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 10: Ninth Miss, Frail and Short-Lived

At the Marquis’s residence.

After questioning the servants, Lang Zhengping hurried toward the side chamber where Lang Jiuchuan had been taken. He noticed Cui Shi standing at the doorway, her face dark and cold, yet she did not step inside. His footsteps slowed slightly.

Hearing him approach, Cui Shi turned, bent her knees, and greeted him softly: “Elder Brother.”

The sight of her instantly brought to Lang Zhengping’s mind his own younger brother, born of the same mother. Back when the Lang family was at its weakest, his brother had risen to become the courageous and strategic General of Anbei—defender of the realm, protector of the people, the pride of the Lang family. And yet that pride had died young on the battlefield.

On the night before his brother’s death, Cui Shi had suddenly gone into premature labor. After more than a day of agonizing difficulty, she gave birth to a child barely seven months along—just as the terrible news of her husband’s death arrived.

Her husband’s death unhinged her mind. She raved that the child was not hers, but a curse-bringer. In her grief and madness, she nearly lost both her own life and the child’s.

Thus, from birth, Lang Jiuchuan had been raised apart in her mother’s quarters. One might have thought that would suffice to keep peace, yet at the three-year memorial for Lang Zhengfan, Cui Shi nearly drowned the girl with her own hands. Witnesses swore her gaze in that moment was not a mother’s but an enemy’s.

At that time, Master Xuanjing of Huguo Temple declared that if the child was to survive, mother and daughter must never live together. So Cui Shi was sent away with the child to a country estate for two years, and from then on Lang Jiuchuan was raised apart.

Cui Shi herself had never remarried, living as a widow all these years. And yet, even now, it was clear she could not release her hatred.

As the elder brother, Lang Zhengping could hardly reproach her—she had kept faith as his brother’s widow. After a pause, he only said gently: “Second Sister-in-law, the child has just returned. We can teach her slowly.”

To strike her own daughter, and in front of outsiders no less, was to wound not only the child’s body but the pride of his late brother’s only offspring.

Cui Shi lowered her gaze without replying.

Just then, an elderly maid hurried up and bowed. “Young Marquis, Second Madam. Ninth Miss has returned. The Old Madam heard of it and is overjoyed—she wishes to see her.”

Lang Zhengping’s expression brightened. “Has Mother regained her clarity?”

Nanny Wang gave a wry smile and shook her head. “You know well, my lord, that the Old Madam’s memory worsens by the year. Even of Ninth Miss…” She cast a careful glance at Cui Shi. “She remembers only at times. The young lady is inside? Allow this old servant to go in and greet her.”

Lang Jiuchuan had already overheard the commotion outside. She was still lost in thought when she heard a sharp intake of breath. She turned and saw the Lang family physician, summoned insistently by Wu Shi to examine her injured hand, staring at her with a pale face full of shock.

“Physician Chen, what is it?” Wu Shi’s heart leapt in alarm at his expression. Could her husband truly have damaged her little sister-in-law’s hand beyond repair?

“The pulse…”

Following his gaze, Lang Jiuchuan felt her heart jolt.

Damn. I forgot. I was so caught up in anger I neglected to sustain this frail body. The pulse is gone.

“I have been weak since childhood. Perhaps you should check more carefully?” She extended her left hand, discreetly channeling a thread of energy into it.

Physician Chen steadied himself. Surely it was only his fatigue—after tending so many during the household’s mourning—that caused him to miss the pulse. With deep focus, he placed his fingers on her wrist and concentrated.

At last, he let out a slow breath of relief. He must have been mistaken before. Yet soon his brows knit again. For the girl’s condition was truly dire. Her body was dangerously depleted—so frail, so short of vitality, that it was a wonder she still lived at all.

“Ninth Miss’s pulse is exceedingly thin and sluggish. It reflects both congenital weakness and severe loss of qi and blood. She must be carefully nourished, or else…” He hesitated, then added softly, “If she is not well tended, not only will marriage and childbearing be impossible, but even her lifespan may be cut short.”

What he did not dare say was that her body already resembled that of a candle guttering in the wind.

Delicate, frail, and short-lived.

Wu Shi froze at his words, then instinctively glanced from Cui Shi—who stood in the doorway—to Lang Jiuchuan, whose face still bore the fresh mark of a slap but remained utterly calm. A heaviness pressed against her chest.

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 9: Not Everyone Can Hear Lang Jiu’s Words

Lang Jiuchuan was slapped to the ground. She looked at the person who had struck her, pushed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, and spat out a mouthful of blood with a sharp ptui.

She was more amused than angry.

To think that just a single slap could knock her down—the frailty of this body was truly laughable.

She climbed up from the floor, licked the blood from the corner of her lips, and shot Cui Shi a cold glance before walking straight out.

Cui Shi stared in a daze at her own palm, then at the blood on the ground. Her heart felt as though it was gripped by an invisible hand, making it hard to breathe.

That is not my child. She cannot be my child.

Her nails dug hard into her own palm. Avoiding the maidservant’s hand that reached out to support her, Cui Shi walked unsteadily out of the mourning hall.

Everyone exchanged glances, their expressions complicated—some were shocked, some gloating, others intrigued, each with their own thoughts.

Lang Zhengping felt his face burn with shame. To make such a scene in front of outsiders—what could possibly come of this except disgrace?

Awkwardly, he turned to Elder Zhao. “Uncle Zhao, please forgive us. This… this truly is a mess. Why don’t we move to the flower hall and have some tea?”

Elder Zhao shook his head. “I came here today to send your father on his way. That is enough to fulfill the bond between our two families. A funeral is already full of burdens; I won’t trouble you with tea. You take care of your matters. When your father is buried, our family will also prepare a roadside offering.”

Lang Zhengping quickly bowed in thanks.

