Title: Ninth Lady is Rebellious and Arrogant
Author: Yan Xiaomo (燕小陌)
Genre: Romance Novel (言情小说)
Length: 1,051,200 words (and counting)
Status: Ongoing serialization

Advance Chapters

Table of Contents

Chapter 58, Chapter 57, Chapter 56 ,  Chapter 55,  Chapter 54,  Chapter 53, Chapter 52 ,  Chapter 51,  Chapter 50,  Chapter 49, Chapter 48 , Chapter 47, Chapter 46,  Chapter 45, Chapter 44, Chapter 43, Chapter 42

 Chapter 35: A Wandering Ghost Must Be Struck Down

Jiangche was fuming. It had gone through all that effort, huffing and puffing to sneak about like a thief, yet that woman stayed at home, busy tormenting it instead. If she wanted to die, fine—but why drag it down with her?

What exactly had she done to it? Did she not understand that their fates were bound together, one flourishing, both flourishing, one damaged, both damaged?

Lang Jiuchuan seized the talisman brush and pressed it against her spirit platform:

“Body of golden light, veil and protect me. Golden light, appear at once, guide the soul back to its palace. By command!”

A faint golden radiance flickered from the talisman brush. Her fragile soul drifted lightly back into her body. In an instant, she opened her hollow eyes, chest rising faintly, ears buzzing, limbs trembling.

So weak!

She needed nourishment.

Lying motionless on the ground, Lang Jiuchuan did not hesitate to snatch at Jiangche’s wish power.

Jiangche, who had just stabilized its divine consciousness: “!”

This bandit.

“I warn you, enough is enough!” Jiangche’s voice was dark and sinister inside the spirit platform.

Lang Jiuchuan replied weakly, “Just borrowing a little. I’ll return it next time.”

Returned? Ha! That would be the day.

“I must enter meditation to restore myself. Hurry back,” she said, and without another word to Jiangche, climbed into bed, shut her eyes, and sank her soul into meditation.

Jiangche: “…”

It was like punching into cotton—maddeningly frustrating.

......

Meanwhile, the stirrings in Lang Jiuchuan’s small room went unnoticed. On the other side, upon hearing Jianlan’s report, Cui Shi nearly suffered another heart attack.

Nanny Cheng hurried to soothe her: “Back when you were giving birth, things were already chaotic enough. You risked half your life then. Mistakes were bound to happen.”

Cui Shi waved her hand, shut her eyes, and could not utter a word.

Seeing this, Nanny Cheng sighed and spoke no further. A person caught in a dead end would only emerge if they themselves were willing. All the facts now lay plain; it was up to Cui Shi how she chose to see them.

If she truly refused to step out, then the bond between mother and daughter had already run its course.

After all, Lang Jiuchuan had already extended a choice. Otherwise, she would not have sent Jianlan with such an earnest reply.

Cui Shi turned her back, pressing her fist against her lips as tears slipped silently down her cheeks.

The quarrels between this mother and daughter of the second branch did not overly concern the Lang clan. But in the shadows, many outsiders who kept their eyes on the Lang family’s funeral noticed everything.

Five hundred li from Wujing, there lay an estate named Xunxianwu, nestled amid mountain and water. Spanning a hundred mu, shaped in the pattern of yin-yang and the Eight Trigrams, life energy flowed around it, serene and elegant.

In the main residence carved with dragons and phoenixes, a dignified noblewoman in a brocade gown of entwined flowers received a message from Wujing. Her brows knit tightly; grave-faced, she hurried to a secluded meditation courtyard.

Within the courtyard, a child in dark robes, after announcing her arrival, led her inside.

“What has you so flustered?”

Inside, a middle-aged man with his hair bound by a purple jade hairpin, wearing a purple robe embroidered with the Eight Trigrams, was reading a scripture. At his side lay turtle shells for divination. He glanced at her indifferently.

The noblewoman bowed respectfully before handing him the message. “Master, news from Wujing—the Ninth Young Miss of the Lang family has returned to the manor to attend the funeral.”

Lang Jiu? She had died beyond all doubt—how could she return?

The man blinked, took the slip, scanned it, then tossed it into a jade bowl of water without care. “Some wandering ghost borrowing a corpse for rebirth. No need for alarm.”

But the noblewoman frowned. “Yet I feel uneasy. What if…”

“What if what? Can you not tell whether it is a stray ghost or not?”

She fell silent, eyes flashing cold before lowering her head again, her expression calm, even gentle. “I overthought.”

Of course it was a ghost. The true soul had long since been captured—escape was impossible.

“Shall we see to matters with the Lang family?” she asked, feigning grief. “A mere wandering ghost clinging to the mortal realm defies Heaven’s law. To prevent calamity, it must be purged so the world may be cleansed.”

The man studied her for a long moment, until sweat gathered at her brow, then looked away with indifference. “Do as you see fit. The one who should die has disrupted the cycle of rebirth—her soul’s scattering is her own sin.”

Her eyes flickered. “Yes.”

“This need not be told to Xuan’er. He is at a critical moment,” he added.

“Rest assured. Such trifles will never reach him,” she replied quickly.

He waved her off, returning to his scripture. Yet his gaze lingered on the turtle shells, fingers brushing them before he shook his head. Too many were called Heaven’s favored, yet in truth, of their clan’s two hundred bloodlines, only one held a true Dao root, a destiny that could cleave demons and ascend the heavens. Pure coincidence.

He returned to his reading, absorbed.

Meanwhile, stepping out, the noblewoman paused, gazing toward a lush mountain. Her eyes softened, brimming with pride.

Her son—who could compare?

Turning west, her expression hardened, nails digging into her palm. No matter what wandering ghost it was, wearing that hateful face was an eyesore. It could not be allowed to remain.

No one could obstruct her son’s path—least of all that wretched girl.

Back in the main residence, as servants bowed, she sat down. Soon her trusted nanny entered, carrying a velvet box. The woman spared it a glance, unperturbed. “Who sent it?”

“The third branch’s young madam. She claims to have come upon fine ginseng and offers it for the young master’s health.” The nanny opened the box: a whole, pristine ginseng root bound with red thread.

The noblewoman was pleased. “She has more sense than the third sister-in-law of old.”

The nanny smiled slyly. “Who in the clan does not revere our young master? Only that arrogant fool—see where it got her? With an impure heart, she could not even bear a child… Forgive my tongue.”

The noblewoman said, “Send her one of Xuan’er’s talismans for protection.”

“The young madam will be overjoyed,” the nanny said with flattery.

The noblewoman, amused, waved her hand. “Enough. Go summon Fang Quan. I have tasks for him.”

The nanny’s heart skipped, but she dared not ask. She obeyed, stepping out to the corridor, muttering inwardly—who would be the unlucky one this time?

 Chapter 34: Too Much Force, the Corpse Scattered

Cui Shi’s pulse was far from robust—thin and feeble, with both heart and blood qi depleted, coupled with an ailment of cold in her body. As for her heart disease, if it was not congenital, then it must have been acquired later.

Jianlan fell silent for a moment, hesitant whether to speak, until Lang Jiuchuan’s brows drew together. Only then did she say, “I heard from the maids who served Madam in the past, that she suffered a difficult labor. After childbirth, her blood was weakened, but because of long-accumulated grief, she never received proper care, and so developed heart disease. But according to Nanny Cheng, Madam’s mother—your grandmother—also had heart disease since childhood, and passed away when Madam was thirteen.”

So, hereditary factors played a part as well.

Fearing that Lang Jiuchuan would grow more resentful of Cui Shi, Jianlan quickly added, “These years have not been easy for Madam either. She has lived as a widow, rarely associating with the masters of the first and third branches. Only at festivals would she sit together for meals. Most days she stayed in her courtyard, very lonely. Now that you’ve returned, our second branch will be lively again.”

Lang Jiuchuan gave a small laugh. “Are you sure this liveliness isn’t just me stirring up trouble?”

“This…”

Thinking of the uproars this Ninth Young Miss had caused since returning, Jianlan dared not answer. It was true—things had become lively, but also endlessly turbulent.

Seeing Jianlan flustered, Lang Jiuchuan did not tease her further. “Enough of that. Go inquire after the medicinal herbs I asked for.”

“Yes, Young Miss.”

At that moment, Daman entered carrying a tray—the medicine prescribed for Lang Jiuchuan by the physician.

“Young Miss, it is time for your medicine.”

Lang Jiuchuan wanted to say to throw it away—it was useless to her—but recalling how this had been decocted personally by Xiaoman and Daman, she took the bowl and drained it in one breath. Returning the bowl to the tray, she said, “Do not bother brewing the rest. I will prepare a new prescription.”

Daman froze, glancing instinctively at Jianlan. Jianlan considered, then nodded. “Follow the Young Miss’s instructions, Daman. You now serve her.”

This was a warning.

Whomever you serve, heed their word.

Daman immediately obeyed.

At this, Lang Jiuchuan gave Jianlan a sidelong glance—this girl was rather interesting.

When Jianlan left the courtyard with the prescription, she ran into Hanlan, who told her Nanny Cheng was seeking her. So she went to Cui Shi’s chambers. After giving her greetings, Jianlan was startled by Nanny Cheng’s words.

Seeing her expression, Nanny Cheng deliberately spoke with a touch of anger. “What, girl, after serving Ninth Young Miss for two days, your heart already leans toward her?”

Jianlan’s face blanched, and she hastily knelt. “This servant does not dare.”

“You little hoof, you say you don’t dare, but your heart is full of defiance…”

“Enough, Nanny Cheng.” Cui Shi cut her off, turning to Jianlan. “What is that in your hands?”

