Chapter 24: Lang Jiu’s Cursed Tongue Truly Killed a Man

The raucous noise, just as the Lang family had barely begun to relax, made them tense all over again. All turned to look at the figure charging in like a madman.

And once they clearly saw his face and the mourning garb he wore, everyone froze stiff. Good heavens, dead memories were being dragged back to life.

You won’t live three days!

That lunatic Lang Jiuchuan had cursed the Zhao family’s Old Master so only two days ago. And now, before three days had passed, here came the grandson, dressed in pure white mourning clothes.

What kind of living person wears full mourning dress? To wear it meant only one thing—that someone in the household had been taken away by Lord Yama.

As for who in the Zhao family had gone, they were two hundred percent sure it was the old master. Otherwise, Zhao Yuancheng wouldn’t be looking as if he wanted to swallow Lang Jiuchuan whole.

The Lang family found themselves utterly exhausted from this funeral vigil. One storm after another, and every single one had Lang Jiuchuan’s shadow in it.

Someone muttered under their breath: “She really is a proper stirrer of filth.”

Zhao Yuancheng had already spotted Lang Jiuchuan—that frail girl standing alone in a corner, utterly out of place amid the gathered Langs. Seemingly inconspicuous, yet impossible to ignore.

His eyes were bloodshot. Through clenched teeth he forced out two words:

“Lang Jiu.”

She was looking at him, her expression indifferent. Even with him clad in deep mourning, she did not show the least bit of astonishment, let alone surprise.

She had already known.

That cold, knowing look stabbed at Zhao Yuancheng’s heart, and he charged forward.

Cui Shi’s heart leapt into her throat. She instinctively took two steps forward, but a figure had already stepped in front of Lang Jiuchuan.

“Brother Zhao, let us speak calmly. Today is the day of my grandfather’s sealing of the coffin.” Lang Caimeng stood between them, giving Zhao Yuancheng a polite cupped-hand salute. Yet, when his eyes fell upon that white mourning garb, he hesitated, words sticking in his throat.

Zhao Yuancheng ground his teeth. “Step aside.”

How could Lang Caimeng dare? With the other’s furious stance, if given a blade, he feared Zhao Yuancheng would hack Lang Jiuchuan into nine pieces.

By now Lang Zhengping had also come over. Seeing Zhao Yuancheng’s mourning clothes, his shock was no less than when he had witnessed that venomous needle pulled from his own father’s head earlier.

“Yuan­cheng, this mourning garb…”

Zhao Yuancheng’s throat bobbed. His gaze locked past Lang Caimeng’s shoulder, straight on Lang Jiuchuan. His voice choked: “Grandfather… my grandfather passed away this morning.”

Everyone: “!”

The hearts they’d been holding aloft finally died.

Just as she had cursed.

Feeling all eyes upon her, Lang Jiuchuan brushed past Lang Caimeng to face Zhao Yuancheng directly. “You’ve come for me. What is it you want?”

“It was you who cursed my grandfather to death!” Zhao Yuancheng’s eyes blazed red, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles cracked.

“Zhao Yuancheng!”

A thunderous shout jarred everyone awake.

Lang Zhengping hurriedly stepped forward. That was Zhao Yuancheng’s father, Zhao Kun, current Vice Minister of Justice, also clad in heavy mourning. He raised both hands in a formal salute and addressed Lang Zhengping by his courtesy name: “Brother Qining.”

Zhao Kun returned the courtesy. “My son has been rude. I beg your pardon, dear brother.”

Lang Zhengping shook his head quickly, anxiously asking: “Just now Yuan­cheng said that Uncle…?”

“This morning, when the servants went to rouse him, they found the old man had already departed for immortality.” Zhao Kun forced a smile. “He passed in his sleep, very peacefully, with no regrets.”

“Father!” Zhao Yuancheng still bristled with anger. It was clearly that venomous girl Lang Jiu’s curse that killed his grandfather.

Zhao Kun glared at him. “Silence! You’re about to be a father yourself, yet you show no sense of measure. How could you face the painstaking teachings your grandfather gave you? And those words you just spoke were far too hurtful. Curse? Utter nonsense. Apologize at once to your Lang family younger sister.”

Zhao Yuancheng: “?”

Younger sister? To hell with that! He, Zhao Yuancheng, had no such vicious, crow-mouthed sister!

Zhao Kun saw him stiffen and shot him another vicious glare. Then he turned to Lang Jiuchuan, his gaze complicated. Stepping forward, he said: “This must be Zhengfan’s daughter. You’ve grown so much. Forgive your Zhao elder brother Zhao—he grew up under his grandfather’s roof, and now with his sudden passing, he cannot accept it. Thus he spoke such rash words. Your Uncle Zhao apologizes in his stead. Please don’t hold it against him.”

Seeing him actually bow, the gathered crowd was dumbstruck. Was this real?

Lang Jiuchuan arched a brow. “You truly don’t blame me? He says I cursed old master to death.”

Zhao Kun gave a bitter smile. “Life and death are inevitable. My father was of advanced years. As for curses—mere nonsense. It was your elder brother Zhao who lost his wits.”

Zhao Yuancheng’s eyes burned redder still as he took another step forward—only to have both Lang Caimeng and Lang Caize seize him by the arms.

“Dear brother, we’ve imposed too much already. Were it not for this unfilial son barging in and nearly causing disaster, I would not have dared leave home. We’ve only just erected the mourning canopy and are in disarray. Let us not stay longer. We’ll gather again another day.” Zhao Kun said to Lang Zhengping, then bowed toward the mourning hall. After a brief hesitation, he turned to Lang Jiuchuan: “Ninth Young Miss, might I borrow a word with you?”

“He has already departed. There is no more burden.” Lang Jiuchuan, as if knowing what he would ask, gave this reply.

Zhao Kun seemed to exhale in relief. That expression made Lang Zhengping glance at him sidelong.

Lang Jiuchuan swept a glance at her side, then looked back at Zhao Kun. She crooked a finger and led him aside. Only when he drew near did she say: “On the second shelf in the South Study, there is a volume of Natural Records. Go and read it.”

Zhao Kun’s pupils shrank. He stared hard at her.

Lang Jiuchuan sighed faintly. “And also, he wishes to wear the pink-blue silk robe embroidered with crabapple blossoms on his final journey.”

Zhao Kun’s fingers trembled. He drew a long breath, wanting to speak, but Lang Jiuchuan had already turned back toward the mourning hall. She tilted her head slightly, lips moving as if murmuring to someone unseen. Zhao Kun halted, his eyes rimmed red.

Everyone watched this scene, dumbfounded, until Zhao Kun and his son were escorted away by Lang Zhengping before they came back to their senses.

“So wait—she really did curse the Zhao old master to death? Isn’t this the very definition of a crow’s mouth?” Lang Cailing’s voice was sharp.

Standing beside her, Wu Shi tugged at her sleeve and motioned with her chin.

Lang Cailing followed her gaze and saw her legitimate mother and Cui Shi standing side by side, both pairs of eyes fixed on her, their expressions unreadable. Her face paled a shade.

The other Langs, though curious to death, dared not speak recklessly. What if Lang Jiu overheard and cursed them too, bringing some ill fortune instead of good?

Meanwhile Zhao Kun was still chastising the resentful Zhao Yuancheng: “You are the eldest grandson. With your grandfather newly departed and the household in chaos, you—his favored heir—ought to be helping with the funeral. Instead you come here to cause trouble. What does this look like? And talk of cursing? You’ve read the sages’ books—how could you spout such absurdities? If such words spread, not only would you ruin that girl’s reputation, you’d make yourself a laughingstock for failing to discern right from wrong.”