He accompanied the elder and his grandson out of the mourning hall, out of the manor, and onto their carriage. Once seated, Elder Zhao asked, “That young girl just now…”

Lang Zhengping quickly explained, “She is my second younger brother’s posthumous child. She was born premature and frail, so she was sent to be raised at a country estate. Only today was she brought back. Because she grew up without proper guidance, she lacks discipline. Her words were reckless. As her uncle, I beg your forgiveness on her behalf.”

Saying this, he stepped back and gave a deep, formal bow.

Zhao Yuancheng wanted to speak, but one sharp glance from his grandfather silenced him.

Elder Zhao asked, “So that child… she has been raised in the countryside all along?”

Lang Zhengping was puzzled by the question but still nodded.

“Your brother Zhengfan died in battle at such a young age. That child is his only bloodline, isn’t she? Sending her away to be raised elsewhere—if it was uncles and cousins who decided, one might excuse it. But as her mother, how could she bear it?”

Lang Zhengping heard the probing edge of sarcasm in the words, and his face grew awkward as he stammered, “The abbot Master Xuanjing at Huguo Temple once said that mother and daughter’s birth charts clash, so…”

Elder Zhao looked unconvinced. Even if charts clash, she is still her own flesh and blood. Not to mention—she is her only child. Yet that mother not only showed no tenderness, she even struck her, and in front of everyone, no less.

Clearly, this matter was more than some mere clash of fates.

But it was, after all, the Lang family’s private affair. He could not pry too deeply. Still, when he recalled Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes—dark as ocean whirlpools—and her words, his heart gave a restless throb.

He even felt a sudden impulse to leap from the carriage and seek out that child for clearer answers.

“Let’s return.” Elder Zhao clenched his hand tight, looking back toward the depths of the Lang residence before lowering his gaze, concealing the storm within his eyes. He let the carriage curtain fall.

Lang Zhengping watched the carriage drive off, his brows furrowing before he turned and strode back into the manor.

Inside the carriage, Zhao Yuancheng spoke in a low voice, “Grandfather, that Lang Jiu spoke far too rudely. How could you let her go so easily?”

“If I don’t let her go, then what? I am of an age to be her grandfather. If word spreads, others will only say that a little girl spoke out of turn, while accusing me, Zhao Lin, of being petty and ungenerous. Which judgment do you think weighs heavier?” Elder Zhao looked at his heir and sighed. “You, child, are still too quick to lose your composure.”

Zhao Yuancheng frowned. “I simply cannot stomach it. That was not merely unrestrained speech—it was a curse upon you, Grandfather. Forgive me, but I cannot pretend to feel nothing.”

“Then you never wondered,” Elder Zhao said slowly, “how a young girl could speak such words?”

“What words?”

“‘To save one who should not have been saved.’”

Zhao Yuancheng looked baffled. “She said that? What does it even mean—to save one who should not have been saved?”

Elder Zhao’s hand trembled, his face filled with horror. He didn’t hear it?

(End of Chapter)

 Chapter 8: Arrogant Words, Offending the Crowd

Cui Shi had not expected Lang Jiuchuan to question her directly. For a moment she stood frozen, her face full of disbelief. Which junior of the family had ever dared to confront an elder like this, and in front of outsiders no less?

Lang Zhengping’s face darkened like the bottom of a soot pot. He urged his son and daughter-in-law in haste: “Quickly, take her away.” Then he hurried to stand before Elder Zhao, forcing a smile as he said, “Please don’t laugh at us, sir. This child has been sickly since birth and was raised in the countryside. Now that she has just returned, she does not yet understand the rules.”

Elder Zhao remained silent, but his grandson Zhao Yuancheng looked coldly at Lang Jiuchuan, his eyes slanted with contempt. “Uncle Lang, this is not a matter of understanding rules or not. She has spoken rudely and cursed my grandfather.”

“Brother Zhao, calm your anger. The fault lies with our Lang family. Once our grandfather’s funeral has passed, we will certainly bring this girl to your door to apologize.” The sons and nephews of the Lang clan all stepped forward, cupping their fists in apology.

Lang Cailing, together with her sisters, added sharp rebukes toward Lang Jiuchuan: “Even if you do not understand the rules, you should at least know what can be said and what cannot be said. Quickly kneel and beg forgiveness!”

“Yes, utterly outrageous.”

“This is not the countryside, where ignorant village women can flap their lips as they please.”

“She is nothing but a bringer of trouble—just returned, and already stirring up unrest.”

The voices of reproach and scolding fell upon Lang Jiuchuan like one silken veil after another, soaked and heavy, pressing her down.

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes gradually reddened. Just as she was about to speak, Elder Zhao raised his hand and coughed heavily. “Enough. She is just a child who does not understand. There is no need to pursue it so harshly.”

The hall fell silent.

Elder Zhao looked at Lang Jiuchuan and said, “As you said, I am even two years older than your grandfather. To say that I already have half a foot in the coffin is not an exaggeration.”

“Grandfather!” Zhao Yuancheng frowned. His grandfather was being far too lenient.

Elder Zhao patted his grandson’s hand and continued, “She is only a young girl. Why be so strict with her?”

Zhao Yuancheng opened his mouth but did not speak. He thought to himself, With such a venomous tongue, how can one not be strict with her? Just look at her words—already offending everyone in the hall.

Lang Jiuchuan laughed. “Are you truly trying to shield me, sir? In fact, you are angry too, because my words are venomous. You pretend to be magnanimous only because you think that a girl so young, with such an unrestrained mouth, will eventually bring disaster upon herself. So there is no need for others to punish me—you believe I will one day suffer the consequences of my own words. You would rather wait and see.”

Elder Zhao was momentarily stunned. That was indeed what he had thought. The girl had spoken rashly, and if she continued like this, one day she would certainly pay the price for her own reckless tongue.

Seeing Lang Jiuchuan becoming more and more audacious, Cui Shi barked sternly, “Insolence! Enough of this.”