Jianlan hesitated, then presented the prescription. “Young Miss desires these herbs.”

Nanny Cheng unfolded it, and the vigorous strokes struck her like a blow. The girl’s calligraphy was so fine?

Cui Shi, seeing her stunned, took it for herself. A trace of surprise crossed her face. “I recall, when the Old Madam invited a tutor for her, he wrote an excellent hand in standard script.”

But these strokes were no standard script. Like their writer, they were unrestrained, domineering.

Nanny Cheng said, “Yes, perhaps the Young Miss learned two styles.”

Cui Shi studied the list of herbs, then thought of Lang Jiuchuan’s frail body. Her lips pressed tightly. Was this ‘a long illness making the patient into a doctor’?

“Go let the Eldest Young Madam make arrangements. If the public stores have none, open the private stores. If still none, send someone to the physician’s shop.”

Handing the prescription back to Jianlan, she added, “Since your heart leans toward her, then go and serve her henceforth.”

Jianlan fell to her knees with a thud. “Madam, this servant…”

“Rise. I did not say you betrayed me.” Cui Shi’s voice was calm. “She will need someone at her side. Since you suit her, then you. Remember: from now on, your mistress is the Ninth Young Miss.”

Jianlan felt panic and unease, looking at Nanny Cheng. The latter said coldly, “Why are you not giving thanks yet? Go pack your things and move to her quarters. Serve her well, or watch your hide.”

Jianlan had no choice but to kowtow thrice in thanks, pledge her loyalty, and withdraw. Standing dazed beneath the veranda, she then gathered her belongings and placed them in the side room of Lang Jiuchuan’s courtyard.

Through the window, Lang Jiuchuan saw her return with a bundle. One brow arched. Not long after, Jianlan came to report—saying she had been assigned to serve her, and asked for a bestowed name.

“What did they summon you over to ask?” Lang Jiuchuan suddenly asked.

Jianlan started, eyes flying up to meet hers. After a moment, she lowered herself to the ground. “Madam wished to know if Young Miss bears a crescent-shaped birthmark at the nape of her neck.”

Lang Jiuchuan was somewhat surprised, instinctively reaching back to touch her nape, thoughtful.

Jianlan was deeply uneasy, not daring to raise her head, uncertain where this path led.

“Come look for me.”

Jianlan gave a small cry. Seeing Lang Jiuchuan turn, loosen her collar, and lift her hair, she stepped forward to inspect.

Smooth, pale skin—without blemish, without scar. No trace of any crescent birthmark.

Jianlan’s face drained of blood, her hands twisting nervously. She guessed at the truth—Cui Shi had her check for the birthmark, believing only the girl with it was her true daughter.

But Ninth Young Miss had none. Then…

Was she a counterfeit?

When Jianlan failed to respond, Lang Jiuchuan turned, catching her pallid face. Understanding dawned. “There is none?”

Jianlan’s lips trembled, but not a word came.

Lang Jiuchuan understood. “Go report it then.”

Jianlan’s body went rigid. Stammering, she said, “Young… Young Miss…”

“Simply answer truthfully.”

Jianlan stared in shock. Seeing no trace of care or sorrow on Lang Jiuchuan’s face, her heart twisted with a sudden ache. How could she not be?

Yes—how could she not?

Lang Jiuchuan toyed with her talisman brush. She knew well the bond of blood was no illusion. That birthmark Cui Shi longed for—was it real, or merely her imagination?

This matter was… rather amusing.

She thought for a moment. Then, with a shift of intent, she guided the talisman brush to write in midair. As the character “Lang” took form, her will faltered. Attempting “Jiu,” the second stroke weighed as heavy as a thousand catties, her spirit torn with pain.

Barely had the “Chuan” begun when it felt as though her soul was being ripped apart.

Pfft.

Lang Jiuchuan spat a mouthful of blood, collapsing as the brush fell from her hand. Her spirit lurched free of her body.

And her physical shell—strained by too much force—scattered.

At that same moment, Jiangche, who was stealing incense ash at a temple, felt his spirit reel in agony. With a crash, he knocked over the censer, scattering ash across the floor.

Terrified, Jiangche hastily gathered his dissolving soul with his wish-power, while cursing furiously in his spiritual platform at Lang Jiuchuan.

“You damned tigress—what self-mutilation are you up to now? Get yourself back together, at once!”

(End of Chapter)

 Chapter 33: Desire to Craft a Returning Yang Talisman

Two flowers on a branch.

After leaving Cui Shi’s quarters, Lang Jiuchuan returned to her own courtyard, only to nearly get into a fight with Jiangche—for no other reason than its ceaseless chatter.

“…The matter most urgent now isn’t leaving the Marquis’s manor, but finding a way to repair this body of yours that is on the verge of falling apart.” Jiangche huffed, pointing a paw at the motionless body lying on the bed, then shot Lang Jiuchuan a glare.

Lang Jiuchuan replied, “To mend a broken body, I must first have opportunity. But trapped in this rear residence, staring day after day at the same patch of sky—what can I accomplish? Do you know, in these seven days since I entered this body, aside from the funeral procession that left the Marquis’s manor and the city, I haven’t stepped beyond these walls again. Even if someone were at death’s door, I could not so much as pass through the gate to them. If I don’t go now, then when?”

That was indeed a problem.

And it too had seen—women’s movements were always less free than men’s, inconveniences aplenty.

Yet soon Jiangche snorted. “And what if you are a woman? With you and I together, could we really be bound by this tiny corner of sky? If you can’t walk out openly, then simply wear another skin, a borrowed guise!”

Lang Jiuchuan cast it a glance—finally, a line worth hearing. She rather agreed.

“Whether to leave or not can be set aside for now. But this body is indeed a hindrance. I’ve thought on it—merely using illusion to maintain the semblance of life drains too much spirit. I have a talisman, the Returning Yang, which could make me appear no different from a living person. You’ll fetch me the materials for it.”

Jiangche jabbed a paw at itself. “You mean—you’re ordering me to run errands? On what grounds?”

Lang Jiuchuan’s face darkened with a cold smile. “On the grounds that you and I are bound as one. For your good, for my good, for both of us. Naturally, the work must be divided. What, should I labor alone while you sit idle and reap the benefit? What—did you think that with your tiger’s paws you could dream so prettily?”

Jiangche: “!”

Wait—wasn’t it true that, even without it, she would still have to struggle to sustain this body?

So she had simply dug a pit, waiting for someone to run her errands—and it had leapt in willingly!

Realizing this, Jiangche’s fur bristled, a wave of shame flooding it—ashamed of its own foolishness.

Holding back a snarl, it retorted, “A man should have broad vision, not fuss over trifles!”

“You be broad, then—you go around calling every stranger ‘father’!”

One strike, fatal.

Jiangche was so incensed it bared its sharp tiger fangs at her.

Lang Jiuchuan lifted the Jade-bone Talisman Brush in her hand.

Come then—see who fears whom!

Jiangche: “……”

The woman and the tiger glared at one another. In the end, Jiangche backed down in defeat.

“Fine, say it—what do you need?”

Its tone was dejected, as though its fangs had truly been pulled, all the old majesty gone.

A glimmer of laughter crossed Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes. Drawing it closer, she rubbed at the fur on the back of its neck. “Don’t feel as if you’ve bowed to my tyranny—though that is, in fact, the truth. Simply remember: once this body recovers, you too will thrive. Think of it as effort for your own sake, and then there’s no shame in it.”

Jiangche grudgingly accepted this logic, though something still felt wrong—wasn’t this the very trick of slapping with one hand and feeding with the other?

Still, she was right about one thing: this was for its own good. Best to do it!

Fired with sudden purpose, it clenched its claws, not even noticing how much it resembled a cat, half-closing its tiger eyes under her stroking hand.

Lang Jiuchuan said, “Ordinary talismans will fail in three days. We need one that lasts longer. That means supreme yellow talisman paper, incense ash from before a Buddha, top-grade cinnabar, and water from a snowy mountain spring. If there is no spring, then fresh snow melted with the petals of the Luo Xinfu flower will do.”

Jiangche blinked. “Even to draw a talisman, you need such things? What is this Luo Xinfu?”

“It is a hardy flower, also a medicinal herb. It cures chills, coughs, and aches. As for why—normally, cinnabar alone suffices. But incense ash that has been placed before a Buddha, nourished day and night by countless prayers, contains vast protective power.”

“Protective power? You’d use such a thing on yourself? Are you courting death?” Jiangche interrupted her without thinking.

After all, she had borrowed a corpse to return to life. To those self-proclaimed righteous paths of Buddhism and Daoism, she was no different from an evil spirit. To use such a thing against herself—wasn’t that inviting doom?

Lang Jiuchuan shook her head. “That which wards off evil can also serve to strengthen. What I want is the power of those prayers. With this ash and snow-water, blended with other medicines, I will draw a Returning Yang talisman.”

Jiangche considered carefully. This woman… she truly seemed to know what she was about.

“And the medicines? Don’t you need those?”

“Would the Marquis’s manor lack for medicine?” Lang Jiuchuan thought a moment. “But you, as the king of beasts—if you can bring back an old ginseng root from the mountains, that would be best of all.”

“Done. Leave it to me.” Jiangche asked a few more questions, then sent its spirit consciousness from the Marquis’s manor.

Now that it was bound to her, its essence resided in her spirit platform. Even if it left the body, there was little danger. Should something happen outside, she could draw it back; at worst, it could still cling to survival.

Once Jiangche departed, Lang Jiuchuan summoned Jianlan to bring brush and ink. After some thought, she wrote down the list of medicines required.