Zhao Yuancheng flushed with shame, but protested: “But did you not hear her? She cursed Grandfather, saying he had only a few days left, and indeed he…”

Zhao Kun looked at him gravely. “Indeed, your grandfather did pass. But have you not thought—if it were not coincidence, upon what could she base such a prophecy?”

Zhao Yuancheng stiffened, fingers curling.

Zhao Kun’s eyes dimmed with sorrow. “When your grandfather’s funeral is over, I will speak with you in detail.”

He lifted the carriage curtain, gazing back toward the Lang residence. Remembering Lang Jiuchuan’s words, and recalling the toil and troubles of the past two days entrusted to him by his father, he pressed his lips together.

The Lang family… truly bore a trace of fate.

(End of chapter)

 Chapter 23: This Scheme to Destroy the Lang Family

With Lang Zhengping coughing blood from rage, the already chaotic mourning hall fell into even greater disorder.

After swallowing two heart-protecting pills in succession, Lang Zhengping’s boiling emotions finally calmed somewhat. He took a deep breath, turned to look at Lang Jiuchuan, his eyes carrying scrutiny and something unnamable. Only after a long while did he ask:

“How did you know your grandfather’s body had been tampered with?”

Lang Jiuchuan replied, “Who knows? Perhaps Grandfather appeared in a dream to complain about his headache.”

That infuriating tone made Lang Zhengping’s chest tighten painfully again, blood surging up his throat. He forcibly swallowed it down and said:

“Is there anything else? What are they trying to achieve by doing this?”

That last question was asked through gritted teeth, suppressing fury.

Lang Jiuchuan tore off two talismans pasted inside the coffin and handed them to Daoist Zhong:

“You could see the trick in the coffin nails, so you must have some skill. You tell him.”

Daoist Zhong: “?”

Wait—this little lay believer was so matter-of-fact?

He raised his head toward Lang Jiuchuan, noted her features with some puzzlement, and took the yellow talismans to examine. His brows knit.

“This is a Gathering-Yin Talisman? Master Jingchi, would you take a look?”

Master Jingchi received them, studied carefully, and intoned a Buddhist chant:

“Indeed, these are Gathering-Yin Talismans without a doubt.”

Seeing both men’s faces turn grave, Lang Zhengping’s heart sank with them. He ordered the household members to withdraw outside, keeping only his eldest son and third brother by his side. In a lowered voice, he asked:

“May I ask the two masters, what is the meaning of these talismans?”

Daoist Zhong and Master Jingchi exchanged a glance, reading helplessness in each other’s eyes. They had stumbled into the underworld dealings of a great household—never a good thing for men of religion. But since they had encountered it, they could not ignore it.

Daoist Zhong said carefully:

“My knowledge is shallow, but I know a little. It is said: with Yin Sha needles pinning the bones, Gathering-Yin talismans pasted inside the coffin, and coffin nails soaked in Yin Sha qi sealing the coffin—after a time, the corpse will breed into a ferocious fiend. Once such a fiend is formed, the burial ground itself becomes steeped in Yin Sha. In geomancy this is an ominous curse, bringing calamity to the land and even to descendants for generations…”

Daoist Zhong ended it there.

Custom dictates returning to one’s roots; naturally, the burial ground for the Marquis of Kaiping would be the Lang family’s ancestral tombs. If not for Lang Jiuchuan interfering, the old master would have been buried there, and once the ground turned into a place of fiends, the Lang family’s fengshui would collapse, leaving descendants doomed.

The hand behind this was vicious beyond measure.

The faces of Lang Zhengping and the others changed drastically.

Such a poisonous scheme—this was meant to wipe out the Lang family!

Lang Caimeng, never having encountered such sinister arts before, paled and asked:

“If it succeeds, will my Lang family truly be plagued by endless misfortune? Do such practitioners really exist in the world?”

Daoist Zhong smiled faintly:

“Crooked` arts have always existed, and so too have such evil spells. Practitioners of them we call the ‘Evil Path.’ Those with some ability are not easy to find. Whether the scheme succeeds depends on the skill of the practitioner and the quality of the evil objects used.”

“Then, in your view, Master,” Lang Zhengping asked grimly, “is the one who schemed against my Lang family difficult to face?”

Daoist Zhong instinctively glanced at Lang Jiuchuan, then hedged his words:

“Do not be alarmed, benefactor. The Lang family has virtuous merit and will surely survive this trial safely. And now, has not this ominous formation already been broken?”

And the one who broke it seemed to be this young girl before them. Strange indeed—her face was unreadable.

Master Jingchi also looked at Lang Jiuchuan. When she turned her eyes on him—

Master Jingchi suddenly felt a stabbing pain in his eyes, hastily closing them and chanting a Buddhist prayer, shocked to his core.

Following Daoist Zhong’s gaze, Lang Zhengping grew pensive, rubbing his fingers together.

Lang Jiuchuan bent down to neaten Grandfather Lang’s disheveled hair. Out of sight of the others, a drop of blood seeped from her fingertip, swiftly drawing a sigil on his forehead. When the light of the sigil sank in, she straightened and said to Lang Zhengping:

“The auspicious hour is nearly past. Let us seal the coffin. It would be ill-fated to delay.”

Sealing the coffin was also a way of consoling the departed soul, not something to drag out. Other matters could only be set aside.

Lang Zhengping also knew priorities. He turned and bowed to the two monks and Daoists:

“We know nothing of these crooked arts. I do not know how such things should be dealt with, nor whether my father’s body must be re-prepared. Thus, I must trouble the two of you to preside over the sealing, so that my father may be laid to rest and comforted in spirit. When the mourning is done, I shall light the grandest Eternal Lamps for him at Cien Temple and Qinghua Monastery.”

“Immeasurable Celestial Worth.”

“Amitabha.”

With the two presiding, several more monks and Daoists were summoned, the mourning hall was put in order, and amidst ritual music the sealing of the coffin began. All filial sons withdrew outside to await.

Fan Shi’s face was full of unease. Twisting her hands, she leaned close to ask her husband:

“What just happened inside?”

Lang Zhengping shook his head: “I’ll explain later.”

Behind them, Cui Shi’s eyelids flickered but soon lowered again. She forcibly resisted turning her head toward Lang Jiuchuan.

When the sealing began, the wailing rose once more, for once the coffin lid shut, that person could never be seen again.

As the eldest legitimate son, Lang Zhengping himself drove in the final coffin nail, then fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground, weeping bitterly.

Not far off, others stood or knelt, watching in sorrow.

“To have a funeral handled like ours—there’s not another in the capital, I wager. If word spreads, our Marquis of Kaiping estate will be a laughingstock on everyone’s lips.” Lang Cailing murmured. How would they face people afterward?

Lang Caiguang tugged at his black mourning sash with careless indifference:

“So let them laugh. We’re in mourning and won’t be going out anyway. What, will they laugh for three years straight?”

The capital was never short of novelties. No matter how talked about, the gossip would soon be buried under fresher tales.

That said, such a scandal would surely have people whispering that their household lacked discipline, which would taint even their future marriage negotiations.

All the fault lay with Lang Jiuchuan—that troublemaker! She had just returned and already stirred up such storms.

Looking again at the culprit—she seemed absent-minded, even stifling a yawn.

