Chapter 3: You Dare Teach Me How to Behave?

 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?”