Vault-rooftop leaps inside the imperial palace were actually much simpler than outside.
People outside would raise their heads to live and look around curiously, but no one in the imperial palace did. Whether eunuch or palace maid, the first thing they learned upon entering the palace was to keep their heads down and reduce their presence to the absolute minimum. Only when you became like a piece of furniture—seen by the nobles but not worth a second glance—were you a qualified palace servant.
Even if they heard roof tiles shifting, they would not immediately investigate. Instead, they would deliberately wait half a beat before turning to look. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. If I did not see it, it was not my fault. If I did not hear it, it was none of my business. If I did not say it, it had nothing to do with me. This was the survival rule of most people in the imperial family.
Take the burning Shangshu Province, for example. Everyone worked hard to carry water and put out the fire, but no one dared suggest going inside to save the books and memorials. Putting out the fire was everyone's responsibility, but saving the books was not. Leaving aside the danger of entering the fire, what if the books and memorials contained things they were not allowed to see? Would that not be courting death? But if some important unique manuscript burned, would the emperor not vent his anger on palace servants like them?
Why risk yourself to clean up everyone else's mess?
Torn between hesitation, wishful thinking, and panic, the palace servants could only watch helplessly as the Shangshu Province was completely swallowed by the flames. Their fate would be decided according to the moods of the emperor