Lang Cailing glared at Lang Jiuchuan. When the latter’s gaze met hers, she instinctively ducked behind Lang Cailing. Realizing her own reaction, she stamped her foot in frustration.

What was she afraid of?

Yet the memory of that string of eerie actions, and the earlier black mist like a dream, made her heart quail.

Lang Cailing shut her eyes, telling herself: I am not afraid. I am her elder sister—just letting her have her way a little.

Suddenly, commotion sounded from behind. Lang Cailing turned to see someone in white mourning clothes storming in with murderous air, attendants sweating as they tried to restrain him.

The man shoved aside those in his way, shouting madly:

“Out of my way! Lang Jiu, get out here!”

 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)

 Chapter 21: You Think I’m Not Dying Fast Enough?

With a loud bang, the younger Daoist struck on the arm with the mourning staff let out a pained cry. The coffin lid slipped from his grasp, crashing heavily to the ground with a resounding echo.

A small piece of wood splintered off from the golden-thread nanmu coffin, flying straight into Lang Zhengping’s eye corner.

At the sight of the chipped coffin lid, Lang Zhengping’s knees gave out. He dropped to the ground, face ashen.

That coffin had long been prepared, crafted from a single block of rare golden-thread nanmu. Now that a corner was broken, it was no longer perfect. As the son, this was his great unfilial failing.

And that failing had been caused by Lang Jiuchuan, this ill-starred child.

Everyone was struck dumb, eyes wide in shock.

They had known Lang Jiuchuan was eccentric, but they never thought she was this reckless. Too audacious!

Fan Shi bit her lip hard, turning to her second sister-in-law. “Second Sister-in-law, forgive me.” She then called to her sons: “Eldest Son, you and your brothers, quickly take your Ninth Younger Sister down. Wu Shi, you keep watch here.”

Cui Shi, who had always valued propriety, only wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

This disgraceful child—she could not possibly be her daughter. No, never. How dare she!

The commotion inside the mourning hall shocked not only the Lang family but also the relatives and guests waiting in the courtyard. All craned their necks to see what had happened.

Hearing Fan Shi’s command, Lang Caimeng and the other young men surged forward. But Lang Jiuchuan moved faster. With a leap, she darted before the coffin and seized the mustached Daoist’s hand.

“What are you doing? What are you doing! Patriarch Lang, what is the meaning of this?” the Daoist stammered in panic.

This frail little girl, who looked like she had the face of a short-lived ghost, actually gripped him with such force that he couldn’t break free. His hand throbbed with pain, cold sweat pouring down his brow.

“Ninth Younger Sister, do not be discourteous to the master,” Lang Caimeng protested, his head pounding. This cousin was just as stubborn as his late Second Uncle—equally maddening.

Lang Jiuchuan said coldly, “You came just in time. Seize this charlatan for me. You—yes, you, little rascal—go outside and fetch two monks.”

Her frail body was already straining. To grab even a false Daoist took such effort. Restoring this ruined vessel of a body had to be her first priority.

The boy pointed at himself. “Who are you calling ‘little rascal’? I, Lang Caizhao, never change my name whether sitting or standing!”

“Good, I know. Stop wasting words—go now.” Lang Jiuchuan glared.

“Oh.”

Lang Caizhao took two steps, then faltered. Who was she to order him? Why was he listening?

He wanted to argue, but one glance at the chaotic mourning hall and his father’s furious eyes—nearly bulging out of his head—made his neck shrink. Not a safe place to linger. Best to slip away.

Lang Caimeng and his brothers didn’t actually restrain the Daoist, but their sheer numbers and positions boxed him in together with Lang Jiuchuan.

The Daoist’s heart trembled. A flicker of malice glinted in his eyes. The main deed was already done; but now this doomed girl had meddled, ruining everything. Very well—if she wanted trouble, he would give her death.

Hidden in his sleeve, his other hand shifted slightly toward Lang Jiuchuan’s wrist. Out loud he said angrily, “Patriarch Lang, is this the Lang family’s way of treating a master—ah!”

Before he could finish, he screamed. His body convulsed backward, collapsing to the ground. Clutching his chest, he stared at Lang Jiuchuan in terror, trembling uncontrollably.

Lang Caimeng and the others froze. “...?”

They hadn’t even touched him.

“Look at his hand,” cried Lang Caiguang, the tenth son, sharp-eyed.

All turned and saw the Daoist’s right hand—ashen black, his lips stained with blood. His face blanched, hair at his temples turning visibly silver.

In the blink of an eye, how had he become like this?

Everyone instinctively backed away from Lang Jiuchuan, eyes wary. What had she done?

Lang Zhengping shoved aside the younger ones for a closer look. His face turned grim. The other two young Daoists were edging toward escape. He barked an order: “Third Brother, seize them!”

Lang Zhengwen immediately called the stewards.

Lang Jiuchuan glanced at her own wrist. On the pallid skin, blue veins starkly visible, was a tiny cut oozing blood. To her eyes, however, the wound glowed with a dark aura. Yin energy invaded through the scratch, coursing into her frail body. A shiver wracked her.

This charlatan had struck to kill her!

In her fragile state, such an injury could easily have been fatal. A normal girl would already be poisoned, wasting away from yin corruption.

“You really think I haven’t died fast enough?” she sneered at the Daoist, her smile harmless on the surface but chilling in his eyes.

For him, the pain in his chest was like his very life being ripped apart. Terror froze his soul.

He had indeed cut her with a coffin nail tainted in yin. She should be collapsing, yet instead—he was the one being devoured. His cultivation drained away, his body withering.

“How... how are you... fine?”

Lang Jiuchuan pressed a finger to the bloody scratch. Fine? Not at all. Her already-broken body had taken another hit. It was maddening.

Lang Zhengping saw the wound and said sharply, “Eldest Son, search this ‘Master Huang’ at once!”

Even without much learning, he knew this was no normal occurrence. A man aging and failing before everyone’s eyes—how could it not be sinister? Coupled with the earlier paper effigy incident, this was clearly aimed at the Lang family.

Fan Shi quickly interjected, “Better let the servants search. If there is poison, it could harm the boys.”

Wu Shi nodded in agreement. A gentleman avoids standing by a crumbling wall. Better safe than sorry.

The others murmured assent, casting uneasy glances at Lang Jiuchuan.

The Daoist had been fine until she interfered. Now, with his ghastly appearance, suspicion naturally fell on her. What power had she used?

“No need. I’ll do it myself.” Lang Jiuchuan rolled her tongue against her cheek and stepped forward, lips curling.

 Chapter 20: Calamity upon the Lang Family’s Feng Shui is to Cut Off Her Path of Survival

So-called “sealing the coffin” means placing the lid upon the coffin. Once sealed, it must not be opened again, and thus the moment before the lid is set is truly the final farewell to the deceased.

Yet even sealing the coffin has its taboos. On this day, those whose zodiac signs clashed with the deceased’s birth chart were required to avoid the rite, as were pregnant women to prevent being struck by ill fortune. Therefore, not all of the Lang family members were present. At the very least, Lang Jiuchuan did not see the fourth young madam of the eldest branch, nor the aunt of the third branch, nor one of her cousins.

Within the mourning hall, the Daoist priest in ritual robes was already proceeding according to custom. By the time Lang Jiuchuan entered, most of the Lang family had gathered, and many eyes fell upon her.

“At the time to show filial piety, she shirked her duty, hid away for a day and a night without appearing, and now the entire family waits upon her alone.” Lang Cailing muttered under her breath.

Lang Caiyao whispered: “Seventh Sister, all the elders are here—say a little less.”

