable red and swollen blisters on the back of his hands, he carried the food box and walked out of the kitchen.

Xuan Ying followed silently behind him, watching his straight back, which inexplicably exuded a stubborn loneliness, and hesitated to speak.

Inside Qingyan Pavilion, Shen Qingci had just finished listening to Mo Shisan's secret report about Prince Jing's recent movements.

"In the past three days, three censors and two officials from the Ministry of Revenue have visited Prince Jing's residence in private."

Among them, Zhou Chongming, an imperial censor of the Censorate, had the longest private conversation with Prince Jing, which lasted for more than an hour.

Our men managed to get close to a servant in charge of tea at Prince Jing's residence.

According to his vague recollection, he vaguely heard words such as "crown prince," "ancestral rule," and "celestial phenomena" during the conversation.

Mo Shisan spoke at a steady pace, but the content made the atmosphere slightly tense.

Shen Qingci tapped her fingertips lightly on the table: "Zhou Chongming... is he that old-fashioned man known for 'strict adherence to etiquette and outspokenness'?"

"That's right. He once opposed the creation of more female officials during the late emperor's reign."

He famously struck a pillar in court, surviving but gaining widespread renown and prestige among conservative civil officials.

"Celestial phenomena..."

Shen Qingci sneered.

"It seems that our Prince Jing intends to start with 'ancestral laws' and 'divine warnings'."

That's both roundabout and insidious.

Attacking her personally might provoke a backlash.

However, if it is done under the guise of "for the good of the crown prince and for the sake of the country," it is easy to involve more people.

She was about to instruct Mo Shisan to strengthen surveillance of the Imperial Observatory and several monks and Taoists renowned for their astrological divination.

A hesitant voice came from outside the palace: "Your Majesty, His Majesty... has arrived."

Shen Qingci frowned slightly and gestured for Mo Shisan to step back.

When Nangong Ye stepped into the hall, he still carried the smell of cooking fires from the kitchen and the dampness after the rain.

His coarse cloth clothes were completely out of place with his imperial status.

The undisguised red and swollen blisters on the back of his hand were even more glaring.

His gaze first fell on Shen Qingci.

Seeing her sitting peacefully behind the desk, he breathed a barely perceptible sigh of relief.

They immediately tensed up at her indifferent gaze.

"Your Majesty, what is this...?"

Shen Qingci's gaze swept over the back of his hand.

His tone was flat and indifferent, as if he hadn't seen the injuries.

Nangong Ye placed the food box on the table and opened the lid somewhat stiffly.

Inside was a plate of almond Buddha's Hand pastries, still slightly steaming.

The golden, flaky crust is dotted with crushed almond pieces.

The delicate shape is barely discernible.

"I...I've heard that you used to love eating this."

He spoke, his voice low and hoarse from the long silence and tension.

"Try it."

Shen Qingci's gaze fell on the pastries, her eyes momentarily dazed.

Almond Buddha's Hand Pastry...

That was a long, long time ago, in the Shen family, when the original owner's mother was still alive and the father doted on her.

This was her favorite snack when she was a naive young girl.

Granny Sun, who was in charge of the small kitchen, had a special skill: making crispy and fragrant Buddha's Hand pastries.

Sweet but not cloying, she often sneaked into the kitchen, eagerly waiting for the freshly baked plate.

Later, her mother passed away, and she entered the palace to become empress. Granny Sun returned to her hometown in her old age.

Later, when she was suffering from hunger and cold in the cold palace, she couldn't even dream of such exquisite pastries.

So, he still remembered.

No, it wasn't him who remembered. It was Jinshu who told him.

This "gift" was something he had learned from someone else and then clumsily copied.

She raised her eyes and looked at Nangong Ye.

He stood there, a barely perceptible expectation in his eyes.

There was also a hint of barely concealed nervousness, like a child waiting for their teacher to judge their homework.

His coarse cloth clothes made him seem less aloof, and the burns on the back of his hands even gave him a pitiful look.

If it were the original owner, she might be moved, feel heartache, and shed tears.

But Shen Qingci simply picked up a piece of pastry calmly.

He took a small bite as Nangong Ye's eyes suddenly lit up.

The pastry melts in your mouth, releasing the aroma of almonds... with a slightly burnt bitter taste.

It's very sweet, almost cloyingly so.

She chewed slowly and swallowed.

Then, put the remaining half of the pastry back on the plate.

He took the handkerchief that Jinshu handed him and wiped his hands.

"It's sweet."

She spoke, her voice flat and monotone, as if she were commenting on something insignificant.

"Your Majesty, I haven't liked sweets for a long time."

The light in Nangong Ye's eyes went out instantly.

He stood there frozen, like a statue whose soul had suddenly been taken away.

Shen Qingci no longer looked at him.

He turned to a young palace maid standing beside him: "This plate of pastries is a reward for you. Take it away."

The young palace maid was so frightened that she knelt down with a thud, stammering, "This...this servant wouldn't dare..."

"Here you are, a gift from Her Majesty."

Jinshu urged him in a low voice and gave him a wink.

The young palace maid then stepped forward tremblingly.

She picked up the plate of still-warm pastries and practically ran out.

