Chapter 4: Ninth Miss, Born Rebellious

A voice, colder than the drifting snow outside, cut through the hall with biting mockery. The whispers scattered at once, silenced, as every gaze snapped toward the figure radiating an aura of chilling frost.

The maidservant froze under that glance. Her hand, just about to lift the shroud from the Old Marquis’s face, went rigid. Her complexion turned pale, legs trembling weakly. Yet when she focused on Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes again—there was nothing there.

Only indifference.

But how? Just now she had clearly seen a flash of gold—pupils narrowing like a serpent’s, cold and merciless.

Did her eyes deceive her?

The maid opened her mouth, forgetting all sense of propriety. “I…”

Lang Jiuchuan laughed—a sharp, hollow sound. Her not-quite-smiling gaze swept over the assembled Lang clan.

The Lang family members flushed with rage. That one sentence of hers—was it aimed only at the servant? No, she had mocked the entire Lang family together.

The older ones kept their composure though their faces had darkened; the younger ones were already leaping up in anger.

What did she mean by that? Wasn’t it saying the Lang clan was useless, letting mere servants trample over them?

Lang Jiuchuan took in every flicker of their expressions, a sneer tugging at her lips. So what if she cursed them? Since stepping foot in this manor, had a single blood relative stepped forward to guide her on how to fulfill her filial duties?

Not one.

If they wished a servant to direct her, then fine—replace her with one who knew proper etiquette. If not, they had no right to expect her obedience.

Shamed?

They had brought it upon themselves.

What did it matter to her?

“In front of Grandfather’s spirit, you dare behave so rudely!” A stern voice cut across. A young man in mourning garb strode in, his handsome face lined with fatigue, eyes sharp. He lashed out at the servant: “Disrespecting your master? Twenty boards! Men, drag her out!”

The maid collapsed to the floor, shaking violently. “Young Master, mercy—!”

Before her pleas finished, a steward gagged her with a cloth and hauled her swiftly away.

Only then did the direct grandson of the First Branch, Lang Caimeng, turn to look at Lang Jiuchuan. His brows knit together. Hadn’t Second Uncle’s daughter, raised in the countryside estate, been described as meek and docile? Why did she appear so filled with defiance?

“Ninth…sister, I am your elder brother,” he began, then looked toward a young woman in the hall and added, “Wan Fang, bring our Ninth sister to meet the family and teach her how things are done.”

When Wu Shi stepped forward, Lang Caimeng continued, “This is your sister-in-law. You’ve lived at the manor so long without returning; let her help you get to know the family.”

Though he was her cousin, he was still a man — some matters were better handled by his wife, who tended the inner quarters.

Because she’d been keeping vigil, Wu Shi looked haggard. She tugged at the corner of her mouth and said to the newcomer, “Ninth sister, why don’t you first pay your respects to Grandfather’s remains?”

Lang Jiuchuan was indifferent. Before she could even take in the Old Marquis’s face properly, Wu Shi had already seized her arm and forced her to kneel.

Crack.

A sharp sound came from her knee. Pain contorted her face; tears sprang to her eyes.

This body truly was brittle.

Wu Shi, however, did not seem to notice. “Bow and weep properly,” she murmured.

Lang Jiuchuan: “…”

Weep was impossible; bowing she did only under Wu Shi’s pressure — three small knocks.

Wu Shi then pulled her to her feet, eyes red, and led her along the rows where the Lang clan knelt, introducing each person.

The Lang clan still had many descendants — men and women filling the hall. Elders had brought younger kin to receive mourners; men and women had different duties. Some younger family members were attending the Old Madam.

There was little small talk while the vigil continued; faces were acknowledged with a nod and then attention turned elsewhere. Only one woman — striking, arrogant, and scornful — glared at Lang Jiuchuan and coldly snorted, “You come back and make such a disturbance before Grandfather’s spirit — what a great lack of filial piety. Ninth sister, reflect on yourself.”

Lang Jiuchuan looked toward her. Judging by Wu Shi’s tight, pained expression when introducing her, this must be the First Branch’s concubine-born daughter, Lang Cailing.

Seeing Cailing’s imperious posture, Lang Jiuchuan couldn’t help the bitter amusement: a concubine-born daughter so full of dominance — perhaps even more forceful than the second-branch’s sole heir.