Lang Cailing gave a cold snort, curled her lips, and cast a glare at Lang Jiuchuan. Her gaze then fell upon the object hanging at Lang Jiuchuan’s waist. What sort of thing was that? Dark and dim, like some bell dug out of a grave pit.

How rustic.

“Ninth Sister, come over here.” Wu Shi beckoned toward Lang Jiuchuan.

Lang Jiuchuan, of her own accord, stood among the row of grandchildren, watching with interest as the Daoist priest shook his ritual bell.

The chanting of scriptures filled the air without cease.

Yet compared with her first arrival—when hearing the scriptures had left her spirit battered as though hammered to the point of departure—now, with the treasure weighing upon her, all such discomfort was entirely absent.

Indeed, this object prospers me.

Lang Jiuchuan lowered her hand to toy with the Imperial Bell at her waist, inwardly satisfied.

Her fingers suddenly stilled upon the bell, and her gaze sharpened like blades as they fell upon the Daoist priest’s hand. Her eyes narrowed.

How curious. A Daoist priest whose profession was conducting funerary rites—yet openly wielding an object steeped in Yin baleful energy. Was this to deceive the ignorant, or was his skill bold enough to dare such a display?

Whichever it was, it had but one purpose: this whiskered Daoist had come to stir trouble.

But who had the Lang family offended, that even in mourning they should not be spared, and a trap laid to curse them?

This, indeed, was a play worth watching.

As Lang Jiuchuan watched his movements, she sensed something amiss. Just as she beheld the faint glow of the Lang family’s meager merit dodging the Yin energy, her mind jolted like thunder.

No, something was wrong. She was now a daughter of the Lang family. To use this Yin object against the Old Marquis in his coffin—once the spirit was carried to the ancestral tomb, in time the family’s Feng Shui would be corroded. Then how could it protect and bless the descendants? Sooner or later, disaster would come. Heavy, it would mean death and injury; light, misfortune upon misfortune. Though even in death she might return to the underworld to wreak havoc again, why should she suffer dying time and again?

The rise of one is the rise of all, the fall of one is the fall of all.

This person sought to sever her path of siphoning merit!

At this thought, Lang Jiuchuan’s face grew cold, her entire body exuding a frost like winter’s ice, so chilling that Wu Shi beside her shivered involuntarily.

The day grows ever colder.

“Filth dispelled, nine orifices receive the soul, the ancestor transcends, all become immortals, mortals turn away.” The Daoist shook his bell, pressed a yellow talisman upon the Old Marquis’s brow, then bade the Lang family turn their backs. The meaning was to sever yearning, lest attachment hinder the departed’s passage.

No one objected. All turned away—save Lang Jiuchuan, who stood unmoving.

“Ninth Sister.” Wu Shi hastily tugged at her sleeve.

At the front, Lang Zhengping noticed, his eyelid twitching. At the critical moment of sealing the coffin, was this girl about to cause another disturbance?

Cui Shi’s brows rose, lips moving in warning.

Do not make trouble.

Yet Lang Jiuchuan acted as though she had not seen, and under the astonished gazes of the family, she stepped forth.

Lang Cailing started in fright, whispering: “What are you doing? Get back here—this is no time for your antics.”

She even reached out to seize Lang Jiuchuan. This mad girl—even madness must heed occasion! At such a moment, if she still dared to make a scene, even as the only child of the second branch, her father would drive her to kneel in the ancestral hall for seven days and seven nights.

No—her father need not even act. Second Aunt would surely punish her harshly.

Lang Jiuchuan slipped past Lang Cailing’s hand and walked straight toward the Daoist. As she passed among the elders, Cui Shi seized her hand.

Cui Shi gripped her wrist and pulled sharply. “What are you doing? Behave yourself.”

Lang Jiuchuan lowered her gaze to that hand. With a slight twist, she freed herself, then looked toward Lang Zhengping, who was glaring at her, and said:

“That Daoist—there is a problem.”

Her voice was cold, like a blade, piercing Lang Zhengping’s ear.

What did that mean—that the Daoist was suspicious?

Lang Zhengping instantly turned. The Daoist was stooped within the coffin, pressing talismans. Perceiving something, he turned his head, panic flashing for an instant before returning to calm. He straightened, brows furrowed.

“Was it not said—do not disturb the departed? Good men must not look back, lest the soul linger unwilling.” The Daoist’s face was stern.

Seeing this, Lang Zhengping instinctively moved to bow in apology. But Lang Jiuchuan strode forward.

The Daoist’s eyelids twitched.

Cui Shi hurried after, blocking her. “Whatever nonsense you may have picked up in the village, this is not the place to flaunt it. If you will not stay here properly, return to your room.”

She was but a child—what did she know of funeral rites?

At those cold words, an inexplicable fury rose in Lang Jiuchuan’s chest. Her voice was equally cold: “I believe you now—you truly are not my mother.”

Cui Shi’s hand stiffened, pupils contracting, emotions surging in her gaze.

Lang Jiuchuan continued: “Even if I am not the daughter you wished for, I have not done you any heinous wrong. More than ten years apart, yet you treat a young girl with such baseless disdain and indifference—is that not excessive, Second Madam Lang?”

Whether or not the original soul was her daughter, Cui Shi’s response was too cold, too severe. What crime had the girl committed? Had she slaughtered Cui Shi’s kin, or stolen away the place of a beloved daughter? Even if it were the latter—even if treated as a cast-off—what noble favor had she truly received? Were not the ten years of exile without a trace of her mother’s care punishment enough?

Cui Shi’s face turned white as snow. Her frail body swayed unsteadily.

Lang Jiuchuan paid her no more heed. Were it not for her weak body still relying on scraps of the Lang family’s merit for patchwork, she would not even bother with this matter.

Moreover, if she could partake of this merit, then on what grounds did Cui Shi say she was not of the Lang family?

Such shortsightedness!

No, this anger could not be suppressed. With her frail body, pent-up rage was injurious.

Perhaps startled by Lang Jiuchuan’s approach, the Daoist’s hand faltered. Suddenly he flicked his whisk and cried out:

“Filial sons and virtuous grandsons, kneel! Three kowtows! Seal the coffin!”

At once, two young Daoist acolytes with hair tied in cloth knots lifted the coffin lid to press it down.

“In such haste—if that is not self-betrayal, what is?”

Lang Jiuchuan snatched up a mourning staff, spun upon her heel, and struck hard toward the nearest acolyte at the coffin’s end.

(End of Chapter)

 Chapter 19: The Imperial Bell at Her Side, Cui Jue Has Misled Me

Lang Jiuchuan, unaware that she herself was but a pitiful being, opened the small bundle she had carried with her. Inside, there was scarcely anything, only a red lacquered box.

That day, when she crawled out from the heap of corpses and left the forest, the Lang family servants were already searching for her. Upon seeing her, they had shoved her into the carriage without a word, intent on hastening back to the capital to fulfill their duties of filial piety. Yet she, whose body bore grievous remnants, had insisted on returning to her chamber to take some belongings, swearing that otherwise she would leap from the carriage. Thus the servant had no choice but to yield.

Time was pressing, and she had taken nothing save this red box, wrapping it haphazardly in coarse cloth.

The box was plain and without ornament, covered only with red lacquer. Lang Jiuchuan had not opened it, for it belonged to the body’s former owner. What she lifted instead from the bundle was a small, exquisite, and archaic copper bell — this was truly hers.