But Lang Jiuchuan ignored her. She stepped forward and stood directly before Elder Zhao. “I understand respect for the old and love for the young. But since I spoke thus, it was not without reason. A person has three flames of life. You have already lost the two at your shoulders, and the one above your head will burn out within three days. The flame above the head is the most vital—it is the flame of spirit. As the saying goes, a gentleman remains calm and upright. Only by maintaining noble morality and a vigorous spirit can this flame stay strong. But clearly, you have taken a wrong step recently, have you not? Otherwise, you would not be so restless and uneasy.”

This old man’s three flames are nearly extinguished. Does that not mean death is near?

Elder Zhao’s expression shifted slightly. He looked into her eyes and felt as though there was a whirlpool within them, one that sought to drag him in and shred him to pieces.

“You—”

“To save one who should not have been saved—if you refuse to go, then your descendants will have to take your place.” Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes flickered toward his grandson, and her lips curved in a cruel smile. “This is called: one life for another.”

Elder Zhao followed her gaze and his sight landed on his grandson. His pupils shrank, and the hand gripping his cane bulged with veins.

Slap!

The crisp, ringing sound of a palm striking flesh resounded through the hall, shocking everyone back to their senses.

“Outrageous!!”

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 7: A Loose Tongue, Fuel on the Fire

With the current head of the household having spoken, Lang Caimeng hurried forward to pull Lang Jiuchuan up, calling to his wife at the same time: “Wan Fang, take Ninth Sister and settle her down.”

Leave? That was impossible.

If she left, how could she continue absorbing the flow of merit?

“Let go. I’m not leaving. No one will stop me from remaining here to fulfill my filial duty.”

Jiuchuan gave a slight struggle—then crack!

Wu Shi gasped aloud, her face going pale as she stared at Jiuchuan’s hand.

Caimeng too felt something terribly wrong beneath his grip. Reflexively, he loosened his hold, horrified. When had he gained such brute strength? Jiuchuan’s right hand hung limp, boneless, clearly broken.

Every gaze in the mourning hall snapped toward Caimeng. What kind of grudge must he bear against this “country cousin” to use such cruelty?

Caimeng’s face flushed scarlet. Flustered, he stammered, “No, I—I didn’t use any strength! I didn’t mean it!”

Heaven and earth could bear witness—he had only given the gentlest tug. He hadn’t pulled roughly, hadn’t used force. Yet Jiuchuan’s hand was clearly broken. Who would believe him now?

“You—enough! Call for the physician at once!” Even Lang Zhengping was startled. Was this long-absent niece truly so fragile? He dared not scold her further for her earlier sharp tongue; after all, she was his late second brother’s only child, the last branch of that line. And with Cui Shi watching nearby, how could he add harsher words?

Casting a quick, uneasy glance at Cui Shi, Zhengping barked at his son: “Have you no sense of proportion? How could you be so heavy-handed? That’s your Ninth Sister!”

Caimeng nearly choked on his own indignation. I’m innocent! I only tugged her hand—just a little!

Wu Shi trembled as she stepped forward to support Jiuchuan. Her voice quavered: “Ninth Sister, the physician will be here soon. Let’s wait in the side hall first.”

Her concern wasn’t born of affection but of reputation—if word spread that her husband, the eldest son and heir of the main branch, had broken the hand of the second branch’s orphaned daughter during their grandfather’s funeral, they would be drowned in spit and scandal.

Jiuchuan casually shook her broken hand. “No need.”

The sight made Wu Shi’s vision swim; her heart raced wildly.

Unbothered, Jiuchuan grasped her dangling hand, tugged—and crack! She reset the joint herself. With a quick seal of her fingers and a murmured spell, she flexed it again. “All fixed. I can handle it myself.”

Still, she would need to find the right tendons soon to make the repair permanent. Otherwise, this arm would keep breaking at inconvenient times.

Everyone stared at her as though at a monster. A delicate girl, plainly ordinary to look at, yet calmly snapping her own broken hand back into place? Was this even human?

“See? Nothing’s wrong now. I can continue burning paper offerings.”

…Now? At this moment? And that’s what she thought was important?

Cui Shi felt as though she had lived through a lifetime of upheaval in just a few breaths. Her face dark, she strode forward and snapped: “You wretched creature! Come with me at once!”

Jiuchuan froze mid-step. Slowly, she turned, her voice dangerously soft: “What did you just call me—‘wretched creature’?”

For an instant, Cui Shi’s heart lurched violently. Panic fluttered in her chest. She blinked hard, then looked again. Jiuchuan’s eyes were clear, bright, perfectly normal. Had she imagined it?

But just now, she could have sworn she’d seen nothing but two hollow sockets, chilling and empty. Terrifying.

I must have been seeing things.

The crowd sensed the tension between mother and daughter and grew uneasy. Zhengping shot his daughter-in-law a pointed look.

Even if the family quarreled, they could not disgrace themselves before outsiders.

Wu Shi immediately stepped forward again, trying to smooth things over, gently taking Jiuchuan’s arm: “Ninth Sister, let’s go. The physician should still take a look. If medicine is needed, we can’t delay.”

Jiuchuan shook her off with a cold smile, her eyes fixed on Cui Shi. “After more than ten years apart, your daughter returns home—and you call her a wretched creature? Tell me, madam, what crime have I committed to deserve such a name? Simply because I said that this old gentleman’s days are numbered?”

The hall collectively went dark with exasperation. Your mother wasn’t wrong to call you that. You reckless girl! Why bring it up again? We’d just managed to gloss over your loose tongue, and now you’ve dragged the matter back into the open, throwing oil onto the fire!

 Chapter 6: This Heretic, How Dare She?

Lang Jiuchuan knelt by the coffin, leaning slightly against it. Turning her head toward the body inside, she quietly absorbed the faint trickle of merit drifting her way, nourishing her flesh and spirit. She let out a soft breath of relief.

