The High Council’s annual sterile-gala was less an event, more a monument to utter sensory deprivation. Gleaming chrome and polished synth-ceramics reflected the harsh, unfeeling glow of anti-grav chandeliers. The air itself felt scrubbed clean of all nuance, tasting of recycled oxygen and latent fear. Bao Zhilan, disguised in a crisp, anonymizing synth-fiber tunic, moved with a phantom grace among the murmuring, robed cultivators, each one a pillar of rigid self-importance. Beside her, Zong Jinxi, looking strangely uncomfortable in his own server’s garb, kept his head down, a faint scowl etched on his lips, probably resenting the indignity of carrying a tray of flavorless Qi-paste cubes. Kuang Yisheng, a dark, imposing figure even in the bland livery, blended seamlessly into the shadows of the expansive catering hall, his presence a silent threat. “My master,” Jinxi muttered, barely moving his mouth as he navigated a cluster of minor sect elders. “The main paste main-line is through that service hatch, by the grand filtration array. Access is restricted to Level Seven personnel.” He flicked his eyes towards a reinforced door, then back to the glistening tray he carried. “My former reputation, while tarnished, still granted me the access codes. For now.” Zhilan offered no reply, her gaze sweeping over the assembled elite. Their faces, though carved with authority and discipline, were utterly devoid of true pleasure. She saw only empty vessels, waiting to be filled. It was a familiar sight, one that plucked at a forgotten chord in her memory, a bitter echo from an age long past. She saw it in the haughty tilt of a Supreme Elder’s chin, the way his eyes, sharp and dismissive, grazed over the servers as if they were not even there. Just like the ancient sovereign's gaze—a monarch who, with his silken robes and insipid pronouncements, had been a connoisseur of only his own inflated ego, a man who once condemned Zhilan’s entire culinary lineage to oblivion. *The imperial palace hall, heavy with the flat musk of stale incense and withered blossoms. Zhilan, then merely Chef Bao, stood before the jade dais, her hands still faintly stained with the spices of her last, magnificent creation: a vibrant, multi-layered banquet celebrating the harvest moon. The aroma of roasted phoenix-eel and fermented nebula-fruits still clung to her, a defiant perfume.* *“Your creations, Chef Bao,” the sovereign had declared, his voice thin and reedy, “are… distracting. They incite… improper appetites. My people must focus on their cultivation, not on the fleeting pleasures of the tongue.” He gestured with a dismissive hand, a flick of his wrist that sealed her fate. “A chef who tempts the spirit away from its true path is a danger to the throne. Your kitchen is forfeit. Your lineage, erased. Your life, forfeit.” He had not even tasted the phoenix-eel. He had merely looked at it, deemed it ‘distracting,’ and signed her death warrant. The memory of that fragrant, wasted feast still rankled more than the betrayal itself. Her execution had been a mere inconvenience, but the destruction of her art… that was unforgivable. This empire, with its Qi-paste and its dead palates, was simply that ancient court reborn, writ large across the cosmos.* Zhilan blinked, the phantom scent of phoenix-eel fading, replaced by the sterile tang of the gala hall. No, this time, there would be no forgiveness, no mercy. This time, the empire would taste her art, whether they wished to or not. She moved towards the service hatch, her datapad, provided by Jinxi, granting her temporary Level Seven clearance. Inside the cramped, dimly lit service duct, the air was thick with the hum of dark-matter filtration units. Zhilan found the main Qi-paste pipeline—a massive, pulsating tube that fed into a gleaming, cylindrical vat. It was gargantuan, easily capable of sustaining thousands. She pulled out the slender, crystalline vial from a hidden pouch beneath her apron, its contents a viscous, fiery red. The concentrated essence of her Mapo Tofu, distilled into a weapon. A shadow fell over her. Kuang Yisheng, his face unreadable, stood sentinel at the duct entrance. Just as Zhilan prepared to inject the essence, a second shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom of the passage. Another server, but his vest bore the subtle, reinforced weave of an investigator’s badge. His eyes, cold and sharp, fixated on Kuang. “Kuang,” the newcomer’s voice was a low growl, devoid of any pleasantries. “Your cyber-signature. It’s… different. The fracture points, they’ve been… re-braided. Who tampered with Imperial Standard issue?” He took a step closer, his hand subtly drifting towards a hidden communicator on his wrist. “And what are you doing here, far from your assigned sector?” Kuang didn’t move. His gaze, however, shifted, not to the approaching Inquisitor, but a fraction of an inch towards Zhilan. A silent query, a confirmation of intent. Zhilan gave an almost imperceptible nod. The rival investigator, still several paces away, was already raising his hand to his communicator. Then, Kuang was a blur. He vanished from the threshold, reappearing directly in front of the other agent. There was no sound, no struggle. A single, brutal, sickening crack echoed faintly in the confined space, swallowed by the hum of the filtration units. The agent's gaze went slack for an instant before his body crumpled silently, a puppet with severed strings. Kuang caught him before he hit the ground, dragging the limp form into a maintenance closet with terrifying efficiency. He emerged moments later, wiping a faint smear from his uniform sleeve. His eyes, devoid of regret, met Zhilan’s. A single, ruthless act of loyalty. Zhilan merely turned back to the valve manifold, her expression unchanged. Such trivialities were beneath her notice. With a precise movement, she inserted the needle of the crystalline vial into a designated intake port on the nutrient feeder. The fiery red essence began to flow, a vibrant stream against the dull white of the nutrient paste. It swirled, invisible to the uninitiated eye, a silent, volatile current. The cultivation altering properties would begin their work instantly, dissolving rigid meridians, stimulating dormant taste receptors, and forging an unbreakable link to her culinary power. It was done. The pipe pulsed, now carrying her insidious gift throughout the gala. She withdrew the empty vial, her fingers wiping away any trace of the residue. The gala’s main hall was a muted roar of conversation, the serving countdown displayed on a holographic timer ticking down steadily: `00:03:47`. Just as Zhilan turned to dispose of the vial, a regal, imposing figure stepped behind the catering partition, their silken robes rustling with an almost imperceptible sound. Supreme Elder Huitan, his face a mosaic of ancient wisdom and steely resolve, his eyes, sharp as a laser scalpel, fixed on her. He held a small, ornate tasting spoon, ready to sample the first batch. And in her hand, still gleaming faintly, was the empty spice vial.

The Last Supper Plan