It was but the size of an infant’s palm, its broken handle forming the shape of the character “mountain.” The copper gleamed bright, its surface carved with countless talismanic markings. When it swayed, it seemed as though unseen golden light and baleful qi coursed within it.

With a mere thought, she struck the bell lightly against her palm. A crisp chime rang out — clear, ethereal. Golden ripples spread forth, and the twin maids Da xiaoman and Xiaoxiaman, who were working in the courtyard, shuddered as one and exchanged startled glances.

“Did you hear that?”

“It sounded like a bell?”

They cast a glance toward the chamber, then bowed their heads to their tasks once more. Yet both exhaled deeply, feeling their bodies lighter, as if days of weariness had been lifted away.

Lang Jiuchuan herself felt the subtle effect of the bell, her whole body at ease.

This was the Imperial Bell, a supreme Daoist instrument. It was renowned as the Bell of Vibrations, before which even spirits and deities gave reverence. Beyond subduing demons and ghosts, when used properly it could calm the soul and steady the spirit.

Her present body was far too broken. Until it could be restored, it must be safeguarded well, lest some unseeing specter seize it.

Even a broken vessel was yet her vessel, thus she must cherish it.

Atop the Imperial Bell was a trident-shaped prong, within which was a small aperture. Threaded through it was a single strand of dust-white hair, as fine as silk. It was said to have been torn from the horsetail whisk of the Supreme Lord Lao himself, unburnable even by the fires of Hell. It bore peerless Daoist intent, of immeasurable worth.

Lang Jiuchuan fastened the Imperial Bell to the hemp cord at her waist. The bell hung down, no larger than an adult’s palm, resembling an ornament to press the robe’s hem. It made her smile in satisfaction.

With the Imperial Bell at her side, no ghost would dare draw near — what great fortune!

Next, she lifted another object from the bundle: a talismanic brush of jade bone, its shaft violet, carved with inscriptions, its tail fashioned like a tiny broom.

This was the Innate Talisman Brush of the Judge of the Dead. With it one could inscribe upon the Registers of Life and Death, adjudicate cause and effect, overturn injustices, and establish fairness.

In plain words, should one use sorcery to defy Heaven and alter fate, a single stroke of this brush would restore the cosmic scales to their rightful balance.

A most convenient yet most troublesome treasure!

Lang Jiuchuan unhesitatingly pricked her palm with the brush tip. Blood welled forth. At her intent, the brush flashed with golden light, vanishing into her palm. Another thought, and it reappeared in her grasp.

“A fitting compensation for this broken vessel I now inhabit,” she murmured contentedly, tapping the brush once more before patting the Imperial Bell at her waist. At last she lay upon her bed and closed her eyes in peace.

Yet she knew not that in the Netherworld, upheaval had broken out.

The Judge was in pursuit of his talisman brush’s whereabouts with several ghost officials, but had found nothing. At last he sensed its aura, and just as he sought to summon it back, the connection was severed. A searing pain struck his spirit.

His brush — had been claimed by another!

Who… who dared?

He hastily drew forth a smaller substitute brush. With a stroke, the water mirror revealed the truth:

That day when he abandoned the ill-starred Lang Jiuchuan among the graves and fled, she had feigned reluctance, tugging at his robe as though unwilling to part. Yet in truth her hand had already stolen the brush from his sash, and even conjured a counterfeit from a stray finger-bone to leave in its place.

Intolerable!

That such a shameless and quick-fingered thief should exist in the world!

“That wretched woman!” The Judge seethed, about to rush through the Gate of Ghosts to seize her, when a crowd of ghost officials restrained him, all pleading at once. Even Lao Xie and Lao Fan, upon hearing the news, came forth.

“To invite a god is easy, to send one away is hard. For the sake of peace in the Underworld, endure your anger. That scourge was finally sent back among the living; best not to provoke her again.”

The Judge fumed: “Easy for you to say! It was not your treasure that was stolen, else you would not be so calm.”

“Old Cui,” said Lao Xie, “we shall not speak of other matters. But who is it that ever meddles with your Register of Life and Death, scribbling and altering at will? And when havoc is wrought, who cleans the mess with blood and sweat? None but you, Old Cui. Even your hairline bears witness.” He gazed with pity at his colleague’s receding hair, sighing. “Your hair too deserves mercy.”

“Sacrifice the small self to fulfill the greater good,” added Lao Fan. “The Yama King himself has commended you for this merit. Think on it — that one even lost the Imperial Bell, and made no outcry. Why then should you begrudge the loss of a brush, when you have a lesser one to use?”

The Judge was startled. “She… dared to take even the Imperial Bell?”

Whether she dared or not, who could say. But since even their Lord dared not act against her, should not he also know his place? A mere brush — was it not enough that he still had a smaller one to wield?

The Judge furrowed his brow. What manner of demoness was this?

Lang Jiuchuan awoke from her slumber after a day and a night had passed. Gazing at the canopy overhead, her mind was hazy. What had she forgotten?

Outside came the sound of voices. It was Xiao Man. A head peered around the chamber screen.

Lang Jiuchuan turned, and Xiao Man cried out in surprise, then ran to her. “My lady, you are awake!”

Da Man too entered upon hearing the commotion, her face easing with relief. For this mistress had slept an entire day and night, her posture unchanged, so still it seemed she had no breath. Were it not for the faint rise and fall of her chest, they would have thought her dead.

“What time is it?” Lang Jiuchuan sat upright.

Daman replied: “It is already three quarters past the hour of the Hare. Had you not awakened, we would have roused you.”

Xiao Man added: “My lady must rise quickly. Today the Grand Master’s coffin is to be sealed. All masters of the household must attend. The servants of the Eldest Young Madam came to say it shall be sealed at the second quarter of the hour of the Dragon.”

In the state of Dan, funerals customarily kept the body seven days. On the third day, the coffin was sealed, lest one who only feigned death be interred alive. Now three days had passed since the Grand Master’s passing — the coffin must be sealed.

After seven days, the funeral procession would carry the coffin back to the ancestral lands for burial. Only then would the mourning period truly begin.

As Lang Jiuchuan pondered this process, unease welled within her. To observe mourning meant she could not leave the estate. Without leaving, how could she obtain the merit and resources needed to restore this broken vessel? Was this not more stifling than life at the manor?

Alas! She had not entered a golden cage of fortune, but a hollow sparrow’s cage of vanity!

Lang Jiuchuan struck the bed in anger. “Cui Jue, you have wronged me!”

(End of Chapter)

Chapter 18: Ninth Young Miss Is Too Pitiful

Not heeding Jiuchuan’s words, suffering was only to be expected.

Those who remained in the mourning hall, without exception, had yin energy invade their bodies. In the middle of the night they began to moan with feverish heat, and Lang Jiuchuan had people move them out.

In truth, such a trace of yin energy would not truly harm, yet in a funeral vigil, labor was already exhausting. After several days of keeping vigil, they ate only plain vegetarian food, their bodies weary and lacking strength. In the chill of winter, once yin energy seeped in, they naturally fell ill.

But in the eyes of the Lang family, this matter seemed strange and uncanny. After all, within the same mourning hall, the strong and hardy sons were the ones struck down, while the frail young girl who looked as though a gust of wind might topple her remained perfectly fine.

Most striking of all, she had warned them beforehand: the mourning hall was still thick with yin energy, remain there and yin would invade the body bringing misfortune or illness. And when all dismissed her words, she spoke a prophecy that came to pass.

“How is it that you are unharmed?” Lang Cailing could not restrain herself. Among those who fell ill was her own younger full-brother, Lang Caiyi. When he was carried back, their concubine-mother nearly fainted in fright.