Jianlan served attentively at her side. Seeing her pause in her writing, she sneaked a look at the paper—and froze in amazement.

“Young Miss, your calligraphy is beautiful.”

On the snowy-white paper, each stroke of ink was vigorous and full of force, bold and majestic.

Jianlan could read, and at a glance she saw they were names of herbs. “Young Miss, is this a prescription? For what ailment?”

Lang Jiuchuan glanced at her. Meeting her eyes, Jianlan trembled and shrank back a step, bowing low, her voice timid. “This maid was too forward.”

“Not quite a prescription,” Lang Jiuchuan said, staring a moment at the characters.

She could not help but wonder: the things she knew—were they lingering instincts of the body’s former soul, or her own? And this hand, this calligraphy—did it belong to her true self? If so, who had taught her? Whose hand had guided hers, stroke by stroke, to write with such vigor as pine and cypress?

Shaking her head, she waited for the ink to dry, then handed the list to Jianlan. “I’ll need these herbs. The manor can provide them, yes?”

Jianlan accepted it. “Of course, Young Miss. You are the Second Branch’s young mistress—it is only natural.”

Lang Jiuchuan arched a brow. “Do you truly see me as the young mistress of the Second Branch? When even your Madam refuses to acknowledge me? If she, as my mother, disowns me, who would sincerely respect me as their mistress?”

“This maid would!” Jianlan blurted without hesitation.

Lang Jiuchuan’s gaze grew colder. “Do you pity me, then?”

Jianlan paled, about to protest, when Lang Jiuchuan cut her off. “It is true, after all. Someone like me—who would not find me pitiable?”

For truth be told, she was pitiable. By right, as the Second Branch’s true daughter, she should have lived in silks and jade, cherished and indulged. Yet her father was dead, her mother estranged, and she had been cast away to a country estate since childhood. Who would not sigh at such misfortune?

But she did not dwell on self-pity. Instead, recalling the pulse she had felt when pressing Cui Shi’s wrist earlier, she shifted the subject. “Tell me—when did Madam’s heart ailment first begin?”

(End of Chapter)

 Chapter 32: Playing Deaf and Dumb for Over a Decade

Cui Shi suddenly suffered a heart seizure. Lang Jiuchuan had not been overly alarmed at first, yet Jiangche’s mouth kept running on and on.

“To anger your mother to death—you’ll be struck by heaven’s retribution, won’t you? And besides, you’re only borrowing this body. Doing something like this must cost you merit, surely?” Jiangche said coolly.

Lose merit? That was absolutely unacceptable!

Lang Jiuchuan looked at Cui Shi’s face, turning blue, unable to breathe. She quickly stepped forward, seized Cui Shi’s right wrist, and pressed at her Neiguan acupoint, adjusting pressure from light to heavy. Then, without a word, she plucked a strand of Jiangche’s fur, transforming it into a needle, and drove it into the point. The hair-needle became an invisible force, traveling upward along the meridian to soothe the distressed organ.

Jiangche was dumbfounded. Its spiritual essence—how could she just pull it out like that?!

Cui Shi had felt as if an unseen hand were wringing her heart in torment, but Lang Jiuchuan’s rapid sequence of actions made her freeze in shock, even forgetting to clutch at her chest. She stared at her in disbelief.

“Medicine is here.” Jianlan held a fine jade bottle, opened the stopper, and quickly poured out a Rescue Heart Pill. She presented it on a handkerchief before Cui Shi’s lips, while Molan, who had followed with her, offered warm water to wash it down.

Yet Cui Shi found that the pain was already gone. She swallowed the pill almost by instinct.

Lang Jiuchuan had stepped back, brows drawn as she studied Cui Shi’s features. But the fate-lines remained unclear, and doubt flickered in her heart.

In physiognomy, one must not divine one’s own or a blood kin’s fate. To forcibly pry would invite backlash.

If she could not read Cui Shi’s lifespan, then that meant only one thing—blood relation.

Then why had Cui Shi suffered such a delusion, refusing even to recognize her daughter?

Lang Jiuchuan’s face darkened. She stood silent. Nanny Cheng, misreading her expression as stubbornness, gently pulled her aside and urged softly:“Ninth Young Miss, return to your quarters for now. Please don’t speak such harsh words again. Madam has heart pains—anger only worsens it. Ah, you are family. Why make it so bitter?”

Lang Jiuchuan gave a slight nod and turned to leave without a word.

Seeing this, Nanny Cheng’s headache deepened. She looked back toward Cui Shi, meaning to soothe the matter, but Cui Shi spoke first.

“Jianlan, go and attend her,” Cui Shi said, clutching her wrist. Then to Nanny Cheng: “What happened just now must not be spread. Make sure the maids hold their tongues tight.”

Nanny Cheng quickly agreed.

Indeed, this must never be told. If it spread that Lang Jiuchuan had defied her mother to the point of nearly driving her to death, the scorn alone would bury her.

“How are you feeling now? The physician still ought to come and check your pulse,” Nanny Cheng said anxiously. “If need be, we might even return to the Cui household…”

Cui Shi’s gaze cut across, displeased.

Nanny Cheng faltered, sighed, and said: “Let me help you inside to rest. When the physician arrives to take your pulse, you will be reassured.”

Cui Shi nodded, but instructed Molan: “Do not summon the physician. One was just called, and he must be busy tending to all the sick about the estate. I am fine.”

After mourning, many had fallen unwell. She had only caught a chill herself. She could not monopolize the physician, lest tongues wag.

“But, Madam…”

Cui Shi rose, hand upon her wrist. “Truly, it does not hurt in the least.”

She could not tell if it was the medicine or her mind, but when Lang Jiuchuan had grasped her wrist and pressed the Neiguan point, the pain had vanished as if it had never been.

Leaning back against the bed, Nanny Cheng tucked a cushion at her waist, called Molan to fetch attendants, placed a warming pan in her bedding, smoothed the quilt, and presented a freshly decocted bowl of medicine.

At the bitter scent, Cui Shi’s brows knit, her heart rebelling.

Nanny Cheng held a plate of candied fruits and coaxed: “The funeral has drained you, and the chill has worsened your weakness. If you will not drink this, how can you recover? The New Year is barely a month away. Would you really spend it still drinking bitter medicine?”

Cui Shi swallowed the dose in one breath. Bitterness filled her mouth, seeping into her heart. She opened her lips without thought when Nanny Cheng offered a candied fruit.

Watching her closely, Nanny Cheng said: “Madam, Ninth Young Miss has returned. It is not proper to send her back to the manor farm, especially when she is nearly of age. You have feigned deafness and silence for over a decade. Can you pretend forever? She is your only flesh and blood with the Second Master.”

Cui Shi’s face remained cold. “Was it I who refused her? You heard what she said. She was the one who would not stay.”

Nanny Cheng sighed. “My good girl, she is but a child, a young girl. From the start, because of your dislike, she was exiled to the manor farm—fourteen years gone. If it were you, would you not harbor grievance?”

The use of my good girl was the same as when she had been a maiden in her boudoir. It was true persuasion.

Cui Shi stiffened, lips pressed tight.

“I was your wet nurse, I raised you,” Nanny Cheng pressed on. “I was present when you gave birth. I never mistook my eyes. And there were Hongju and the others then too—all trustworthy. None dared attempt a trick like swapping babes. Why do you insist the young miss is not yours? Forgive this boldness, but—is it not your longing for the Second Master that has unsettled your mind?”

Cui Shi’s complexion turned deathly pale. Her lips trembled. “But what if you all were mistaken?”

“If I mistook her, did everyone mistake her?” Nanny Cheng asked. “You say she is not your child, but what proof have you? In childhood, she was not as clear, but now she bears your younger likeness. As for her nature—likely it follows the Master. No, one thing is like you as well: stubbornness.”

Cui Shi was silent, fingers brushing her wrist where the warmth of Lang Jiuchuan’s touch seemed to linger.

So—was it truly her mistake?

She closed her eyes. In her mind flickered blurred memories: a chamber wreathed in purple-red vapors, the newborn’s cries ringing out. She had forced her eyes open. Someone had lifted the infant before her—she had seen…

Had she been too exhausted, her vision failing her, or was there something else? If it were the former, then for all these years she had abandoned her daughter in error. How could such a debt ever be repaid?

Tears fell one by one down her cheeks, landing upon her wrist.

She drew a deep breath and looked at Nanny Cheng, whispering in her ear: “Wet nurse, go and tell Jianlan to…”

Nanny Cheng’s eyes widened faintly at the words. So this was the basis of her belief all these years?

“And if it is not so?” she asked.

Cui Shi fell silent for a long time, then lowered her eyes to hide her weariness. “If not, then it is Heaven’s will. For the matter of adoption—let it be as they wish.”

(End of Chapter)

 Chapter 31: Rebellious and Unfilial Daughter

It was Lang Jiuchuan’s first time stepping into Cui Shi’s Xichi Pavilion. With the funeral and burial of the old Marquis of the Lang family concluded, the mourning decorations in the residence had been removed and replaced with plain furnishings; her courtyard was no exception.

Because Cui Shi had long been widowed, Xichi Pavilion was located far from the main quarters, on the western side of the Marquisate. Though remote, the grounds were quite spacious, quiet, and elegant. It was said there was even a small practice ground for martial arts, once belonging to the late Second Master Lang Zhengfan.

The pavilion was not adorned with extra blossoms or shrubs, only two tall Chinese tallow trees. According to Jianlan, those trees blazed with beauty in autumn, rivaling even maples and ginkgo, and had been planted personally by Second Master Lang in his youth. Cui Shi especially loved to sit beneath them in autumn, sipping tea and admiring the leaves.