But when she noticed that some of that fortune still dispersed toward the other Lang family members, her brows furrowed. Fixing her gaze on the corpse beneath the white shroud, she thought: if she were the one lying inside, wouldn’t all of that merit flow straight to her alone? The idea made her lips curl in wicked delight—how tempting it would be to plunder it all.

The pair of dog’s eyes crudely fitted into her sockets nearly bored holes straight through the coffin lid with their intensity.

Whoosh!

A sudden gust swept through the mourning hall, scattering yellow paper money across the floor and setting the candles to flicker wildly.

Everyone froze in shock. Where had this wind come from?

Their eyes turned instinctively toward Jiuchuan. Was she disturbing the old master’s rest?

Cui Shi’s expression darkened, her brows drawn tightly together.

Sensing the heated stares on her back, Jiuchuan casually dragged the offering brazier closer, picked up the scattered yellow paper, and tossed it in. “I’ll burn some paper for the old master,” she said mildly, “so that his road in the underworld will be smooth and unobstructed.”

The tension in the air eased a little—at least she was showing some shred of filial piety. Still, what did she mean by “smooth roads”?

Cui Shi closed her eyes, murmuring scripture beneath her breath.

Then, suddenly, a thunderous voice howled from the doorway:

“You old bastard! You actually died before me? Weren’t we supposed to see who could still piss the farthest at seventy? You lying son of a—”

The mourning hall fell silent.

Jiuchuan’s hand twitched mid-offering, her mouth twitching as she looked up.

An elderly man with white hair but a ruddy face strode in, leaning on a staff. Dressed in plain mourning robes, he walked straight to the coffin, his voice catching as he looked upon the body within. “Old bastard, what are you doing lying there? Get up and drink with me!”

“Grandfather,” a young man in a moon-white robe hurried forward to support him, coaxing softly: “Please, at least light some incense for the old marquis first.”

“Yes, Uncle Zhao,” said Lang Zhengping, the heir of the house, stepping up as well. “My father passed peacefully. Please don’t grieve too much. If you fall ill from sorrow, my father won’t rest easy in the afterlife.”

Other members of the Lang family also rose to murmur words of comfort. Lang Caimeng and several others tried to calm the old man’s grief.

“You needn’t persuade me,” the old man, Elder Zhao, rasped, his eyes brimming with sorrow. “These old bones of mine are still sturdy. If I want to cry for him, then cry I shall—it’s the least he deserves. We fought each other our whole lives. Now… now I have no rival left.”

A voice, cold and sharp as falling frost, cut through the mourning:

“What’s there to cry over? You’ll be meeting him soon enough.”

The hall went deathly quiet. Shocked faces turned toward Jiuchuan.

Was she mad? What sort of lunacy was this? To say such words to an elder, here of all places, during mourning rites?

Lang Zhengping reacted instantly, his voice like a whip: “Insolence! What nonsense are you spouting? You—wait, whose child are you?”

He stared at the unfamiliar girl before him, momentarily stunned. Since when had their family produced such a daughter?

Lang Caimeng hurriedly stepped forward: “Father, this is Ninth Sister—second uncle’s daughter.”

Recognition dawned in Zhengping’s eyes. Yes, the one who’d been raised away in the countryside—the second brother’s only child. His gaze flicked instinctively toward Cui Shi. His lips parted as though to speak, but he hesitated, then simply waved his hand. “She looks frail. Don’t keep her kneeling here—take her away to rest.”

Cui Shi’s face turned ashen, her fingers trembling, chest heaving with suppressed fury as she fixed Jiuchuan with a venomous glare.

This heretic—how dare she?

 In Chapter 1: Returning Home, Mother Denies, the story begins on a snowy day in Wu Jing as Lang Jiuchuan, the Ninth Miss of the Lang family, returns to the Marquis of Kaiping’s residence for her grandfather Lang Pu’s funeral. Forced into mourning clothes, she mocks the hypocrisy of being discarded when unwanted yet summoned back when convenient. Beneath her cold defiance lies a chilling truth: she inhabits a mutilated corpse stitched back together, complete with a dog’s eye that refuses to stay in place. Her presence unsettles servants and relatives alike, as she radiates an aura closer to that of a ghost than a dutiful granddaughter.

In Chapter 2: False Affection, True Hostility, the mourning hall is filled with the solemn chanting of monks, yet the family’s atmosphere brims with hostility. Cui Shi, the Second Madam and Jiuchuan’s mother, kneels with outward grief but deliberately ignores her own daughter, making her alienation plain. The Lang clan whispers among themselves, treating Jiuchuan as a shameful outsider, raised away from home for over a decade and now dragged back against their wishes. Jiuchuan, sharp-eyed and contemptuous, sees through their pretense, meeting their scorn with icy silence and biting awareness.

In Chapter 3: The Ninth Miss Causes a Stir, Jiuchuan begins clashing openly with her cousins, especially Lang Cailing. While others expect her to behave meekly after years of exile, she instead reveals a thorny, unyielding nature, refusing to bow to insults or play the part of a humble, forgotten daughter. Her sharp tongue and fearless defiance shock the family, who view her as disruptive, even dangerous, to their fragile order.

In Chapter 4: Xi Zhao Appears, the tension escalates as Jiuchuan encounters Xi Zhao, a figure whose presence both unsettles and fascinates. Their meeting casts new ripples across the Lang household, hinting at power struggles beyond simple family feuds. Jiuchuan’s strange aura, her patched-together body, and her sharp perception mark her as someone more than just an unloved daughter—she is becoming a force of disturbance in the family’s carefully arranged façade.