Seeing Jiuchuan unharmed, remembering her earlier words, suspicion arose—had this girl done something crooked and unnatural?

Lang Jiuchuan rose, stretching lazily. Turning to the Lang family members who had returned to keep vigil, she pointed at her own face.

“Do I look unharmed to you?”

Though she possessed a thin thread of inherited merit to sustain her body, the places where this body was broken had not been mended or replaced. Her fragile life still teetered at the brink.

Look only at her face: pale with a bluish tinge, so bloodless that faint veins could be seen, even the blue vessels at her forehead stood out clearly. At a glance she was no healthy person. Even physicians had hinted that her constitution was so weak, without careful nurturing, she would not live long.

At that time, when those words were spoken, not only Wu Shi but the Patriarch himself had heard. Her birth-mother had also heard.

Yet when last night she insisted on remaining in the mourning hall to keep vigil, did anyone remember this, did anyone forcefully bring her away?

The answer, of course, was no.

Lang Jiuchuan did not truly mind, yet she could not help but feel grievance for the original owner, giving voice to indignation.

What a pitiful one indeed.

Lang Cailing looked at her pallid face, white enough to show the fine vessels beneath, her forehead’s blue veins standing out. She pressed her lips together, then sneered.

“Whose fault is it? Who told you to play at false strength?”

With that, she turned back and knelt again upon her straw mat, muttering under her breath.

“To truly keep vigil an entire night—her head must be filled with holes.”

Wu Shi entered, her face marked with weariness. Catching sight of Lang Jiuchuan, she immediately recalled the physician’s words from the day before. She hastened forward.

“Ninth Sister, you did not truly keep vigil through the whole night, did you?”

Alas, she had cast that matter aside completely. Yesterday, the physician had said this younger cousin’s body must be carefully nurtured. Later, when Lang Jiuchuan went to the Old Madam’s quarters, Wu Shi only arranged servants to tidy up. By dusk, her daughter’s wet nurse reported that the child had developed a fever, and she hurried to care for her. At night, more troubles arose, and she had to attend to her husband. In the midst of it all, she entirely forgot Lang Jiuchuan’s frailty.

Funeral matters were ever numerous. As the eldest grandson’s wife, she did not have a single moment to rest. In only a few days her own waist had grown thin. How could she still recall this recently-returned cousin of low presence? Only now, upon seeing that pallid face, did she remember what she had forgotten.

Heavens help her, would her image as the virtuous, gentle, gracious eldest sister-in-law crumble in a single day?

Wu Shi’s frantic thoughts, Lang Jiuchuan did not know. She only said:

“Filial duty has been done. Where is my courtyard?”

“Ah, I shall have someone take you there at once,” Wu Shi replied quickly.

“My thanks.”

Exiting the mourning hall, Lang Jiuchuan saw that the monks and Daoist priests had already begun sitting upon their meditation mats in a corner of the courtyard, preparing to recite scriptures.

Truly diligent.

She did not wish to remain in the mourning hall during the day precisely for this reason—she had no patience for those endless chants.

Cui Shi came from the opposite side. Seeing Jiuchuan’s complexion, her brows knitted, and her pale lips pressed together.

Lang Jiuchuan only inclined her head lightly, a greeting of sorts. At her side, Nanny Cheng saluted properly. Hearing that Jiuchuan was to return to her courtyard to rest, Nanny Cheng instructed Jianlan to go along and serve.

Lang Jiuchuan refused. Cui Shi’s face grew all the more unsightly. Without a word she continued into the mourning hall.

Nanny Cheng sighed inwardly.

“Madam, she is the only child of our Second Branch, her body so weak, yet you treat her with such harshness…”

Cui Shi turned her gaze upon her, and Nanny Cheng swallowed the rest of her words. Cui Shi entered the mourning hall.

Nanny Cheng could only sigh. She turned to Jianlan.

“Go after her. Whatever help can be given, do so. Do not neglect her simply because she shows a cold face. We of the Second Branch cannot rely on others for every matter.”

Jianlan hurried after.

“All stubborn bone cut from the same mold—how could she not be her mother’s daughter?” Nanny Cheng shook her head with a sigh.

“Mother and daughter who ought to lean upon one another, yet treat each other as enemies—what karma is this?”

The one spoken of, Lang Jiuchuan, sneezed. Rubbing her nose, she gazed at the courtyard before her. She clicked her tongue softly, pressing her tongue against the inside of her cheek.

The courtyard prepared for her lay somewhat remote, not far from Cui Shi’s Qichi Pavilion, facing south from the north. The orientation was decent, yet the courtyard’s fengshui was overly stagnant, lifeless, unfit for nurturing this fragile body of hers that might scatter at any time—not corpse, but body.

If her health was to improve, she must revive the qi of this place.

Lang Jiuchuan looked at those behind her. Besides Jianlan, there was a pair of twin maids, Da Man and Xiao Man.

“Since this is my courtyard, may I make requests?”

The twins exchanged a glance, yet before they could reply, Jianlan said:

“Whatever is lacking, Young Miss has only to speak. However, the manor is in mourning, busy with matters everywhere. It is not fitting to trouble the Young Madam or Madam with every request. If Young Miss requires something, you may tell this servant. This servant shall seek Nanny Cheng’s approval before sending it. Nanny said, Young Miss belongs to our Second Branch.”

In other words, she was under the Second Branch’s care.

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes held interest.

“Anything I ask for will be allowed?”

“Of course,” Jianlan replied. “Yet in a time of mourning, one must not go beyond the bounds, lest others speak ill.”

“Then a few jade stones and the like should be harmless?”

Jianlan blinked.

“Does Young Miss mean jewelry?”

“Those, naturally, I wish for as well. But I delight in bright, gleaming things. Ornaments of jade will not do. Besides, am I not forbidden to wear them now?” Lang Jiuchuan said. “Just bring me several pieces of jade stone.”

Jianlan agreed.

At that moment, maids from Kangshou Courtyard delivered Lang Jiuchuan’s bundle. She took it, then instructed Da Man and Xiao Man to clear out some items in the courtyard. Afterwards, she entered her boudoir directly—she needed sleep.

Jianlan watched her figure disappear, then asked the Kangshou maid:

“Ninth Young Miss’s belongings are only that one bundle?”

“Yes.”

Jianlan fell silent.

Ninth Young Miss was the only child of the Second Branch. She ought to have been a cherished daughter of a marquis’s household, pampered and beloved. Yet who could believe it? Her sole luggage was a single bundle—coarse cloth wrapped, shabby and meager.

Her Young Miss was far too pitiful.

(End of Chapter)

 Chapter 17: This Day Is Utterly Dead

The world all knew: paper effigies for funerals were made from bamboo strips and paper, crafted by skilled hands at funeral shops until they looked almost lifelike. Like the pile of offerings waiting to be burned before their eyes now—each one delicate, exquisite.

Thus, ordinary paper effigies should never contain anything other than bamboo and paper. But who could explain why, when Lang Jiuchuan smashed the paper child’s foot in a fit of madness, a piece of something black, ominous, and wholly out of place was found inside?

A finger bone?

Outside, the northern wind howled. Suddenly—bang!—a gust knocked down one of the tall white mourning banners, startling the younger girls into shrieks. They hid behind the adults, trembling.

The womenfolk, too, were afraid.