Though lacking flowers, Cui Shi cherished orchids. Judging by the names of her maids, all ending with “lan,” this was plain to see. She had even built a greenhouse in the courtyard solely for her beloved orchids—her only pastime and solace through the long years of widowhood, apart from worship.

Now it was already winter, close to the twelfth month. Snow weighed down the two tallow trees, leaving the courtyard even more bleak and colorless.

The residence was deep and still.

Perhaps because its mistress was so reclusive, Xichi Pavilion, like Lang Jiuchuan’s own courtyard, lacked any true liveliness.

A strong medicinal scent wafted into Lang Jiuchuan’s nose, drifting from the small kitchen in the northwest corner. From the main hall came the faint sound of coughing.

Lang Jiuchuan lowered her gaze and followed Jianlan toward the main hall. At the entrance, a maid of twelve or thirteen, upon seeing them, quickly went inside to announce and lifted the curtain.

Upon entering, warmth struck her face. Lang Jiuchuan looked up: by the south window stood a luohan bed, where Cui Shi reclined. She had changed from mourning white into a plain indigo robe with a skirt patterned in continuous meander. Her low bun was held only with a single white jade hairpin, without any other adornment.

She seemed to have just coughed; her cheeks carried an unhealthy flush, her lips pale as paper.

A maid dressed like Jianlan, in a dark-green jacketed skirt, passed by carrying a spittoon. She paused to curtsey, addressing softly: “Ninth Young Miss.”

This was Molán, one of Cui Shi’s four senior maids.

Cui Shi handed her used handkerchief to Nanny Cheng at her side, then took up a fresh one. Seeing Lang Jiuchuan standing there without moving, her brows furrowed. “Now you do not even know how to salute properly?”

Lang Jiuchuan inclined her head slightly. “I greet Madam.”

Madam.

Cui Shi’s hand tightened on the silk kerchief.

Nanny Cheng sighed. “Ninth Young Miss, even if you do not call her Mother, at least say Mother instead of Madam.”

Lang Jiuchuan let out a cold laugh. “I recall, the day I returned to the residence, Madam said I was not her true daughter. How could I then address her as Mother?”

Faces across the room changed.

From her spirit platform, Jiangche floated out, appearing in the size of a small kitten. It perched on her shoulder, looked at Cui Shi, then back at Lang Jiuchuan. “Strange. Looking at your faces, you do resemble mother and daughter. Why does she not acknowledge you? Could it be she has seen through you at a glance, and knows you’re a fake?”

“Shut up!” Lang Jiuchuan snapped at it irritably, then turned to Cui Shi. “For what matter has Madam summoned me here?”

Cui Shi had been somewhat angered, but with Nanny Cheng’s soothing hand upon her back, she forcibly reined in her temper. “I will not speak of how you were on the estate before. But now you are back in the Marquisate, and next year you will reach the age of capping. The rules and teachings you ought to know must be learned, lest in the future, when you marry, you bring shame upon yourself and mockery upon the Lang family for lacking proper upbringing.”

Lang Jiuchuan froze. What did that mean?

“Aiya, if you’re to marry, which reckless man would dare wed such a shrew…” Jiangche’s muttering cut itself short the instant Lang Jiuchuan turned her head with a deathly glare.

She didn’t punish him further, only added coolly: “If I marry, won’t you have to marry along with me?”

Jiangche jolted.

Indeed—now they shared one body. The flesh was female; if she really wed, they would enter the bridal chamber together. Wouldn’t that mean he, the mighty White Tiger King, would be the one pressed beneath? Impossible! He was born to be above, not below!

Lang Jiuchuan, unaware of his lewd imaginings, said flatly to Cui Shi: “No need to trouble yourself. With this body, I cannot carry nor endure; a short-lived frame, perhaps even unable to bear children. Better not to disgrace another household.”

Marry? What nonsense.

She had no interest.

“You—!” Cui Shi was so angered she broke into violent coughing.

Nanny Cheng quickly supported her, patting her back. “Ninth Young Miss, do not speak such unlucky words. With care, the body can recover. Madam has already sent for the divine physician, Fang Cong, to treat you.”

Cui Shi pressed her lips together in silence.

Lang Jiuchuan was surprised, looking at her. “I told you, this body cannot be saved—”

“Must you contradict me at every turn?” Cui Shi slammed her hand upon the small table, snapping, “In your heart, do you so despise me, that you would neglect even your own body?”

Lang Jiuchuan held her gaze. She did not speak until Cui Shi’s face showed awkwardness. “You overthink. I do not hate you.”

After all, she was not the original host; she could not share her grievances.

“You lie.” Jiangche snorted. “You clearly harbor resentment.”

Lang Jiuchuan retorted evenly: “Not I. Only the remnant will of the original.”

Jiangche sneered. Dead duck’s mouth, refusing to admit.

Lang Jiuchuan looked again at Cui Shi. “I do not hate you. For so many years, I have lived as though alone, never expecting nor receiving your care. Without ever having it, there is nothing to long for, hence nothing to hate. Besides, I was content on the estate. You brought me back to serve as a dutiful granddaughter. Now the funeral is done; tomorrow I shall return to the estate. Here, I do not belong.”

Cui Shi’s eyelid twitched.

Nanny Cheng stepped forward in haste. “Young Miss, the past is past. Now that you are home, how could you return to the estate? You are Second Madam’s only daughter.”

Only daughter. The words struck Lang Jiuchuan strangely, her heart unsettled.

It seemed too late now.

“Since we only look upon each other with mutual dislike, what meaning is there to remain?” Lang Jiuchuan said coolly.

Cui Shi’s face darkened. “You truly are born rebellious, just like your father—”

Her hand trembled. She abruptly closed her lips, face twisting in pain, clutching at her chest, gasping for breath.

Nanny Cheng paled with fright. “Madam, is it your heart pain again? Jianlan, fetch a pill of Rescue Heart Elixir! Someone—summon the physician!”

Lang Jiuchuan’s brows furrowed.

Jiangche, meanwhile, looked on like an amused spectator. “If she dies, won’t it be said she was angered to death by her unfilial daughter’s defiance?”

(End of Chapter)

 Chapter 30: The Pact Sealed, It Is the White Tiger King Jiang Che

The Heaven-and-Earth Pact—established with the soul itself. Once forged, it is bound by the laws of Heaven. Whoever violates it shall not be tolerated under Heaven, but struck down.

Lang Jiuchuan’s proposal surprised the White Tiger. It studied her for a long while in silence. To resort so readily to a Heaven-and-Earth Pact, a soul-shaking, life-binding contract—how deep must this woman’s mind run?

Or perhaps… had she once suffered some overwhelming betrayal, to guard herself so fiercely?

Lang Jiuchuan met its gaze. “Only by sealing this pact can we share one body. Otherwise, it will be to the death.”

The White Tiger hesitated. “Very well. A pact, then. But I shall be the one to recite it.”

She did not trust him, nor did it trust her.

“Fine. You recite.” Lang Jiuchuan’s expression betrayed no hint of scheming.

Too smooth.

The White Tiger felt as though it had walked straight into her snare, yet could not tell how.

It knew the Heaven-and-Earth Pact well. Its spirit was its soul, the same as her divine soul. To bind a pact meant binding its very essence.

As she had said—the White Tiger would recite, while she wrote, using the innate talisman brush in her hand. At first the beast objected, but when it learned that the brush was Pan Guan’s Brush, it fell silent.

Pan Guan’s Brush—there could be nothing fairer.

“Heavens above, I proclaim to all beings, I, Jiangche, do hereby vow… Whoever breaks this contract shall be struck down. Thus is the Heaven-and-Earth Contract established, carried to the Ninth Heaven.” The White Tiger recited as it watched Lang Jiuchuan’s talisman strokes write in the air. With each stroke, their souls fell upon the characters, turning into golden light and vanishing into the void. That signified the contract was taking form.

When it finished, their names stood side by side. Human and tiger exchanged a glance, then each sent a thread of soul-power across.

Purple-gold light blazed; thunder roared overhead.

In the capital, many people jumped in fright at the clap of thunder. In the dead of winter, thunder had struck a second time—was it a sign of coming calamity?

When the thunder faded, the names disappeared into the void. Human and tiger immediately sensed the bond linking them—proof the contract had been sealed.

So smoothly?

Jiangche was astonished. Before, Lang Jiuchuan had sworn to fight it to the bitter end, even to mutual destruction, rather than share a body. Now, just with one Heaven-and-Earth Contract, she agreed so readily?

Whatever the reason, an opening was before it—could it finally enter?

“Woman, I’m coming!” Jiangche rushed eagerly toward Lang Jiuchuan’s spirit platform.

Lang Jiuchuan lowered her gaze, the corner of her lips curving with unfathomable meaning. A contract forged by a soul not yet whole—heh.

She was prepared, yet when Jiangche tried to root itself in her spirit platform, her instinct was still to resist.

One body, two souls—whoever seized the lead would be the master!

She meant to lead. Jiangche thought the same. Thus the two immediately clashed and tore at each other within the spirit platform.

Lang Jiuchuan’s vigilance was iron-strong. For Jiangche to carve out a foothold, it had to unleash formidable willpower to force its place. Neither yielded, and the result was another life-and-death struggle.

“The contract is sealed already—why won’t you yield? Do you want to be struck by Heaven’s thunder?” Jiangche gritted out.

Lang Jiuchuan replied coldly, “Stay quietly in your corner and do not play tricks. Otherwise, rejection of the soul is inevitable.”