In Chapter 5: Unwelcome, Jiuchuan’s bristling defiance reaches new heights. The Lang family expects her to behave with meek obedience after her years away, yet she acts like a hedgehog, pricking anyone who dares come close. She rebukes servants, mocks relatives, and even clashes with her cousins in open defiance, leaving them baffled at her audacity. Dressed in plain mourning garb with nothing but a simple braid bound by a scrap of cloth, she is scorned as rustic and unrefined, though none know the truth—that she had clawed her way out of a mass grave wearing nothing but death itself. Even as hunger and pain gnaw at her body, Jiuchuan senses faint strands of ancestral merit drifting from her grandfather’s coffin to nourish her broken form. Yet when Cui Shi arrives, she makes her disdain plain by kneeling far away, as though Jiuchuan were a stranger. Watching from the sidelines, other family members sneer at her isolation, mocking her as unloved and unwelcome. Jiuchuan, however, does not falter. She walks straight toward the coffin, her presence both unsettling and defiant, leaving all who watch unsettled at what she might do next.

 Chapter 5: Unwelcome

The Lang family thought: after being “banished” outside for more than ten years, now that she’s back, shouldn’t she be cautious, tail between her legs, and behave humbly?

But this Ninth Miss of theirs — why was she all bristles like a hedgehog, lashing out at anyone, regardless of who they were?

First she lashed out at a maid, then slighted the entire family, and then she even went after a cousin. How dare she? Where did she get the courage?

Was it simply because she was Second Branch’s only child?

Whatever the reason, the Lang family had a troublemaker on their hands.

Lang Jiuchuan: Yes, I’m the stick, and you all are the dung.

Her eyes slid coldly toward Lang Cailing, who had been silenced earlier under Lang Caimeng’s bloodline authority but still sent daggers of fury at her with her gaze. Lang Jiuchuan’s lips moved soundlessly:

Bite me then!

Lang Cailing caught the shape of those words and clenched her fists tight, glaring daggers in return.

The younger cousins caught this silent sparring and exchanged quick looks before glancing at Lang Jiuchuan again.

So arrogant… yet also so rustic.

Look at her — plain mourning clothes, a pair of ill-fitting black cloth shoes, no accessories at all. Granted, it was the period of heavy mourning, but even so, the girls all had delicate silver ornaments in their hair. And she? Her long black hair was simply braided into one thick plait over her chest, tied off with a ragged strip of black cloth.

The younger Langs looked at her with contempt.

So county bumpkin.

What they didn’t know was that when Lang Jiuchuan had crawled up from that mass grave, her shoes had long been gone. Those black cloth shoes had been stripped from a corpse. As for her hair, she had tied it up however she could.

And she hadn’t even made it back to the Lang family’s manor. As soon as she had emerged from the woods, servants had found her and, without letting her rest, shoved her straight into a carriage to rush back to the capital for the funeral.

Now kneeling on a grass mat, she had no intention of conversing with the Lang clan. She hadn’t even processed all the information she’d just absorbed; instead, she was enduring the pain wracking her organs and the gnawing hunger.

This body was riddled with holes — it needed to be mended, nourished by merit, if the flesh was to heal and the soul was to stabilize. Only then could she search for her missing soul fragments and past.

Right now, she was barely maintaining the illusion of a “normal” Lang Jiuchuan with sorcery. It drained her spirit; one slip and the whole house might die of fright.

She was, in truth, living on borrowed merit.

Once again, she cursed the Judge eighteen generations deep. If she’d had a sound, proper body, would she be suffering like this?

Suddenly, her gaze lifted toward the golden nanmu coffin, her eyes flashing.

Threads of merit and fortune slowly drifted toward her. Thin, faint — but better than nothing.

It was ancestral blessing.

The Lang clan’s Old Master, and their forebears before him, had fought the Xiongnu in the north and protected the people, accumulating boundless merit. Now that blessing flowed faintly even to her, a daughter of the Lang family.

Feeling the nourishment of that merit, she sighed softly.

A pity it was so thin. With more, she could have been far better sustained.

All because the current Lang sons lacked the valor of their forebears; the family was in decline, its fortune dissipating.

Her eyes swept over the cousins at her side with disdain. Useless.

The two younger ones stiffened.

“What was that look?”

“Was she looking down on us?”

This country bumpkin! If not for the solemn occasion — and their elder brother’s presence — they would have confronted her already.

They exchanged a glance. If not a fight, then perhaps a prank?

But just as the thought formed, the doorway darkened, and they quickly pushed it aside.

Second Madam entered.

No matter how much she disliked this daughter, she was still her only child. Who knew whether she might suddenly shield her?

Cui Shi’s steps faltered as she entered. Her gaze brushed briefly over Lang Jiuchuan, then slid away as if nothing had happened. She went to kneel at another spot, keeping a deliberate distance.

Everyone noticed. Eyebrows lifted. After more than ten years, Cui Shi still held the same view. This would be worth watching.

Lang Cailing, who’d just quarreled with Lang Jiuchuan, smirked. So what if she was Second Branch’s only bloodline? She was still unwanted.

Cailing looked toward Lang Jiuchuan, expecting to see disappointment on her face — only to see the girl rise and walk toward the coffin.

Her eyes widened.

What madness was this country bumpkin about to stir up next?

(End of Chapter)

 Chapter 4: Ninth Miss, Born Rebellious

A voice, colder than the drifting snow outside, cut through the hall with biting mockery. The whispers scattered at once, silenced, as every gaze snapped toward the figure radiating an aura of chilling frost.

The maidservant froze under that glance. Her hand, just about to lift the shroud from the Old Marquis’s face, went rigid. Her complexion turned pale, legs trembling weakly. Yet when she focused on Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes again—there was nothing there.

Only indifference.

But how? Just now she had clearly seen a flash of gold—pupils narrowing like a serpent’s, cold and merciless.

Did her eyes deceive her?

The maid opened her mouth, forgetting all sense of propriety. “I…”

Lang Jiuchuan laughed—a sharp, hollow sound. Her not-quite-smiling gaze swept over the assembled Lang clan.

The Lang family members flushed with rage. That one sentence of hers—was it aimed only at the servant? No, she had mocked the entire Lang family together.

The older ones kept their composure though their faces had darkened; the younger ones were already leaping up in anger.

What did she mean by that? Wasn’t it saying the Lang clan was useless, letting mere servants trample over them?