Especially since the Grandfather’s coffin was still in the mourning hall, yet to be sealed. From nearby, they could still see his pallid, withered face beneath the wind-lifted mourning cloth—ghastly, terrifying.

Though he was their Grandfather, and of course would not rise to harm them, in such a scene, in such an atmosphere—who would not feel dread?

Lang Jiuchuan tossed the blood-stained finger bone at Lang Zhengping. Instinctively, he caught it.

The bone was icy cold in his palm. He shuddered, and realizing what it was, nearly threw it away—but with effort restrained himself.

“What is this thing? Why would it appear here…?”

Offerings meant to be burned for the ancestors—yet such an unknown and sinister object had been hidden among them. Everyone knew this was no good sign.

“A child’s finger bone, carved with runes and soaked in human blood. A vessel of yin and malice,” Lang Jiuchuan said, resuming her seat before the spirit-offering brazier. “Since it’s settled, all of you can go rest. I’ll keep vigil.”

With only herself left here, the merit of guarding the spirit need not be shared with the Lang family. Heehee—what a clever girl I am!

The others watched as she actually tossed paper money into the brazier, assuming the posture of a mourner on duty. Their lips twitched.

Guarding the spirit—was that really the issue now? And that finger bone—she mentioned it but gave no details, dangling the matter like some storyteller’s hook. Did she want heaven’s thunder to strike her?

Even Lang Zhengping, as the new head of the household, could barely contain himself. He wanted to hurl the bone back at her and roar, If you know, then explain it fully, not half-baked like this!

“Jiuniang, how did you know this thing was hidden in the paper effigy?” Lang Zhengping narrowed his eyes.

Without lifting her head, Lang Jiuchuan replied, “If I said a ghost told me, would you believe it?”

“…”

What sort of answer was that?

“This is no trivial matter—can’t you speak seriously?” Cui Shi pressed, her anger tightly reined.

Lang Jiuchuan paused, then looked up. “If it’s no trivial matter, why don’t you investigate? Why ask me? What now, the mighty Marquisate can’t even support one little girl, let alone spare the effort to find out who placed this thing in our ancestor’s offerings?”

The others seethed.

Listen to her! Enough to infuriate someone to death. What did she mean by can’t support her?

Though the Lang household was far from the wealth and splendor of its forebears, even a rotting ship still has three pounds of nails.

Yet no one dared rebuke her at this moment. Especially when they saw Cui Shi’s frosty face—who would risk making a sound?

Clearly, this was Jiuchuan’s way of venting her resentment toward the Madam of the house.

Lang Zhengping’s head throbbed. This niece of his wasn’t just rebellious; she was covered in thorns, stabbing others at the slightest word.

He glanced at Cui Shi, then at his own wife, and finally at his eldest daughter-in-law, Wu Shi, signaling her with his eyes.

You handle her—you’re the only one she’ll talk to.

Wu Shi’s heart quivered, but at her father-in-law’s silent order, she stepped forward. She dropped a slip of paper money into the brazier and, with a tremor in her voice, asked, “Ninth Sister, if that cursed object had remained hidden in the paper child… what would have happened?”

Everyone perked up their ears.

Lang Jiuchuan said, “What would have happened? Have not the three of them already shown you? Such things are vessels of malice, attracting spirits and misfortune. Whoever is tainted by them—well, you all know the consequences better than a country girl like me needs to explain.”

What grand household had not prayed to gods and deities? Even if they scorned ghosts and spirits, the women of the inner quarters certainly believed. They all knew—or at least had heard—what happened when someone brushed against unclean things.

Even if they hadn’t seen it before, hadn’t Lang Caize’s episode just now fully demonstrated what it meant to be plagued by evil influence?

Feeling all eyes on him, Lang Caize: “…”

He very much wished not to be made an example.

Lady Wu swallowed and asked again, “But how did you notice it…?”

“Maybe a ghost possessed me!” Lang Jiuchuan sighed. “Otherwise, how could a mere village girl like me have such abilities? Surely you don’t take me for some master, versed in heaven’s stars and earth’s mysteries, all-knowing, all-powerful?”

That was it—the day was dead. Utterly dead in conversation.

The entire hall swelled with anger like blowfish.

Never had words alone made them want to throttle someone so badly.

Lang Zhengping looked at her slouched posture, knowing he could extract nothing further. Truly, she was but a girl not yet of age—how great could her skills be? To spot something amiss with the paper child, likely she had seen much of such things in the countryside, and so noticed a detail others missed.

His gaze flicked toward his father’s coffin. Guilt surged within him. No matter what, for the offerings meant for his father’s use in the underworld to be corrupted like this—it was his fault, his neglect, the eldest son’s unfilial failing.

“Ninth Sister, what is meant by ‘enlivening the paper effigy’?” Lang Caicheng asked, his voice trembling.

Lang Jiuchuan looked at the paper child. “Just as the words say—giving life to a dead object. The eyes of a paper figure are not drawn at random. To dot them is to make it live.”

All turned to the row of effigies. Their painted eyes were so vivid, it was as if they stared back.

“What, you genteel city folk didn’t know? Paper figures should never have eyes painted or dotted. Even children in the village know this,” Lang Jiuchuan said in mock astonishment.

Everyone: “…”

Whether they knew or not was one matter—but her mocking tone was truly unbearable.

“That’s enough. Disperse. Third Brother, you stay and keep watch…” Lang Zhengping’s head throbbed at the sight of everyone’s simmering tempers. To disturb their father’s rest further would be unfilial indeed.

But Lang Jiuchuan grew anxious. “No need. I’ll stay. The yin energy here hasn’t dispersed. If you linger, it’ll seep into your bodies—you’ll fall ill, or worse.”

That remark nearly made someone faint from rage.

Relying on numbers, Lang Cailing jabbed a finger at her and cursed, “How vile you are! You speak ill of strangers, but even curse your own kin?”

Lang Jiuchuan sneered. “Kindness treated as a dog’s lung, is it? Fine. Stay if you want. Don’t blame me for not warning you.”

She pulled the brazier close to her crossed legs and said no more.

That very attitude made the others more uneasy.

Still, Lang Zhengping ordered Third Brother and two young men to remain. The mourning hall could not be left without male presence. As for Lang Jiuchuan’s words—he dismissed them as nonsense.

Once outside, the wind chilled them to the bone.

“Wait… how does she even know these dark arts?”

“Who knows? Perhaps country banquets taught her. Maybe she’s seen too much, and her courage grew. Perhaps she’s even burned offerings herself.”

Cui Shi’s eyes swept coldly toward the whisperers. They hunched their necks, silent.

Lang Zhengping, meanwhile, summoned his trusted steward to investigate the paper effigies. As he glanced at the courtyard’s mourning banners, Lang Jiuchuan’s words echoed in his mind—along with what she’d once told Elder Zhao. His heart chilled.

Chapter 16: This Madwoman, Why Is Her Tongue So Venomous

“There are ghosts!”

A shrill cry tore through the stillness of the mourning hall, once again drawing in a crowd.

Hearing the news of haunting, Lang Zhengping’s face darkened like the bottom of a pot. When he arrived, he saw the Sixth Son of the third branch raving madly, veins bulging at his temples as he shouted of ghosts.

Even his own eldest son and concubine-born son stood pale as death, foreheads bruised, eyes vacant, as if frightened out of their wits.

Relatives rushed in at the commotion, chattering endlessly about what had happened, why the young men looked so wretched.

A hall meant for solemn vigil had been turned into a noisy marketplace—while the coffin of the departed still lay before them.

Absurd.

