Chapter 33: Desire to Craft a Returning Yang Talisman

 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)