She lowered her eyes and, turning to Lang Caimeng with a deliberately rebellious grin, said, “Eldest brother, there’s another person acting insolently before Grandfather’s spirit — shall we have her dragged out for a round of boards too?”

Silence fell.

The room echoed with puzzled looks: “?”

Who was she calling “eldest brother”?

Lang Caimeng’s head ached. He hadn’t been wrong — this cousin really was born rebellious.

 Chapter 3: You Dare Teach Me How to Behave?

With doubts still swirling in her heart, Lang Jiuchuan reached the mourning hall. Yet the moment she stepped into the courtyard, her body swayed, her soul weakening—nearly slipping out of the vessel altogether.

A mantra suddenly surged up in her mind. Her fingers twitched, pinning her soul firmly back into her flesh.

That damned Judge! Said this body was the most compatible for her? Pah!

Lang Jiuchuan’s gaze flicked to a corner of the courtyard—over a dozen gleaming bald heads reflected the sunlight so brightly it nearly blinded her borrowed dog’s eyes. The unceasing droning of scripture drilled into her ears like demonic noise, flogging her fragile soul.

After all, she had borrowed this corpse, a body already broken and incomplete. Both body and soul were unstable. Now, faced with these golden-lit sutras, she was suffering greatly.

Silently, Lang Jiuchuan reinforced her soul-binding incantations. Her faltering body was quickly steadied by Jianlan.

Jianlan was terrified. Holding tightly to her hand, she asked, “Are you all right, Miss?”

She stared in horror at Lang Jiuchuan’s pallid face. That momentary sway had drained what little color remained, leaving her looking utterly corpse-like.

And her hands—her hands were icy cold.

Jianlan’s heart trembled.

So this Ninth Miss she had heard of but never seen—could she truly be a frail, sickly invalid?

Clenching her jaw, Lang Jiuchuan shook her head. “Let’s go in.”

Hearing this, Jianlan gripped her arm even tighter, as if afraid she might collapse at any moment.

By now it was already past noon. There were far fewer visitors than in the morning, and Lang Jiuchuan only passed a few along the way.

When she entered the mourning hall, one of the chanting monks—a lean, wiry elder—lifted his head, his brows drawing together slightly.

Such a strange aura.

The moment Lang Jiuchuan stepped inside, those kneeling on straw mats in the southeast corner, clad in heavy mourning clothes, all turned to look at her. Their expressions were startled, unfamiliar—until someone murmured softly, and suddenly their faces cleared in recognition.

Ah, the ill-omened one from the Second Branch.

There were no outsiders here now, so many felt no need to conceal their stares.

Was she truly this weak? And her face—its sickly pallor was almost identical to the old marquis lying in the coffin.

Lang Jiuchuan ignored the eyes boring into her. Instead, she looked at the golden-nanmu coffin carved with the longevity symbol, placed against the wall. The Old Marquis of the Lang family had already been prepared for burial; soon the coffin would be sealed.

“Ninth Miss, pay your respects with incense before the Old Marquis,” instructed a steward, clearly informed of her identity. He lit three sticks and handed them to her.

For a moment, Lang Jiuchuan did not move. This made many watching twitch their eyelids in irritation.

So ignorant of propriety? As expected of someone raised away from the family estate—no manners at all, stiff and awkward!

Even Jianlan grew anxious and urged in a low voice, “Miss?”

Lang Jiuchuan snapped back to herself and accepted the incense. To onlookers, her movement seemed reluctant. She bowed three times toward the coffin, then placed the incense into the overfilled burner before it.

Once she had finished, another matron gestured for her to approach the coffin to view the remains. Her voice was cold and sharp:

“Ninth Miss, as the granddaughter, long absent from home, you must demonstrate filial piety properly. Kneel, weep, and knock your head upon the floor.”

Everyone here—sons and grandsons alike—had reddened eyes, proof of grief. Yet this girl? Her eyes were clear, her face devoid of sorrow.

Raised outside the household, her heart had grown cold indeed.

Lang Jiuchuan caught the disdain and contempt in that tone. Her eyes narrowed.

Laughable. She had been absent all these years—did they think it was her choice not to return?

It was the Lang family who had forgotten her, who only summoned her now to mourn the dead—and even so, they had called her back too late.