Jiangche: “!”

This was the most humiliating shared-body arrangement in history.

Fine. To forbear small slights preserves the grand design. It would endure—just for now.

So it shrank back into a corner, curling itself into a ball. In an instant it rooted there, delighted and spinning circles of joy—completely missing Lang Jiuchuan’s meaningful smile.

What a foolish big cat. One retreat, then another—lesson one: learn how treacherous the human heart can be.

Jiangche did not understand treachery, but it truly felt the benefits of sharing her body. Through the bond, it absorbed her fortune, and its spirit grew sturdier.

Once relaxed, it could not hold back—the willpower it had been sustaining diffused, bathing the spirit platform in faint golden light. Lang Jiuchuan’s soul hungrily drank it in.

Mutual nourishment.

On this point, Jiangche had spoken no lie. With the contract, they were linked in a cycle: its will strengthened her, her fortune enriched it. They complemented each other.

But once fed and warmed, base desires stir. That flaw exists in man—and in tiger alike.

Feeling stronger, the tiger tried to pry into her secrets.

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes snapped open, cold light flashing. Her thought-force turned into icy blades, stabbing at Jiangche.

With a roar, Jiangche leapt back, furious. “What are you doing? Do you mean to break the contract?”

“Ever heard the saying? Curiosity kills the cat. You try to probe my soul—you must have a death wish.” Lang Jiuchuan’s voice was icy.

Its gaze flickered as it stammered, “No such thing, a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

“Shared body means shared body. I won’t meddle with you, but don’t you dare cross my bottom line. Or else, breaking the contract will be no hard thing.”

Arrogant—so very arrogant.

Jiangche scratched its nose awkwardly. “Fine, fine. Listen to you, spouting such wolfish words—who’s talking about meddling?”

Lang Jiuchuan snorted, rubbing her fingertips together. “So this is your true form?”

Hmm?

Jiangche looked down. Once a wisp of white mist, its spirit had now solidified into a full tiger shape, just as before.

Its body was massive, fur pure white save for a golden tuft on its forehead forming the shape of the character “王” (king). Its golden eyes gleamed with ferocity and authority.

Silent, it truly appeared majestic, exuding the bearing of a king.

“Well? Impressive, isn’t it? I am the mightiest White Tiger of Mount Taibai, peerless among tigers. Countless tigresses have yearned to bear my cubs!” Jiangche puffed up proudly, striking a regal pose.

Lang Jiuchuan eyed its thick snowy fur. “Why are you called Jiangche?”

Jiangche said, “Our White Tiger clan were divine beasts in the ancient times, born war gods. My ancestor was the great war deity Jiangzhan, who—”

“Yet you lack your forebear’s glory. You’re but a disembodied soul clinging to me for survival.”

She cut him off mercilessly. The tiger’s fur bristled, its golden eyes blazing with killing intent.

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes lit with interest. Her fingers itched, but seeing its massive form, she frowned. “This room is small. You’re blocking my view. Shrink—cat-size will do.”

“I am the White Tiger King, destined to be a divine beast! I am no cat!”

Lang Jiuchuan stepped forward, swiftly ruffling a handful of its silky fur. “All right, Xiao Bai.”

Jiangche: “?”

Xiao Bai? Who?

She actually insisted on calling it a cat—and gave it such a feeble name! Did she really take it for some harmless kitten wagging its tail for its master?

Outrageous!

Just as it was about to roar, Lang Jiuchuan snapped her fingers and pulled it back into the spirit platform.

“Don’t draw attention.”

As her words fell, a knock came at the door. Jianlan’s voice sounded outside: “Young Miss, Second Madam requests your presence.”

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 29: You and I Must Form a Pact

Lang Jiuchuan and that mass of spiritual consciousness sat facing one another across the round table.

“Speak. What kind of being’s spirit are you? Why attempt to seize this broken body of mine?” Lang Jiuchuan’s face was cold. If not for those two doglike eyes of hers greedily eyeing the willpower surrounding the other, like a mutt staring at meat, she might have been called aloof.

The spirit sighed. “If I remembered, would I be entangled with you as my turning point?”

Not honest.

Lang Jiuchuan sneered, flicking her fingertips. The jade-bone talisman brush in her hand seemed to come alive, spinning swiftly until it dazzled the eyes. She spoke carelessly: “Oh? What turning point has you hung up over a woman’s body of mine?”

The spirit was so dazzled that when she asked, it blurted without thought: “Of course I’m conflicted. I was once the mighty White Tiger King—if I end up in a woman’s body, does that not make me a mothe—”

Realizing its mistake, it leapt onto the table with a roar. “Despicable human, you tricked me!”

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes narrowed. “So it’s just a cat.”

At that, the white tiger grew even more enraged, baring fangs and claws. “A cat? I am the White Tiger, King of Beasts of Mount Taibai, worshipped by all creatures! How could I be the ‘little cat’ you speak of?”

A cat—such an insult was unbearable!

“Oh? Weren’t you just saying you remembered nothing?” Lang Jiuchuan’s lips curved faintly. “So you never intended to deal fairly with me from the start. ‘Not of my kind, surely their hearts are different’—indeed, the saying is true.”

Caught in her snare, the white tiger faltered for words. After a long pause, it muttered: “I suffer from… intermittent memory loss.”

Damn it. Even it knew that sounded fake.

And sure enough, the hateful woman began to drive it out.

“No sincerity, no need to talk. Be gone.”

The white tiger grew anxious. “Why should I leave?”

“Because this is my domain. This is my body. Don’t tell me I too am an outsider—now that I am here, it is mine. And I returned through proper reincarnation, not by vile possession.” Lang Jiuchuan’s tone was icy. “You seek to seize a body, but have you considered how many bolts of heavenly thunder your fragile spirit can withstand?”

Those who attempted possession were struck by heaven’s thunder. Survive, and one lived. Fail, and one perished.

The White Tiger recalled the lightning tribulation it had once endured—the purple bolts as thick as water barrels. Even as a beast properly cultivating toward ascension, it had not survived, leaving behind only a wisp of spirit drifting between heaven and earth.

“But I was guided!” it argued. “Since a great master pointed the way, this must be a chance for survival. It is said, the Dao numbers fifty, Heaven evolves forty-nine, leaving one line of life. I grasped that sliver of life—how could Heaven deny me? Do you know how long I waited for this turning point? Three hundred and fifty-nine days!”

“What has that to do with me?”

“This body is my turning point! If I inhabit it, I can truly endure, no longer fading away. Given time, I will rise again and ascend to the heavens as a divine beast—”

“Your skills may be lacking, but your boasts are vast. ‘Ascend to the heavens’? This is the mortal realm,” Lang Jiuchuan mocked.

“I am the White Tiger, who cultivated five hundred years! A natural God of War!”

“Yes—dead God of War.”

The White Tiger puffed up like a pufferfish, its spirit swelling severalfold, glaring viciously at the small Lang Jiuchuan.

She raised the talisman brush upright. “If it’s battle you want, then battle. Spare me the posturing.”

The tiger snorted. “Do not pretend before me. Your soul is incomplete, this broken body of yours you keep up only through spells. Sooner or later, you will falter and be exposed. Should you face a stronger foe, unable to withstand them, you might very well scatter into nothing—no better off than me.”

Lang Jiuchuan’s face darkened.

The White Tiger returned to a calmer tone. “So why not cooperate, and both gain?”

“Oh?”

“You and I together, sharing one body, complementing each other.” The White Tiger coaxed, “I will not waste wish power and magic fighting you now. But if I did fight to the end, you would not fare well either…”

“Oh? Then let’s fight again. Surely the White Tiger clan is no coward.”

The White Tiger nearly exploded. “A woman, yet so eager for battle? In a fight where both sides are wounded, is there ever a true winner?”

Lang Jiuchuan chuckled coldly. “Who knows? Perhaps in the end I swallow your spirit whole and win outright.”

A chill ran through the tiger. Damn this arrogant woman!

“Enough boasting. You’ve only just entered this body, haven’t you? It must have died wretchedly, else it would not be in such ruin. A violent death leaves resentful spirits. Since you took this body, cause and effect binds you—you must avenge it, release its grievance, and only then will you truly become its master.”

Lang Jiuchuan was surprised. She hadn’t expected the beast to have some wits.

“And just now, you coveted my willpower, did you not? If you let me share this body, my power can nourish you as well. Two souls sharing one body—our strength will be boundless, far greater than you struggling alone. Once this body is healed, I can find another host and leave. Meanwhile, your spirit will also gain sustenance.”

Lang Jiuchuan twirled the talisman brush between her fingers. “Then tell me, how did a born spirit beast like you end up in such straits?”

“What else? Heaven was unjust. I sought ascension, but failed the thunder tribulation.” The White Tiger King sighed sorrowfully. “After failure, I wandered the earth until an old monk enlightened me. Thus I seized this thread of life. And you—you are my turning point.”

“So you are even more desperate than I.”

The White Tiger froze. Tricked again. This human was too cunning.

“But why should I believe you?” Lang Jiuchuan pressed before it could retort. “Just earlier you lied, claiming you remembered nothing. Now you recall quite clearly.”

The White Tiger slammed its fist on the table. “We are but chance acquaintances. Is it wrong to be cautious?”

Lang Jiuchuan’s gaze was cool. “A moment ago you said I was your turning point. Now you claim we are but chance encounters. Big Cat, you truly are dishonest.”

Ah, infuriating! I’d fight her till dawn if I could!

The White Tiger restrained its rage. “Then you tell me—how am I to earn your trust? You must think carefully of your present state.”

