The night was deep.
Inside the rear granary of the Imperial Kitchen, the lamps had been deliberately dimmed. Only two wind lanterns remained, swaying faintly in the cold air.
Qing Tian stood before the warehouse doors, the anonymous letter clenched in her hand.
Her fingertips felt icy.
"What lies beneath the granary."
She slowly lifted her gaze toward the familiar building.
She had come here countless times.
The ledgers were perfect.
The seals intact.
The keys strictly controlled.
The inspection system flawless.
Everything—immaculate.
And yet now she understood.
The real problem had probably never been in the accounts.
"Clear everyone out," she ordered quietly.
"All staff on duty tonight are to be reassigned."
"If anyone asks—"
She paused.
"Tell them we're fumigating the warehouse for rats."
Half an hour later.
The enormous granary stood silent.
Only Qing Tian, Chun Tao, and two elderly kitchen workers she personally trusted remained.
The doors were bolted shut.
The lantern flames lowered even further.
"Director Qing…" one of the old cooks hesitated.
"You really intend to go down there?"
Qing Tian didn't answer.
Instead, she walked to the deepest corner of the warehouse.
Three layers of rice sacks were stacked neatly there.
At first glance, everything looked normal.
But with one sudden kick—
The bottom row collapsed.
Sacks tumbled aside.
Revealing a wooden panel on the floor, carefully painted the same color as the stone.
The air froze.
"Pry it open," Qing Tian said.
The moment the board lifted—
A wave of stench burst upward.
Mold.
Sweat.
And something metallic.
Blood.
Chun Tao covered her mouth, barely stopping a scream.
The cellar beneath was shallow.
Yet the darkness below felt like the mouth of a well.
A wooden ladder descended into the pit.
Then—
Voices.
"…water…"
"Please… water…"
The sound was hoarse.
Weak.
But unmistakably human.
Qing Tian's heart slammed against her ribs.
She grabbed a lantern and climbed down.
When her feet touched the ground—
She finally saw.
Three men.
Chained to stone pillars.
Their clothes were rags.
Their bodies so thin they were little more than bones.
One of them slowly raised his head.
The lantern light fell across his face.
Qing Tian's pupils shrank.
"You're—"
The man grinned bitterly.
His teeth yellowed.
But his smile carried a strange relief.
"Director Qing… you finally came."
He had once been a record officer in the Internal Administration Office.
Three years ago—
He had been dismissed for "corruption and negligence."
According to the records—
He had already died of illness.
"They made us write false accounts," another prisoner rasped weakly.
"Grain disappeared from the ledgers."
"And people…"
His voice trembled.
"People disappeared from the rosters too."
"Anyone who refused…"
His eyes flickered toward the chains.
"They brought them down here."
Qing Tian slowly crouched.
Her voice tightened.
"Who?"
The three men exchanged glances.
Finally the former record officer gathered his strength.
"The person behind this… isn't Consort Shen."
The air seemed to vanish from the room.
Qing Tian's voice turned cold.
"Then who?"
He struggled to breathe.
"…the Internal Administration Office."
"I know that," Qing Tian cut in.
"I want the name."
The man closed his eyes.
As if fighting something inside himself.
Finally—
He whispered three words.
"We don't know his real name."
"Everyone just calls him…"
"The Iron Abacus."
The words struck Qing Tian's mind like nails.
"He never shows his face."
"Never signs a single document."
"But every account passes through him."
"Temple offerings. Imperial kitchens. Military grain. Palace rewards."
"If it's money that moves…"
His cracked lips twisted.
"He takes a bite."
Qing Tian stood slowly.
Her hands trembled inside her sleeves.
This was no longer the work of a single consort.
This was a network—
One that had been feeding for more than a decade.
"Free them," she said quietly.
"Immediately."
At that moment—
Footsteps sounded above the cellar.
Soft.
Careful.
Not a patrol.
Someone trying not to be heard.
Chun Tao's head snapped upward.
"Someone's here!"
Qing Tian instantly extinguished the lantern.
Darkness swallowed the cellar.
From above—
A familiar voice drifted through the floorboards.
"Open the warehouse."
The voice was calm.
Unhurried.
Yet it sent chills down the spine.
"The Iron Abacus has spoken."
A faint chuckle followed.
"This batch…"
"…is ready to be disposed of."
In the darkness, Qing Tian slowly lifted her head.
The corner of her lips hardened into cold steel.
She knew now.
She had touched the one thing in the entire palace—
That could not be touched.
And in the cellar—
The three "dead men"
Used the last of their strength
To clutch desperately at the hem of her robe.