Lang Jiuchuan took in every flicker of their expressions, a sneer tugging at her lips. So what if she cursed them? Since stepping foot in this manor, had a single blood relative stepped forward to guide her on how to fulfill her filial duties?

Not one.

If they wished a servant to direct her, then fine—replace her with one who knew proper etiquette. If not, they had no right to expect her obedience.

Shamed?

They had brought it upon themselves.

What did it matter to her?

“In front of Grandfather’s spirit, you dare behave so rudely!” A stern voice cut across. A young man in mourning garb strode in, his handsome face lined with fatigue, eyes sharp. He lashed out at the servant: “Disrespecting your master? Twenty boards! Men, drag her out!”

The maid collapsed to the floor, shaking violently. “Young Master, mercy—!”

Before her pleas finished, a steward gagged her with a cloth and hauled her swiftly away.

Only then did the direct grandson of the First Branch, Lang Caimeng, turn to look at Lang Jiuchuan. His brows knit together. Hadn’t Second Uncle’s daughter, raised in the countryside estate, been described as meek and docile? Why did she appear so filled with defiance?

“Ninth…sister, I am your elder brother,” he began, then looked toward a young woman in the hall and added, “Wan Fang, bring our Ninth sister to meet the family and teach her how things are done.”

When Wu Shi stepped forward, Lang Caimeng continued, “This is your sister-in-law. You’ve lived at the manor so long without returning; let her help you get to know the family.”

Though he was her cousin, he was still a man — some matters were better handled by his wife, who tended the inner quarters.

Because she’d been keeping vigil, Wu Shi looked haggard. She tugged at the corner of her mouth and said to the newcomer, “Ninth sister, why don’t you first pay your respects to Grandfather’s remains?”

Lang Jiuchuan was indifferent. Before she could even take in the Old Marquis’s face properly, Wu Shi had already seized her arm and forced her to kneel.

Crack.

A sharp sound came from her knee. Pain contorted her face; tears sprang to her eyes.

This body truly was brittle.

Wu Shi, however, did not seem to notice. “Bow and weep properly,” she murmured.

Lang Jiuchuan: “…”

Weep was impossible; bowing she did only under Wu Shi’s pressure — three small knocks.

Wu Shi then pulled her to her feet, eyes red, and led her along the rows where the Lang clan knelt, introducing each person.

The Lang clan still had many descendants — men and women filling the hall. Elders had brought younger kin to receive mourners; men and women had different duties. Some younger family members were attending the Old Madam.

There was little small talk while the vigil continued; faces were acknowledged with a nod and then attention turned elsewhere. Only one woman — striking, arrogant, and scornful — glared at Lang Jiuchuan and coldly snorted, “You come back and make such a disturbance before Grandfather’s spirit — what a great lack of filial piety. Ninth sister, reflect on yourself.”

Lang Jiuchuan looked toward her. Judging by Wu Shi’s tight, pained expression when introducing her, this must be the First Branch’s concubine-born daughter, Lang Cailing.

Seeing Cailing’s imperious posture, Lang Jiuchuan couldn’t help the bitter amusement: a concubine-born daughter so full of dominance — perhaps even more forceful than the second-branch’s sole heir.

She lowered her eyes and, turning to Lang Caimeng with a deliberately rebellious grin, said, “Eldest brother, there’s another person acting insolently before Grandfather’s spirit — shall we have her dragged out for a round of boards too?”

Silence fell.

The room echoed with puzzled looks: “?”

Who was she calling “eldest brother”?

Lang Caimeng’s head ached. He hadn’t been wrong — this cousin really was born rebellious.

 Chapter 3: You Dare Teach Me How to Behave?

With doubts still swirling in her heart, Lang Jiuchuan reached the mourning hall. Yet the moment she stepped into the courtyard, her body swayed, her soul weakening—nearly slipping out of the vessel altogether.

A mantra suddenly surged up in her mind. Her fingers twitched, pinning her soul firmly back into her flesh.

That damned Judge! Said this body was the most compatible for her? Pah!

Lang Jiuchuan’s gaze flicked to a corner of the courtyard—over a dozen gleaming bald heads reflected the sunlight so brightly it nearly blinded her borrowed dog’s eyes. The unceasing droning of scripture drilled into her ears like demonic noise, flogging her fragile soul.

After all, she had borrowed this corpse, a body already broken and incomplete. Both body and soul were unstable. Now, faced with these golden-lit sutras, she was suffering greatly.

Silently, Lang Jiuchuan reinforced her soul-binding incantations. Her faltering body was quickly steadied by Jianlan.

Jianlan was terrified. Holding tightly to her hand, she asked, “Are you all right, Miss?”

She stared in horror at Lang Jiuchuan’s pallid face. That momentary sway had drained what little color remained, leaving her looking utterly corpse-like.

And her hands—her hands were icy cold.

Jianlan’s heart trembled.

So this Ninth Miss she had heard of but never seen—could she truly be a frail, sickly invalid?

Clenching her jaw, Lang Jiuchuan shook her head. “Let’s go in.”

Hearing this, Jianlan gripped her arm even tighter, as if afraid she might collapse at any moment.

By now it was already past noon. There were far fewer visitors than in the morning, and Lang Jiuchuan only passed a few along the way.

When she entered the mourning hall, one of the chanting monks—a lean, wiry elder—lifted his head, his brows drawing together slightly.

Such a strange aura.

The moment Lang Jiuchuan stepped inside, those kneeling on straw mats in the southeast corner, clad in heavy mourning clothes, all turned to look at her. Their expressions were startled, unfamiliar—until someone murmured softly, and suddenly their faces cleared in recognition.

Ah, the ill-omened one from the Second Branch.

There were no outsiders here now, so many felt no need to conceal their stares.

Was she truly this weak? And her face—its sickly pallor was almost identical to the old marquis lying in the coffin.