Lang Jiuchuan lowered her eyes, tapping the talisman brush against the table, as though considering the feasibility of its words.

Willpower—yes, she needed it. And she did need a useful helper.

The White Tiger, equally uneasy, eyed her from the side. From where had she drawn that momentary display of immense fortune?

If she truly bore such vast destiny, could she not be like the ancestors of old—worshipped by multitudes, a true divine beast?

One woman, one tiger, each calculating in secret, yet neither revealing it.

At last, Lang Jiuchuan said, “Sharing a body is not impossible. But on one condition—we must establish a Heaven-and-Earth Pact, bound by the laws of Heaven itself. What say you?”

Staring, staring, staring—let’s see who is spinning this tale!

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 28: Always Some Fool Who Covets Me

“...A woman? How could it be a woman? And such a frail woman, one puff of wind and she’d topple over?”

This line, Lang Jiuchuan had been hearing the whole way, repeated again and again. That cluster of white mist before her kept twisting into different shapes—sometimes stretched into a strip, sometimes ballooned into a ball—while muttering that phrase, as if hesitating over something.

It did not move, and Lang Jiuchuan pretended not to notice its existence, her hand all the while caressing the Emperor’s Bell at her waist.

She could not tell what this spirit sense was, but there was a faint breath of familiarity upon it, like her own kind. That alone was reason not to take it lightly.

Indeed, the thing before her was no drifting cloud, but a cluster of spirit sense of unknown origin. Lang Jiuchuan held that the more unfathomable it appeared, the less it should be ignored—especially with her body in such a state.

It followed her all the way, murmuring. Only when they returned to her courtyard in the Lang estate did it seem to settle its mind.

“A woman is a woman—better than nothing. At least you’re this one’s chance of revival. Can’t let it go.” The spirit sense glared at Lang Jiuchuan, forcing out a sentence through clenched teeth: “A great tiger can be both hard and soft, male and female as needed. So long as I don’t say it, who could tell what I am?”

What?

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyelids twitched, her head snapped up—only to see the spirit sense dart toward her with a speed swift as thunder.

Buzz.

Her soul ached violently, almost wrenched out of her body, while the spirit sense rammed into her spirit platform, trying to shove her soul entirely aside.

Arrogant. Overbearing.

Lang Jiuchuan gave a cold laugh. So that was it? It had hesitated only because she was a woman, uncertain whether to seize her broken shell.

Just like the ghost in the mourning hall, now this nameless spirit sense too.

Truly, there were always fools without eyes who dared covet her body!

“Miss…” Xiaoman entered with a pot of tea.

Lang Jiuchuan’s voice was icy: “Out!”

Xiaoman startled, not knowing why her mistress had flared up so suddenly. She set down the tea in haste and retreated, heart thudding, closing the door behind her.

Inside, Lang Jiuchuan gripped the Emperor’s Bell, voice cold as frost: “Will you crawl out yourself, or shall I beat you out?”

At that, the spirit sense—busy claiming territory—shuddered like a cat with its fur bristling. “You… you can actually see me? You mean you’ve been watching me muttering all this way?”

“Don’t make me say it a third time. Get out of my body!”

The spirit sneered. “This body is my chance. If I seize it, I’ll rise again. And you? You’re no native to this shell either. Since neither of us belongs, let it be skill against skill.”

Skill against skill, eh?

Lang Jiuchuan’s gaze turned icy. The Emperor’s Bell rang, its peal long and deep. The sound, laden with boundless Dao intent, swept out like a tide, piercing to the very soul.

The spirit shuddered. Its form, about to root in her spirit platform, froze, scattering under the torment. A thousand fiery needles stabbed through its being, leaving it riddled with holes.

“Ah—you madwoman!” The spirit howled in pain, but its stubborn nature blazed all the hotter. “If I suffer, you won’t be spared either!”

The mist-like body not only forced its roots deeper, but surged throughout her limbs.

Lang Jiuchuan’s face blanched. She cursed inwardly, pouring all her will into the Emperor’s Bell. Its waves of sound crashed again and again, like a demonic chant, hammering the spirit.

Neither side relented. The first to flinch would lose.

Yet upon entering her shell, the spirit realized her body was already riddled with flaws. She looked whole, but only because Lang Jiuchuan sustained it with arts. Now that she was fighting, withdrawing those arts, the truth revealed itself—her dark eyes dangling wetly from their sockets, her limbs hanging limp, a gaping hole yawning at her chest.

The spirit recoiled in shock.

“Stop, damn you!” it cried.

But Lang Jiuchuan ignored it. Her face now no different from a corpse, she still drove the Emperor’s Bell, intent on breaking apart the spirit’s vast power of wish-force.

Wish-force! This wretch actually carried wish-force.

She craved it. Reaching to siphon a thread—yet the golden light scorched her, nearly flinging her soul from her body.

Her incomplete soul shrieked in pain at the clash.

But she could not lose.

What, die twice in such quick succession? Did she have no shame?

This wasn’t some game of endless lives!

She loosed the Emperor’s Bell. Just as the spirit exulted, thinking it had won, she drew forth the Jade-Bone Talisman Brush—the Judge’s Pen.

Swiftly she scrawled a talisman upon her palm. Golden light flared. She slapped it hard against her brow.

A single talisman to fix Heaven and Earth.

The spirit screamed, terror finally breaking it. It recoiled from her spirit platform.

Thud.

Lang Jiuchuan collapsed, her soul faint and wavering, nearly unable to hold on. She stabbed the pen against her brow again.

Soul-fixing.

“You mad shrew!” The spirit, weaker still, wrapped itself with a thin shell of golden wish-light, pointing at her where she lay gasping: “What good does this do you, tearing both of us apart?”

Lang Jiuchuan spat a mouthful of black blood, wiped her lips, and laughed hoarsely: “My body—did you ask my leave to seize it? At worst, we die together.”

The spirit almost dissolved from rage.

So this was one of those lunatics, fierce even against themselves?

Still, unwilling to flee, needing this body as its chance, it ground out: “If you’d said earlier that you could see me, we wouldn’t have ended like this. Couldn’t we talk it over?”

“Not familiar with you.”

The spirit forced a brittle laugh. “But after crossing blows, we’re not strangers anymore, eh?”

Lang Jiuchuan’s reply drifted out like a feather: “Defeated underling.”

Ah—she made it hard not to kill her.

But the Judge’s Pen and Emperor’s Bell in her hands gave him pause. Sensing her covert movements, the spirit hesitated, then parted with a wisp of wish-force, letting it flow into her.

Lang Jiuchuan accepted it greedily. A drought met with sweet rain—nothing more blissful. Wish-force and merit, true heavenly supplements.

Yet the miserly cur stopped short.

Her eyes reddened with hunger. The spirit smirked nastily. “Want more? Then we can bargain.”

(End of Chapter)

 Chapter 27: Whose Turning Point Lies in a Frail Woman

In the capital, funerals among the powerful were no rarity. Yet for one to stir as much commotion as the Lang household’s—such a thing was unheard of. Who would dare, in the midst of mourning, disturb the dead, even strike such sinister blows?

But the Marquis of Kaiping suffered precisely this injustice, nearly denied peace even after death.

Yes, after Lang Zhengping had gone to the palace to wail, word spread that someone sought to use the Marquis of Kaiping’s funeral as a vicious ploy against the Lang family. The city was soon rife with gossip—what formidable foe had the Langs offended, that they should suffer such poisonous tricks, even their dead left unspared?

Be that as it may, amidst the clamor, after seven days of mourning, the Marquis of Kaiping’s coffin was borne forth without mishap. Indeed, because of the earlier rumor, the day of the burial drew many to the roadside, setting up offerings to send him on his way.

Lang Jiuchuan moved along with the ranks of filial sons and grandsons, step by slow step, pondering that once this funeral was concluded, she would return to the country estate to keep mourning, and slip back later when chance arose. Only thus might she seek the opportunity to mend her shattered soul. Otherwise, trapped in this deep inner court, would she not be like a sparrow with clipped wings?

She had clawed her way back from the netherworld, not to play the docile young lady, but to retrieve her scattered soul, to once more be whole.

Else, relying on such a frail, weak shell—what could she possibly accomplish?

See—others all deemed her fragile.

When a serving woman helped her rise from the frozen street, Lang Jiuchuan’s glance slid toward the onlookers. Perhaps some recognized the Lang family, for she heard whispers inquiring who this unfamiliar girl was.

And what words—could they be any harsher? Frail as willow in the wind was one thing, but…

Doomed to short life?

Lang Jiuchuan looked at her pale hands, her lips twitching. Turning, she caught sight of her own pallid face, paired with those large, dark eyes—yet this only left others uneasy. When her gaze fell upon them, even their speech faltered to silence.

“Ninth Sister, are you all right?” Wu Shi’s voice trembled as her glance caught Lang Jiuchuan’s sluggishness.

She herself was ashen, body trembling from the cold, far thinner than before, breath weak—yet still she fretted for Lang Jiuchuan. Lang Jiuchuan only shook her head.

Funeral rites were wearisome. For women long kept within the rear court, unused to hardship, it was sheer torment—especially in this bitter winter. Wearing thin hemp mourning robes, their lives were nearly halved.

No doubt many would fall ill after this.

Truly exhausting.

Lang Jiuchuan quietly pinched a spell upon herself, warmth rising from her soles, and breathed out softly as she kept pace with the winding procession.

…

In the western city of Wujing, within the Chenghuang Temple, there stood a ginkgo tree eight hundred years old. In winter’s desolation its leaves had long since fallen, snow piled upon its branches as though cloaking it in clouds.