That plate of pastries, bearing the weight of two hours of someone's sweat, a scalded hand, and a sliver of hope, was simply dismissed.

The hall was deathly silent.

Dusk had completely enveloped the area outside the window, and the interior of the hall was dimly lit as no lights had been turned on.

Nangong Ye's figure appeared particularly lonely in the dim light.

His hand, hanging by his side, clenched slightly.

The blister on the back of my hand was aggravated by this movement, causing a sharp pain.

But this pain was insignificant compared to the dull, suffocating emptiness in his chest.

I don't like sweets anymore...

Yes, the spoiled food in the Cold Palace, the medicinal soup in the Pear Blossom Palace,

Blood and fire on the road to revenge... how can one nurture a sweet tooth?

He forgot.

No, it's that he never truly understood it.

What exactly did she go through in these three years, and what did she become?

He was still trying to find the gentle, shy Shen Qingci from his memory, the one who would smile at him.

But she isn't anymore.

"...I understand." After a long while, he finally heard his own dry voice, like that of a stranger.

He slowly turned around and walked out of the hall with somewhat heavy steps.

The sleeves of the coarse cloth clothes were empty, and the redness and swelling on the back of his hand were still conspicuous in the dim light.

"Your Majesty." Shen Qingci's voice suddenly came from behind.

Nangong Ye suddenly stopped in his tracks.

My heart began to pound uncontrollably, and a faint glimmer of hope just began to sprout—

"The injury on your hand,"

Her voice remained calm.

"Have the imperial physician examine you to prevent infection. There may be some turmoil in the court recently; Your Majesty must take care of your health."

There was no pity, no gentle words.

It was merely a calm reminder, like a subject offering advice to a monarch.

Nangong Ye had his back to her, and the corners of his lips were tugged into a smile that looked more like a grimace.

"Thank you... for your concern, Your Majesty." He said softly, then left Qingyan Pavilion without lingering.

Xuan Ying followed silently, and the figures of the master and servant quickly blended into the deepening night.

Inside the hall, Shen Qingci sat alone in the dim light, remaining motionless for a long time.

Jinshu quietly entered and lit the candle.

The warm orange CD player dispelled the darkness and also illuminated the fleeting, faint weariness on Shen Qingci's face.

"Your Majesty..."

Jinshu looked at the empty food box on the table, recalling His Majesty's straight yet lonely figure as he left, and her heart ached.

"His Majesty... he put his heart into it too."

"I know."

Shen Qingci closed her eyes.

"Jinshu, do you think I should be moved and forgive her just because of her 'thoughtfulness'?"

Jinshu was speechless.

"He gave me what he thought was the best, but never asked me what I wanted."

Shen Qingci opened her eyes, her gaze cold and indifferent.

"It used to be the honor of the empress, now it is the emperor's reward, the pastries he made himself... all of them are 'given by him'."

But what I truly want—innocence, fairness, trust, and respect—how will he provide that?

She stood up, walked to the window, and looked in the direction Nangong Ye had left.

"The wound is too deep, Jinshu. It can't be healed by a piece of pastry, even one he made himself."

"Some roads, if you take the wrong path, will become unrecognizable when you turn back."

"What separates us isn't these snacks."

It was the cold wind of those days and nights in the Cold Palace.

It was the almost suffocating despair in the sea of ​​fire, and Bao'er's lack of fatherly love.

"How will he repay these things?"

A night breeze blew in through the window, carrying the coolness of the rain.

Shen Qingci adjusted his clothes, turned and walked towards the inner hall, his voice fading into the wind.

"Moreover, a new storm has already arrived."

"There's no time to waste on these useless sweet nothings."

Jinshu watched her master's resolute back as he walked away.

Then I looked at the empty food box.

In the end, he simply sighed and gently blew out the excess candlelight.

On the way back to the Hall of Mental Cultivation, Nangong Ye remained silent.

Xuan Ying followed behind him.

Looking at the glaring blisters on the back of his hands,

Finally, unable to contain himself any longer, he whispered his advice, "Your Majesty, perhaps you should summon the imperial physician first..."

Nangong Ye raised his hand and, using the dim light of the palace lantern, carefully examined the bubbles.

"Xuanying," he suddenly asked, his voice ethereal, "Am I... truly a failure?"

"As emperor, he couldn't protect his wife and children, and wronged loyal officials."

"As her husband, I don't understand her preferences, and I can't give her what she wants."

"As a father... Bao'er doesn't even want me to hold her for long."

He tugged at the corners of his mouth, a desolate and self-mocking smile.

"Being an emperor like me is really interesting."

Xuan Ying was deeply shaken, but didn't know how to comfort him.

Nangong Ye lowered his hands, no longer looking at the wounds, and turned his gaze to the unfathomable night of the palace.

"By imperial decree, after the morning court session tomorrow, summon Censor Zhou Chongming of the Censorate for a private audience."

His voice regained its imperial coldness.

Since she warned him that "there may be turmoil in the court," he should at least shield her from this storm.

Even if she doesn't need it.

Even if this is just wishful thinking on his part.

But besides these things, what else can he do for her right now?

he does not know.

Clutching only that misplaced, belated, and clumsy sentiment, I walk alone into the ever-deepening night.