Chapter 22: Breaking the Spell, She Has Suffered a Great Loss!

 Chapter 22: Breaking the Spell, She Has Suffered a Great Loss!

Lang Jiuchuan’s sinister, villain-like bearing made everyone’s scalp prickle, especially Daoist Huang who had just suffered under her hand—his heart pounded with dread.

Though he did not know why this short-lived girl was wholly unaffected by the yin energy of the coffin nail, he could no longer care. He had suffered severe backlash; it was no time to fight head-on. Preserving his life came first—escape was the only way.

As Lang Jiuchuan stepped closer, the Daoist’s pupils contracted. He suddenly flung a yellow talisman at her. The talisman burst into flames without fire, instantly filling the hall with thick black mist. Using the cover, he bolted toward the doorway.

Yet, before reaching the threshold, the Daoist suddenly felt his hair stand on end. He instinctively turned his head—only to see Lang Jiuchuan already standing behind him.

“Y-you, just who are you? Why doesn’t even the yin mist touch you?”

“I’m the one Heaven itself can’t kill!” Lang Jiuchuan sneered, brandishing a small three-pronged fork. She drove it straight at the spiritual crown of his head.

The Daoist shrieked even more shrilly than before. His strength drained as if forcibly sucked out, his body collapsing to the ground. His life force ebbed rapidly; his throat gurgled with death-rattle sounds.

Meanwhile, the black mist swirled through the mourning hall, ghostly wails echoing within it, chilling all present. Panic broke loose as screams erupted.

But before their cries carried beyond the hall, a sudden chiming of bells rang out. The sound seemed to come from distant antiquity, resonant with Daoist truth. It cleaved apart the oppressive black fog, bringing clarity to eyes and hearts.

The bell rang—fog dispersed.

Faces pale, the onlookers stood trembling, dazed and bewildered.

What… what just happened?

“Ah—ah!”

Breaking the silence, Wu Shi suddenly clutched Lang Caimeng’s arm with all her strength, screaming in terror as she hid behind him.

Lang Caimeng winced in pain, tears springing from his eyes. He looked down and saw, just two steps away, an aged Daoist collapsed on the floor—his body withered, eyes bulging grotesquely as if about to burst. Upon his chest pressed a single straw-sandaled foot.

It was Lang Jiuchuan.

One hand toyed with a small bell at her waist, while the other clutched her chest as she gasped for breath, her face bloodless.

Lang Caimeng pulled his wife back two steps, feigning calm. Had Wu Shi not wrenched her hand free, one might have believed he truly was composed.

Lang Jiuchuan cast the pair a scornful glance. Her trembling fingers caressed the inscriptions on the bell. Inwardly she cursed Pan Guan for being so shameless: saddling her with such a wasted body. Simply maintaining this “living shell” already drained her strength. Breaking this charlatan’s talisman spell on top of that was doubly exhausting.

The little bit of merit she gained could never repay what she had spent—she had lost badly this time!

Grinding her teeth, Lang Jiuchuan stomped on the Daoist’s face with hatred. All your fault, dog Daoist.

The old Daoist nearly lost his last breath. His throat croaked as his condition worsened.

“How… how did he end up like this?” Lang Cailing gasped in horror, staring between the Daoist and Lang Jiuchuan, appalled that she even dared to trample him beneath her foot without shame.

Lang Zhengping’s face was as dark as storm clouds, his fists clenched tight.

On the very day of sealing his father’s coffin, such a scandal erupted. If word spread, at best the Lang family’s reputation would suffer. At worst, an impeachment by the Censorate could reach the Emperor, accusing them of great unfiliality—or worse, of consorting with sinister forces.

“They’re here, they’re here!”

Lang Caiguang, who had been sent out by Lang Jiuchuan, now returned. He entered the hall leading two strangers—one Daoist in a green robe, one monk in plain kasaya—after pushing through the crowd outside.

Lang Zhengping cast Lang Jiuchuan a heavy glance, then said, “The coffin-sealing must not be delayed. We’ll deal with this matter later. Men, take this Daoist away.”

The household servants approached timidly.

“Wait.”

Lang Jiuchuan lifted her foot, crouching down to search the Daoist’s sleeve.

Everyone: “…”

The gathered young ladies turned pale. A girl rummaging through a man’s clothing with no regard for propriety—wasn’t that utterly shameless? Their gazes turned toward Cui Shi. As expected, her face was iron-blue, lips pressed into a rigid line.

Clink, clink.

Lang Jiuchuan pulled out several long black nails. They were not new, but old, completely pitch-dark, exuding a chilling aura that made onlookers uncomfortable.

“What are these?” Lang Zhengping frowned, counting seven nails. They resembled the “descendant nails” used to seal coffins. Yet they were not new, unusually sharp, and strange.

His eyes flicked to Lang Jiuchuan’s hand, where the fresh wound seemed exactly like one of these nails might have caused.

“Ninth Sister, aren’t these just nails?” Lang Caimeng reached out to pick one up.

As his fingers nearly touched it, Lang Jiuchuan barked coldly: “Don’t touch!”

Her voice was so icy that his hand jerked reflexively. The instant his skin brushed one nail, a freezing yin force jolted him like lightning, forcing his hand back at once.

So cold.

“These coffin nails carry an exceptionally heavy yin energy.” The Daoist in green robes, introduced as Daoist Zhong, frowned as he studied them.

The monk beside him pressed his palms together and intoned: “Amitabha.”

“Yin energy?” Lang Zhengping blanched. He hurried forward, bowing with clasped hands. “Daoist Zhong, these coffin nails you say are steeped in yin energy—what exactly does that mean?”

Daoist Zhong produced a talisman, then stooped to pick up one nail. Feeling the chilling resentment emanating from it, he said, “Just as I suspected. These nails were tempered in a place steeped with death qi—likely soaked among corpses. They are accursed things, not to be touched.”

Gasps erupted among the crowd.

“Then why can you still hold them, Master?”

Daoist Zhong smiled faintly. “I was born at a most auspicious hour, and I carry my teacher’s protective talisman. It is of little concern to me.”

So that’s it. Then—does he have more talismans to spare?

Lang Zhengping was about to ask more when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lang Jiuchuan moving toward the coffin. She bent down, groping inside. He barked furiously: “What are you doing now?”

Three long strides brought him to her side, just as her hand reached for the head of the deceased. His eyes blazed. “How dare you!”

To profane the corpse of their father—this girl was far too brazen!

The others’ attention was drawn as well, leaving them dumbstruck. How dare she?

Cui Shi’s lips trembled in rage.

Lang Jiuchuan slowly lifted her gaze, her cold eyes meeting Lang Zhengping’s. Yet her hand did not stop. She felt along the crown of the head—until her fingers brushed something at the Baihui acupoint. She paused briefly, then yanked it out.

It was a long black needle, exuding chilling yin qi.

Lang Zhengping staggered, his vision swimming, chest tightening painfully.

From paper effigies to yin-tempered coffin nails, and now this sinister needle driven into his father’s head—what did the culprit behind all this intend? Layer upon layer of schemes, desecrating even the dead, with venomous cruelty.

Fury surged, burning through him until his head seemed aflame.

Pfft!

Unable to contain it, Lang Zhengping spat out a mouthful of black blood.

(End of chapter)