Yet at this moment, the ancient ginkgo, which should have been still, trembled without wind. Snow showered down.

A beggar huddled in the temple saw it, rubbed his eyes, and tilted his head. The wind was not strong today—why would the old tree tremble?

Surely his frozen eyes were playing tricks.

But within the trunk, a cluster of misty white light surged up and down, lively and restless.

“Old Yin, Old Yin, my turning point has stirred—I feel it at last!” The white mist exclaimed in excitement. “Nearly a year I have waited, and finally!”

The ginkgo shivered faintly, as if in response.

Seeing it silent, the mist pressed itself against the trunk, its glow caressing like drifting clouds:

“This year, thanks to you, Old Yin, for lending me shelter. When I seize my chance and regain my strength, I shall return to repay your kindness.”

The trunk gave a low hum, like a sigh, yet still no words.

The mist did not mind. “Old Bai departs now.”

With a swish, it darted away, vanishing from the trunk, rushing toward the source it had sensed.

The old ginkgo breathed out only once it had gone. At the start, moved by pity, it had taken in the being, whose failed tribulation left its spirit near to scattering. Yet it had proved ravenous, devouring the temple’s accumulated wish-power. Each day it grew stronger, while the ginkgo itself grew weak.

So weak, in fact, that its leaves no longer turned golden as before. Worshippers had begun to wonder if the tree’s life was nearing its end.

Now at last that glutton had left.

The ginkgo wished it could set off firecrackers to celebrate. Then suddenly it felt it had forgotten something to tell the fellow. What was it? Never mind.

Best that the calamity had gone.

…

In winter, funeral music sounded all the more sorrowful.

Lang Jiuchuan watched as Lang Zhengwen, together with Lang Caimeng and Lang Caize, escorted the coffin away. At last she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Ninth Sister, let us board the carriage,” Wu Shi called to her.

Thus, the funeral was ended. What remained was mourning.

Lang Jiuchuan did not refuse. She entered the carriage, where Lang Cailing and Lang Caiyao were already seated.

Though the Lang family boasted a dozen grandchildren, many had died young, and some daughters had married out. Those unmarried within the inner chambers were only Lang Cailing, Lang Jiuchuan, and from the third branch, Lang Caiyao. Among the men, there was Lang Caimeng, his two younger half-brothers, and Lang Jiuchuan’s own full younger brother; the third branch had but one legitimate son and two concubine-born. Altogether, not more than ten fingers to count.

Thus in this carriage were gathered the female cousins of the same generation.

As soon as Lang Jiuchuan entered, she closed her eyes to rest.

But amidst the jolting, she suddenly opened them wide, her gaze piercing through the carriage walls. In the depths of her pupils flickered a flash of golden light.

Outside, the white mist darted about like a headless fly.

“The sign is clearly here—then where is it?” The mist fretted, growing vexed. At last it whirled into a gust, sweeping toward the Lang family’s carriage. The wheel gave a sudden jolt and collapse.

A crack.

Screams rose from within the carriages.

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes grew sharp as she lifted the curtain.

When the procession halted, the Lang family members emerged. They saw several carriages, each with a wheel bent or broken, all askew. Murmurs arose.

Lang Zhengping ordered the steward and coachmen to examine the damage.

Lang Jiuchuan alighted, standing aside with cold eyes fixed upon the white mist. She watched it rush eagerly at the Lang family’s young men—only to veer away again.

“No, not them! How could it not be?” the mist wailed in frustration. “The sign is here—it must be here!”

Lang Jiuchuan’s fingers moved, tapping lightly upon the Imperial Bell at her waist.

The white mist froze, then drifted toward her in astonishment. It hovered, circling her as if in disbelief.

What? This frail young woman was its turning point?

Outside the Chenghuang Temple, the old ginkgo murmured to itself:

“Ah—I forgot to tell it. Its turning point is but a little young woman.”

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 26: Lang Jiu Has a Sharp Tongue and Cares Not Whether Others Live or Die

Hearing Cui Shi speak in such a manner, perhaps feeling reassured by the strong backing, Lang Zhengping’s stern face finally loosened somewhat. Yet when he thought of Elder Master Zhao’s sudden passing, his brows furrowed once more. He glanced toward Lang Jiuchuan, who was lost in thought, and gave a cough.

Lang Jiuchuan was still mulling over what exactly the Gong family and Dao Root were. She felt she had heard of them before, yet could not recall.

She still had to retrieve her missing soul.

It was only when Lang Zhengping called her that she came back to her senses and looked over.

Lang Zhengping fixed his gaze on her and said:

“There is an old saying that disaster comes from the mouth. Even if talk of curses is groundless and absurd, speaking vile words is a certainty, and most people see it as a grave taboo. All the more so now that Zhao Lao has died so suddenly—it may well be deemed as your words becoming a dire omen. The Zhao family may not truly bear no thought of resentment. If you know something, it would be better to speak of it, so that we might find a way to deal with matters and not end up with enmity between our houses.”

Lang Jiuchuan laughed:

“Why not just say directly that I have a crow’s mouth!”

Lang Zhengping’s hand trembled, the beard by his lips quivering in rage. His eyes bulged like copper bells. The lid of the teacup in his hand he nearly flung as he often did when reprimanding his own sons. Yet just as his hand moved, it was pressed down.

He lowered his gaze and followed the hand— it was Fan Shi. She shook her head and even cast him a meaningful glance.

Hold yourself back. You are but the eldest uncle; it is not your place to lash out while her own mother yet sits here.

Lang Zhengping drew a deep breath. Endure—yet his heart choked with the effort.

Cui Shi did not disappoint him, however, for her face darkened as she scolded:

“What manner is this? How dare you speak so to your elders? Where is your upbringing?”

Lang Jiuchuan smiled coldly:

“Madam has asked well—indeed, where is my upbringing?”

Cui Shi’s expression changed at once:

“You—!”

Seeing the two locked in contention, Fan Shi quickly rose, saying:

“Enough, enough, younger sister-in-law, do not let anger consume you. The child is still young.”

Cui Shi’s chest rose and fell sharply, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Finding it all tedious, Lang Jiuchuan turned to Lang Zhengping:

“As for the Zhao family, you need not worry. They came today yet did nothing to me, and hereafter they will not use this matter against us. Rather, they ought to thank me. Just wait and see.”

With that, she stood, inclined her head slightly, and left.

Such an aloof manner! This one they had brought back not only bore a rebellious air, but was a thorny one besides!

Lang Zhengwen, who had remained silent all this while, shook his head. This niece of his was truly difficult to manage—troubles lay ahead.

But for the moment, household matters were of greater urgency.

“Elder Brother, with today’s incident, should we not bid everyone in the household hold their tongues? If such talk spreads outside, it would harm our Marquisate. Should it even reach the imperial ears, they would deem our household lacking in filial duty and discipline…”

Lang Zhengping tapped his fingers on the table, pondered for a moment, then said:

“No, we shall not stifle it. Let it spread—it is no matter. Not only so, but I must enter the palace to weep.”

The others were taken aback, not understanding.

“The child that cries loudest is given candy. The Lang family is already weakened and declining. With Father’s passing, we are further removed from the core of the court. Even so, there are still those who would use such poisonous means against us—nothing short of seeking to exterminate us. Rivalry among court factions is common enough, yet to employ such sinister, crooked methods—this the throne will not abide. It is a grave taboo.”

Lang Zhengwen nodded.

“When weakness must be shown, then show it. In any case, we must observe mourning for several years. To use these years to bide our time and sharpen our blades would also be well. In the next generation, too, we must teach them with utmost care.” Lang Zhengping sighed with despondence:

“Our family suffers too severe a gap in talent. Without outstanding heirs to emerge, decline will come all the swifter.”

Silence fell again.

Indeed, who could deny it? Over ten years ago, there had been Lang Zhengfan—unconventional yet a youthful hero. Yet he had not lived past thirty, cut down in the prime of his years.

Now, in Lang Caimeng’s generation, though sons and daughters numbered over ten, not one was truly exceptional. Even the eldest legitimate grandson, Lang Caimeng, was but a provincial graduate. Already twenty-one, after a year of mourning he might resume studies, yet should he fail to pass the metropolitan examination, relying on a mere provincial degree, even with excellent performance as an official, how high could he rise—fourth rank, at most?

Heavy-hearted, Lang Zhengping said:

“Make ready. I shall submit my visiting card and enter the palace at once. The sooner the better.”

“Yes.”

Lang Jiuchuan, upon leaving the study, did not return to the mourning hall—she was frail, after all.

On her way toward the old Madam’s Kangshou Courtyard, she kept mulling over the words “Gong family” and “Dao Root,” certain she had heard them somewhere before, yet unable to recall.

Ah, this wretched mind!

She tugged at her hair in frustration, then suddenly halted—someone had darted before her.

The maid Jianlan, following behind her, was startled as well. Instinctively she stepped forward to shield Lang Jiuchuan, glaring warily at the man ahead:

“Who are you?”

Before them stood a young man in coarse garments, his hair bound with a cloth strip, features refined. Perhaps from nearly colliding with them, he looked somewhat flustered, stepping back two paces and bowing with clasped fists:

“This humble student, Liu Ming. I beg pardon.”

Jianlan eyed him up and down, frowning. “You are one of the disciples in the southern courtyard. What are you doing here?”

Among the powerful families in the capital, it was common to keep disciples (menke). The Marquis of Kaiping’s household was no exception. These disciples were housed separately in the southern courtyard, with its own gate. No one expected one of them to stray into the main quarters.