The true Lang Jiuchuan had already died beyond saving, her soul gone without a trace.

As this thought sank in, cold hostility seeped from her gaze.

Dark. Icy. Chilling.

Fixing the woman with her eyes, Lang Jiuchuan spoke, voice sinister and sharp:

“So, the rules of the Lang family allow a servant to teach a master how to behave?”

 Chapter 2: A Suspicious Birth

“You are not my daughter!”

That icy voice, mingling with the falling first snow, cut even colder.

Lang Jiuchuan’s heart tightened. Instinctively, she searched Cui Shi’s eyes. Could mother and daughter truly share such a bond—that with just one glance, she could see through her as someone reborn in another’s body?

No… not quite.

There was no fear or doubt in Cui Shi’s eyes. Only determination. Obsession. And buried within—disgust, agitation, even grievance?

For a mother, her gaze was far too complicated.

Lang Jiuchuan could not understand, but—if she said she was not, then so be it. After all, she truly wasn’t. So she replied, calmly and faintly:

“Oh.”

Cui Shi froze.

The matron beside her grew anxious, scolding inwardly, and quickly told a maid: “Jianlan, take Ninth Miss to the mourning hall first.”

Jianlan immediately stepped forward, giving a small curtsy. “Miss, please follow this servant.”

Without a trace of reluctance, Lang Jiuchuan turned and followed her out through the moon gate of the small courtyard. As she left, the matron’s voice floated back on the cold wind:

“Madam, more than ten years have passed. The young miss is nearly of age now. Why must you persist in this?”

Cui Shi said nothing. She only stared at the fading figure of Lang Jiuchuan, frowning, one hand pressing against her chest, as if to smother the strange unease welling inside.

It felt as though something had been lost.

On the path toward the mourning hall, Lang Jiuchuan remained unsettled. From Cui Shi’s loathing expression—was it truly mere dislike? Or had she somehow glimpsed the truth, that this was not her daughter’s soul?

And yet, Lang Jiuchuan clearly felt a subtle bond between them.

Too bad. When she took over this body, the original soul had not only died wretchedly but was obliterated altogether. She had been left with no memories at all.

Still, this vessel certainly belonged to the Lang family’s Ninth Miss—the underworld lord himself had confirmed it.

“Miss, please don’t take it to heart. Madam has had a hard life these years.” Jianlan noticed the cold gloom weighing on her face, and after a few stolen glances, she finally forced herself to speak with a dry tone: “You’ve only just returned home. In time, all will be well.”

Lang Jiuchuan looked her over. Eighteen or nineteen, steady and composed—clearly one of Cui Shi’s trusted first maids.

Her thoughts shifted. She asked: “Why did she say that?”

Jianlan’s expression turned awkward. She had served in Xi Zhao Courtyard for ten years, rising from a mere errand girl to a first-class maid, managing Cui Shi’s clothing and jewelry. From her very first day in service, the older women had warned her repeatedly: never mention Ninth Miss, especially not before Madam.

Strange, was it not? Ninth Miss was the only daughter of the Second Branch, the only flesh and blood left of the Second Master. Instead of cherishing her, they acted as if her very name was taboo.

With time, Jianlan pieced together whispers. They said Cui Shi detested her daughter because the child had been born just as the Second Master died on the battlefield. A cursed omen.

But Jianlan’s cousin—once Cui Shi’s chief maid—had told her otherwise. Madam had been driven mad by grief, and in her delirium insisted the girl was not her own. More than once she had even tried to smother the infant. Only by the Old Madam’s decree was the child sent away to a manor, spared from a mother’s hand.

Yet now, after more than ten years, Cui Shi still clung to this belief. Though Ninth Miss even bore a resemblance to her—how could she not be hers?

It seemed Madam had lived in widowhood too long, unable to awaken from her delusion.

Jianlan forced a weak smile, replying vaguely: “You’ve been away from the estate so long, things feel unfamiliar. And Madam has been sleepless these days, exhausted by her duties at the mourning hall.”

Her evasive words did not impress Lang Jiuchuan.

But since Jianlan refused to speak plainly, she let it be. Truth would come out in time. For now, she was merely curious.

Could a mother truly hate her own child so deeply, to the point of sending her away and nearly killing her?