Lang Jiuchuan ignored the eyes boring into her. Instead, she looked at the golden-nanmu coffin carved with the longevity symbol, placed against the wall. The Old Marquis of the Lang family had already been prepared for burial; soon the coffin would be sealed.

“Ninth Miss, pay your respects with incense before the Old Marquis,” instructed a steward, clearly informed of her identity. He lit three sticks and handed them to her.

For a moment, Lang Jiuchuan did not move. This made many watching twitch their eyelids in irritation.

So ignorant of propriety? As expected of someone raised away from the family estate—no manners at all, stiff and awkward!

Even Jianlan grew anxious and urged in a low voice, “Miss?”

Lang Jiuchuan snapped back to herself and accepted the incense. To onlookers, her movement seemed reluctant. She bowed three times toward the coffin, then placed the incense into the overfilled burner before it.

Once she had finished, another matron gestured for her to approach the coffin to view the remains. Her voice was cold and sharp:

“Ninth Miss, as the granddaughter, long absent from home, you must demonstrate filial piety properly. Kneel, weep, and knock your head upon the floor.”

Everyone here—sons and grandsons alike—had reddened eyes, proof of grief. Yet this girl? Her eyes were clear, her face devoid of sorrow.

Raised outside the household, her heart had grown cold indeed.

Lang Jiuchuan caught the disdain and contempt in that tone. Her eyes narrowed.

Laughable. She had been absent all these years—did they think it was her choice not to return?

It was the Lang family who had forgotten her, who only summoned her now to mourn the dead—and even so, they had called her back too late.

The true Lang Jiuchuan had already died beyond saving, her soul gone without a trace.

As this thought sank in, cold hostility seeped from her gaze.

Dark. Icy. Chilling.

Fixing the woman with her eyes, Lang Jiuchuan spoke, voice sinister and sharp:

“So, the rules of the Lang family allow a servant to teach a master how to behave?”

 Chapter 2: A Suspicious Birth

“You are not my daughter!”

That icy voice, mingling with the falling first snow, cut even colder.

Lang Jiuchuan’s heart tightened. Instinctively, she searched Cui Shi’s eyes. Could mother and daughter truly share such a bond—that with just one glance, she could see through her as someone reborn in another’s body?

No… not quite.

There was no fear or doubt in Cui Shi’s eyes. Only determination. Obsession. And buried within—disgust, agitation, even grievance?

For a mother, her gaze was far too complicated.

Lang Jiuchuan could not understand, but—if she said she was not, then so be it. After all, she truly wasn’t. So she replied, calmly and faintly:

“Oh.”

Cui Shi froze.

The matron beside her grew anxious, scolding inwardly, and quickly told a maid: “Jianlan, take Ninth Miss to the mourning hall first.”

Jianlan immediately stepped forward, giving a small curtsy. “Miss, please follow this servant.”

Without a trace of reluctance, Lang Jiuchuan turned and followed her out through the moon gate of the small courtyard. As she left, the matron’s voice floated back on the cold wind:

“Madam, more than ten years have passed. The young miss is nearly of age now. Why must you persist in this?”

Cui Shi said nothing. She only stared at the fading figure of Lang Jiuchuan, frowning, one hand pressing against her chest, as if to smother the strange unease welling inside.

It felt as though something had been lost.

On the path toward the mourning hall, Lang Jiuchuan remained unsettled. From Cui Shi’s loathing expression—was it truly mere dislike? Or had she somehow glimpsed the truth, that this was not her daughter’s soul?

And yet, Lang Jiuchuan clearly felt a subtle bond between them.

Too bad. When she took over this body, the original soul had not only died wretchedly but was obliterated altogether. She had been left with no memories at all.

Still, this vessel certainly belonged to the Lang family’s Ninth Miss—the underworld lord himself had confirmed it.

“Miss, please don’t take it to heart. Madam has had a hard life these years.” Jianlan noticed the cold gloom weighing on her face, and after a few stolen glances, she finally forced herself to speak with a dry tone: “You’ve only just returned home. In time, all will be well.”

Lang Jiuchuan looked her over. Eighteen or nineteen, steady and composed—clearly one of Cui Shi’s trusted first maids.

Her thoughts shifted. She asked: “Why did she say that?”

Jianlan’s expression turned awkward. She had served in Xi Zhao Courtyard for ten years, rising from a mere errand girl to a first-class maid, managing Cui Shi’s clothing and jewelry. From her very first day in service, the older women had warned her repeatedly: never mention Ninth Miss, especially not before Madam.

Strange, was it not? Ninth Miss was the only daughter of the Second Branch, the only flesh and blood left of the Second Master. Instead of cherishing her, they acted as if her very name was taboo.

With time, Jianlan pieced together whispers. They said Cui Shi detested her daughter because the child had been born just as the Second Master died on the battlefield. A cursed omen.

But Jianlan’s cousin—once Cui Shi’s chief maid—had told her otherwise. Madam had been driven mad by grief, and in her delirium insisted the girl was not her own. More than once she had even tried to smother the infant. Only by the Old Madam’s decree was the child sent away to a manor, spared from a mother’s hand.

Yet now, after more than ten years, Cui Shi still clung to this belief. Though Ninth Miss even bore a resemblance to her—how could she not be hers?

It seemed Madam had lived in widowhood too long, unable to awaken from her delusion.

Jianlan forced a weak smile, replying vaguely: “You’ve been away from the estate so long, things feel unfamiliar. And Madam has been sleepless these days, exhausted by her duties at the mourning hall.”

Her evasive words did not impress Lang Jiuchuan.

But since Jianlan refused to speak plainly, she let it be. Truth would come out in time. For now, she was merely curious.

Could a mother truly hate her own child so deeply, to the point of sending her away and nearly killing her?

Chapter 1: Returning Home, Mother Denies

Wu Jing

The first snow drifted down.

Lang Jiuchuan narrowed her eyes as she looked at the two large white lanterns under the eaves, violently swaying in the northern wind, each painted with the character for “mourning.”

