Chapter 27: Whose Turning Point Lies in a Frail Woman

 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)