“I merely wished to pay respects before the late Marquis’s spirit tablet, but somehow I lost my way,” Liu Ming said with embarrassment. “I nearly offended Miss—truly I am ashamed.”

These last words were directed to Lang Jiuchuan, as he gave her a deep bow, the courtesy of a gentleman.

Lang Jiuchuan arched a brow, stepped forward to scrutinize him, then told Jianlan: “Have him thrown out. Do not let him defile the late Marquis’s hall.”

Jianlan: “?”

Liu Ming froze, stunned. This was not the reaction he had imagined.

Lang Jiuchuan’s face was full of disdain as she sneered: “A crooked heart is one thing, but you still reek of wanton fox-like seduction. And you dare presume to offer incense before the late Marquis? Are you courting death?”

Liu Ming’s heart pounded furiously. His face flushed red, and he wished to protest.

But Lang Jiuchuan had no intention of listening. She said to Jianlan: “Hurry now.”

Jianlan gave a startled “Ah,” but before she could move, Liu Ming, stung with humiliation, declared: “I merely lost my way. How could Miss insult me so? I may be a disciple of the Marquis household, but I am not one to be insulted at will.”

Lang Jiuchuan laughed coldly. “Did you not rush forward just to cling to high branches? If you cannot even endure a few barbs, how do you expect to climb? Do you think the lofty branches of Wujing welcome your little act of feigned dignity?”

“You—!”

Lang Jiuchuan turned and left. Jianlan called over a servant and ordered him to lead the youth away.

Liu Ming stamped his feet in fury. Before leaving the southern courtyard, his neighbor He Chao had already mocked him for harboring wild dreams—and indeed, it had come true.

But was this Ninth Young Miss not just brought back from the countryside? How could she be fiercer than a sheltered maiden of the inner chambers, and with such a venomous tongue! Truly, she must have grown up without proper refinement.

When the place had quieted again, several figures emerged from the shadows.

Lang Zhengping said to the steward beside him: “Investigate this Liu Ming. If anything is amiss, drive him out.”

“Yes.”

Lang Zhengwen furrowed his brows. “Eldest Brother, was it hearing Ninth Young Miss’s words that made you suspect this disciple sought to cling to high branches?”

Lang Zhengping gave a cold snort. “At this hour of lantern-light, and he claims he lost his way? Even a little girl would not believe that. A timid maiden of the inner quarters might well have been deceived—but too bad for him, he encountered a sharp tongue that shows no mercy, and ran headlong into an iron wall.”

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 25: She Was a Mystery All Over

Night fell with the heavy snow. After a day of turmoil, the Lang family, weary in body and mind, gathered around a brazier, whispering about what had happened at the mourning hall. When they recalled being shrouded in that eerie black mist, they all felt lingering fear and unease.

“So was that black fog an illusion, or did that Daoist create it with some trick? What exactly was he trying to do?” Lang Cailing frowned as she asked her brothers and sisters.

Lang Caiyao lowered her gaze, idly playing with her fingers. “That’s not something we can control.”

When she said this, the others glanced around the room. True enough—besides them, everyone who had real authority in the family was absent. The three households of the Lang family each had people who could make decisions, yet none were here now.

“Forget about Father, Mother, Second Aunt, and Third Uncle—but why should Lang Jiu also be called to the study to discuss family matters? Even Eldest Brother wasn’t allowed to go.” Lang Cailing muttered in dissatisfaction, casting a glance at Wu Shi.

Wu Shi immediately saw through her attempt to sow discord, and her heart grew displeased. At a time like this, the girl still thought only of competing for attention.

This concubine-born younger sister, favored because her birth mother was once favored, was herself indulged. With her two elder sisters married off, she alone remained to dote upon and coax the elders. This won her special affection from Father-in-law. Now, she likely fancied herself the Marquis’ cherished daughter, her status superior to others, hence her airs grew ever loftier.

Foolish! The Lang family had declined ever since they backed the wrong side during the late Emperor’s struggle for the throne. Having fallen from the center of power, they became marginal. The current Emperor extols filial piety and benevolence; how could he risk the stain of unfilial conduct by overturning the late Emperor’s will to employ the Langs? Thus, today the Langs remained on the fringes. With the Old Master gone, whether Eldest Master Lang, as Shizi, could even succeed to the Marquisate remained uncertain. How dared she already parade as some lofty young lady?

In the capital, there were noble houses even more fallen than the Langs. Take, for instance, the Marquis of Shun. Though the title was hereditary without fail, it had long become an empty husk. Yet the Zheng clan still multiplied abundantly. Two or three daughters shared one courtyard; their garments and jewelry were outdated. The lives of those so-called legitimate young ladies were less splendid than that of a concubine-born daughter from a fifth-rank official’s household who actually held real power.

The Langs had not yet fallen so far as the household of the Marquis of Shun, forced to pawn ancestral heirlooms to survive. Yet, if no promising descendants emerged, within three generations  they would surely decline into commoners.

And still Lang Cailing dared dream lofty dreams — truly spoiled beyond measure. But her age was already ripe; once her mourning was done, she would be wed off. Perhaps with her dowry, she could live in some comfort for a few years. Yet for women, if their natal family was weak, how could they hold their heads high in their husband’s home?

Wu Shi’s face bore little smile as she said, “The elders have gone to deliberate; the mourning hall cannot be left unattended. Your Eldest Brother is the legitimate eldest grandson; his burden is heavier than all. With the elders absent, he naturally must hold watch. How could he, like a child, bicker and vie over everything?”

As eldest sister-in-law, and future matron of the clan, with father and brothers holding office in court, Wu Shi’s standing in the Lang household was highly respected. Lang Cailing, stung by her subtle rebuke, dared not argue, forcing a smile. “Of course, Eldest Brother surpasses all.”

Yet inwardly, she seethed. Was Eldest Sister-in-law still her kin? Did she not stand with her own younger sister, but instead side with that cousin?

No sense of closeness or distance!

“Speaking of it, do you not all find Ninth Sister most strange?” Lang Caize spoke. “Not to mention the paper effigies haunting two nights ago — even today, how did that Daoist suddenly turn into such a ghastly form? Was it not all connected to Ninth Sister? How would she know of such things?”

“And she even cursed the Zhao family’s old master to death.” Lang Cailing added.

Wu Shi’s face darkened. “Seventh Sister, that talk of curses has no basis at all. We are all sisters. Such words must never be spoken again. If spread, they would bring you no benefit.”

Lang Cailing felt aggrieved. Why was she always scolded?

Lang Caiyao sneered. Fool.

Yet that Ninth Sister of theirs — truly, she was wreathed in mystery, provoking boundless curiosity.

…

Lang Jiuchuan rubbed her itching nose, glancing at the few across from her, their posture like some court tribunal, eager to strip her bare inside and out.

Look all you want. If you see through me, I lose.

Seeing she had no intention to speak, Lang Zhengping asked, “What say you of today’s events? That Daoist’s strangeness — how did you perceive it?”

What had this child studied in the manor? How could a mere girl know of such uncanny matters? She was so young.

Cui Shi’s eyes never left Lang Jiuchuan. The more she looked, the less she could fathom. It felt as if the girl were right before her, yet at the same time distant beyond reach. This gave her unease, even fear.

Lang Jiuchuan countered, “More than this, should we not pursue who commanded him? The one behind the curtain seeks the ruin of the Langs!”

Lang Zhengping’s face was grave. “Men have been sent. Yet should this scheme fail, will not that hidden hand contrive another? Such shadowy plots are harder to guard against than open arrows. What think you?”

His words held a note of testing.

Lang Jiuchuan gave a wry smile. “I am but a village girl raised in the countryside, with little proper teaching, and no skill to boast of. To ask me this — surely, you jest.”

Lang Zhengping: “…”

He cast a glance at Cui Shi, who sat staring fixedly at Lang Jiuchuan, eyes unblinking. He thought a moment, lifted his teacup, and used the lid to brush away the foam.

Whoever sowed the karma, must reap it!

Cui Shi studied Lang Jiuchuan closely, her brows, her expressions. A daze swept over her — this defiant, insolent look, she had once seen upon another face. The father of her child.

When they first met, he had teased her deliberately, wearing just such a maddening expression.

The memory struck, and cold sweat dampened Cui Shi’s back. Her nails dug deep into her palms, pain shocking her awake.

Impossible.

Cui Shi’s face returned to the cold, thin mask of a widow. She turned to Lang Zhengping. “She is right. Only a little girl, with narrow knowledge. Elder Brother, do not waste your time.”

Cough.

Lang Zhengping choked on his tea, coughing.

Fan Shi cast him a reproachful glance, handing him a handkerchief.

Lang Zhengping wiped his mouth, his expression weary as he looked at Cui Shi. She sat stern-faced, in no mood for jest, nor for defending anyone. She spoke only truth.

Mother and daughter — must they truly estrange themselves to such a degree?

Cui Shi, as though blind to Lang Zhengping’s look, said, “First, we must uncover who sent this Daoist against the Langs. I shall also write to Madam Gong, the principal wife of the Gong family, seeking her aid.”

Lang Zhengping was startled. Sitting upright, he asked, “The Gong family? Do you mean the one famed for a Daoist root?”

Cui Shi nodded. “Madam Gong and I were sworn sisters in childhood.”

“Excellent!” Lang Zhengping clapped his hands, joy lighting his face. “If we can enlist the Gong family’s support, then the Langs need fear no vile schemes.”

Cui Shi said nothing, only cast a glance at Lang Jiuchuan. Within her sleeves, her fingers curled tightly.

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes half narrowed. The Gong family, with a Daoist root?

(End of Chapter)