The divination hadn’t lied.

A real death had occurred.

The one who died was the grandfather of this body—Lang Pu, Marquis of Kaiping.

“Ninth Miss, quickly put this on.”

Lang Jiuchuan lowered her gaze. What filled her sight was glaring white—mourning clothes. As a granddaughter, she naturally had to don sackcloth and hempen rope in honor of her grandfather.

Heh. When she wasn’t needed, she was cast aside. Now that she was useful, they summoned her back to play the filial granddaughter sending off the dead.

Seeing her unmoving for so long, the maid grew impatient. Just as she was about to urge her, the mourning robe was snatched away. The girl’s slender, bony hand—so pale it was colorless—looked exactly like the robe itself.

A dead person’s hand.

Lang Jiuchuan threw the mourning garb over herself, tied the hemp rope around her waist, placed the mourning cap on her head, then looked at the maid with a twisted grin.

“Do I look filial now?”

The maid’s heart trembled. She instinctively stepped back two paces, a cold chill crawling up her spine.

This Ninth Miss had been silent the whole journey, exuding a deathly aura. Now, dressed all in white, with that greenish-pale face, she looked even more ghostly.

Truly an unloved daughter—who would ever like someone with such a gloomy, deathlike appearance?

Lang Jiuchuan instantly saw through the maid’s thoughts and sneered. Wasn’t she indeed a ghost now?

Any skilled occultist would see through the illusion and recognize this ruined body—patched together in the most pitiful state.

When it had first collapsed in the mass grave, its tendons had been cut, eye sockets gouged empty, a rib missing from its chest—like a rag doll torn to shreds.

And she had been forcibly pressed into this broken vessel, borrowing the corpse to return to life—becoming the Ninth Miss of the Marquis of Kaiping, Lang Jiuchuan.

Thinking of it now, she really ought to go fight it out with that Judge of the Underworld. If this wasn’t a personal grudge, she wouldn’t believe it. Of all the dead in the world, why give her this most mangled body?

She tilted her head slightly—when suddenly, a round eyeball rolled down. She swiftly caught it with her hand and shoved it back into her eye socket.

Tsk. A dog’s eye really didn’t suit a human body. It kept falling out. Only a real human eye would do.

She remembered that wolfdog in the mass grave, its eyes clawed out, whimpering pitifully among corpses: forever gnawing on dead flesh, only to have the dead snatch its eyes away—what tragedy!

Once she was properly dressed, the maid led her toward the side gate. A steward approached, face dark and frowning. “Why so slow?”

Before the maid could answer, Lang Jiuchuan brushed past him and entered the gate.

The steward froze, his expression darkening further.

Raised in the countryside—utterly without manners.

He hurried after her.

Lang Jiuchuan walked straight toward the mourning hall, ignoring his nagging words. Through the borrowed dog’s eyes, she swept her divine sense across the Marquis household’s scenery.

The closer she came to the hall, the more solemn chanting reached her ears—the monks were reciting the Sutra for Deliverance.

“Ninth Miss, this way.” The steward blocked her path, pointing to a side route.

Lang Jiuchuan glanced at him, then turned in that direction.

The steward broke into a cold sweat. That one look had chilled him to the bone.

In the small courtyard he indicated, a nursemaid stood under the eaves. Seeing her, the old servant seemed to stir with recognition. She stepped forward, secretly studying her features, then spoke in a trembling, excited voice:

“Is it the Ninth Miss?”

Lang Jiuchuan didn’t reply. Her gaze slid past, to someone emerging from the house behind. Their eyes met.

Dressed in heavy mourning, thin and frail, the woman’s face was cold and expressionless. Her eyes, fixed on Lang Jiuchuan, were filled with chilling indifference.

Lang Jiuchuan’s fingers twitched inside her sleeve. Her eyes blinked. This woman… was she her mother?

She felt a faint, subtle pull of connection.

The nursemaid turned and looked toward the woman, her voice breaking with emotion.

“Second Madam, our Ninth Miss has returned home.”

Cui Shi, Second Madam of the Marquis of Kaiping and Lang Jiuchuan’s birth mother, looked down from on high at the frail figure standing in the courtyard. Step by deliberate step, she came forward until she stood before her.

The matron urged softly, “Ninth Miss, quickly greet the Madam—this is your mother…”

“You are not my daughter!”

The ice-cold voice cut her words short.

The matron’s expression changed, shocked, then quickly turned to helplessness. “Madam…”

But Cui Shi ignored her, fixing her eyes on Lang Jiuchuan with unshaken coldness. Her voice repeated, firm and unyielding:

“You are not my daughter!”

Table of Contents

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

The Ninth Lady of the Marquis of Kaiping’s household, Lang Jiuchuan, returned to the capital after spending more than ten years away recuperating, only to attend a funeral. Yet, upon reunion, her birth mother disliked her, her family distanced themselves, and she was regarded as nothing but a troublemaker and a jinx.

Entering the capital’s noble circle for the first time, the aristocrats mocked her as a country bumpkin with the face of someone destined for an early death, her manners crude, like wild grass from the mountains—utterly unfit for the grand stage.

But Lang Jiuchuan thought: wild grass is the best! Full of life, growing tall with the wind—it resonated with her heart completely!

While people secretly placed bets on when this seemingly insignificant, short-lived girl would perish, they forgot—she was a “calamity,” one that could last a thousand years.

That’s right, she might look delicate, soft, and easy to bully, but—just try and touch her.

Do they sigh that she has no one to protect her? What a joke. She can grow her own wings—why bother climbing anyone else’s ladder?

By day she severs the yang, by night she severs the yin. With divine powers that shook the world, nobles knelt with riches, begging to invite her aid. Yet all Lang Jiuchuan wanted was to accumulate merit, reshape her body, extend her life, recover her soul—and settle old scores along the way.

So what if her beginning was hell itself? She would carve her way out in blood!

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