这人修为满级却偏要吃女帝软饭

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Imperial Palace, Dawn. The grand hall was a study in contrasts. On one side, the Empress sat rigidly behind a mountain of memorials, her brow furrowed with the weight of the world. On the other, a man in simple robes casually poured tea into a delicate cup, the steam curling around a face too serene for this place. He was Feng Jian, the legendary cultivator whose name once made demonic sects tremble and whose silhouette was said to be etched into the very fabric of the cultivation world’s highest heavens. Now, his greatest achievement seemed to be brewing the perfect cup of tea for the Empress. A young palace maid whispered to another, her eyes wide. “That’s the Sovereign of Swords? The one who single-handedly sealed the Abyssal Rift? He… he’s just making tea?” “Shush!” the senior maid hissed, but her own gaze was troubled. They all knew the rumors. The Empress, after her bloody ascension, had taken this peerless powerhouse into her harem not as a consort, but as… a dependent. He had no title, no duties, just a quiet residence in the inner palace, living on the Empress’s provisions. The entire continent was baffled. Why would a mountain that could crush empires choose to be a grain of sand in someone else’s palm? Feng Jian lifted the cup, his movements a silent poem of control. He had fought gods, tempered his body with heavenly fire, and comprehended the Dao of Annihilation. Victory meant nothing. Power meant nothing. The endless climb had left him achingly empty. He saw the same hollow hunger in the young Empress’s eyes, though hers was masked by ambition. In her chaotic, bloody world, he found a peculiar stillness. Here, amidst the noise of governance and intrigue, he could simply *be*. He traded the burden of the world for the simplicity of a shared meal, the loneliness of the peak for the quiet hum of a palace at night. The Empress suddenly slammed a memorial down. “Another border skirmish. They think my authority wanes because I… because I keep you.” Her voice was sharp, but her eyes, when they flicked to him, held a complex, unspoken question. Feng Jian smiled faintly, offering her the cup. “Then go show them the authority of an Emperor. The tea is good today.” It was his answer. He would not lift a finger for her throne, but his mere presence, the unspoken legend sleeping in her inner palace, was a deterrent no army could match. He was her ultimate secret weapon, a living myth choosing to eat her “soft rice.” But as he watched her stride out, her imperial robes swirling, a flicker of something ancient and dangerous passed through his calm eyes. The world’s peace was fragile. And some storms, even a retired sovereign could not drink away. The soft rice might be about to get very, very hard.