“Nonsense!” Furious, Lang Zhengping roared, “How can you make such a racket in the mourning hall?”

His shout, filled with full breath and anger, instantly silenced the chaos.

Lang Jiuchuan knelt before the coffin, pulled over the spirit-offering basin, picked up yellow paper from the floor, and threw it in.

The yellow paper ignited without fire.

The notorious little bully of the Lang family’s First Household, Twelfth Young Master Lang, happened to glance over and was so shocked his eyes nearly popped out. He rubbed them hard—was the lamplight too dim, was he seeing things?

Otherwise, how could yellow paper burn without fire?

Wait, didn’t Sixth Brother just say something about a ghost?

Could this be ghost fire?

Twelfth Young Master Lang let out a wail and bolted out of the mourning hall like a stone cast into a just-stilled lake, stirring the air again. Lang Caize snapped back to himself and cried in terror: “Uncle, there really is a ghost. It grabbed my face and even kissed me. Wuwu, if you don’t believe me, ask Eldest Brother. We couldn’t even get out just now.”

Lang Caimeng, called out by name, felt his wife pinch the soft flesh inside his arm so hard that he hissed in pain—but his mind cleared.

“Ridiculous. If you’re tired, go rest. Third, take him down.” Lang Zhengping barked again, glaring at Third Master Lang Zhengwen. Couldn’t he see what nonsense his son was spouting?

Lang Zhengwen’s face turned green. Children should not speak of strange forces and spirits, and this wretched boy actually claimed a ghost kissed him? What, did he want to be a groom so badly? Even if he did, he’d have to wait until the mourning period ended!

Lang Zhengwen ordered servants to drag his son away, but Lang Caize struggled like he was possessed, shouting: “I’m not making this up. Eldest Brother and Fourth Brother know it too. Right, and that damned girl Lang Jiuchuan!”

Lang Jiuchuan?

Everyone paused.

Who was that? Oh right, that Ninth Miss who had just returned home and already stirred up big trouble.

Smelling the burning paper, everyone looked over and saw the inconspicuous girl in plain mourning robes kneeling by the coffin, feeding yellow paper one by one into the fire. Her eyes closed, her expression looked intoxicated—or was it pious?

Lang Jiuchuan was absorbing the faint merit. Sensing gazes fall on her, she snapped her eyes open.

Firelight flickered over her pale face, bright and dim by turns, and in her large, hollow eyes—everyone involuntarily gasped inwardly.

She looks just like a ghost!

Cui Shi, leaning on her matron’s hand, frowned at Lang Jiuchuan.

Lang Zhengping also felt a headache. Why was this niece everywhere? She’d been back for less than a day, and already the mourning hall had been thrown into disorder twice. He wanted to scold her, but catching sight of Cui Shi, he held back.

Lang Caicheng swallowed hard and said: “Just now the door really wouldn’t open—it was like someone locked it.”

“Then why did it open again?”

Lang Caicheng looked at Lang Jiuchuan but said nothing.

“Did Ninth Sister kick it open?” Lang Caimeng also looked toward her.

Lang Caize suddenly had a flash of inspiration, glaring at Lang Jiuchuan: “Could it be you making mischief? Pretending to be a ghost just to scare us?”

The villain complains first?

Lang Jiuchuan narrowed her eyes. They were forcing her to snap. Just as she was about to speak, Lang Caimeng said: “Sixth Brother, watch your words. When it happened, only we three brothers were inside. Ninth Sister only came later.”

“But after she came, the door opened.” Lang Caize still found her most suspicious.

Lang Cailing seized the chance, adding from behind Lang Caize: “At this hour, what’s she even doing here?”

“Keeping vigil and showing filial piety—why not?” Lang Jiuchuan grabbed a handful of spirit money and tossed it into the brazier, scattering ash into the air. Smoke spread, choking some into coughing.

She stood and stared at Lang Caize: “If I’d known you were so ungrateful, I would’ve let that female ghost cling to you. If I hadn’t kicked the door, you’d already have been dragged off as a groom. No, not even that—being a ghost groom requires proper rites. You had neither a betrothal letter nor an engagement, no proper name or bond. You wouldn’t even qualify as a groom—at most, you’d be a kept man.”

Everyone’s eyes went wide: “?”

What kind of wild, indecent words were those? They couldn’t even follow!

Lang Caize was so enraged he jumped up, pointing a trembling finger at her: “You—you you you…”

Not even a groom, but a kept man? That was too insulting!

How could her mouth be so poisonous?

Lang Jiuchuan said: “Before the villain accuses others, maybe think of what disgraceful things you did. If a ghost clings to you, isn’t it because you invited it?”

Lang Caize: “!”

What had he done?

Lang Jiuchuan walked to the row of paper effigy maidens: “Tell us—did you lure her or not?”

Everyone followed her finger to the lifelike paper effigy maiden. For some reason, a chill crept up their spines—especially those eyes, which seemed to stare right at them. Eerie.

“In the middle of the night, who are you trying to scare!” Lang Cailing snapped, face pale.

But Lang Caize had already gone rigid, feigning calm: “It’s just a paper effigy. How could I lure it?”

“Didn’t you call her pretty? Why else would she kiss you?” Lang Jiuchuan sneered. “You teased a ghost first, dangled the bait—she only gave you what you wanted.”

Lang Caimeng and Lang Caicheng froze. How did she know?

Of course—it was the female ghost herself, afraid of being troubled by Jiuchuan before fleeing, who had spilled it. In life, she’d been flirtatious; in death, naturally, she was a flirtatious ghost.

A chill spread over Lang Caize’s body. He wanted to speak, but his throat was stuck, as if something was choking him.

“Nonsense.” Lang Zhengping saw the family hushed like frightened chickens, and no longer cared about Cui Shi. He glared at Lang Jiuchuan: “Weren’t you supposed to be attending to your grandmother’s illness? What are you doing here? Someone, take Ninth Miss Lang and Sixth Young Master Lang away.”

Lang Jiuchuan replied: “You brought me back to be a dutiful descendant. Then no one can stop me from fulfilling my filial duty to Grandfather.”

It was healthier to stay near the coffin. Before burial, she might as well absorb more merit.

She pointed again at the paper effigy maiden: “And tonight’s events weren’t by chance. If I were you, I’d find out where this effigy came from. Paper effigies can be imbued with spirit, and any wandering soul can enter.”

She glanced at the effigy’s feet, raising her brow. No wonder more than one little ghost had come—it had a yin object to draw them.

The people present buzzed with confusion. What was she talking about? Why couldn’t they understand!

They couldn’t—but they could see her movements clearly. Cui Shi’s face changed drastically, and she snapped: “Wretch, what are you doing! Stop at once!”

This madwoman—she actually meant to smash the offerings!

(End of Chapter)

 Chapter 15: Snatching the Body She Fought to Keep

When night fell, the monks and Daoists at the mourning hall had already stopped chanting scriptures, and only a few people remained guarding the hall.

Outside, thunder rumbled, rain and snow fell, the cold wind howled, blowing so that the spirit paper inside the mourning hall fluttered noisily. Even the paper-crafted sedan chairs, horses, and men had some colored paper lifted up, exposing the bamboo framework.

Seeing this, Lang Caimeng said: “The wind is a bit too strong. Don’t burn any more spirit money for now, lest it be blown away and cause a fire.”

Inside the mourning hall, apart from the coffin, there were mostly the paper effigies and offerings. If they caught fire, that would truly be troublesome.

“Yes, Eldest Brother.” Lang Caicheng nodded, going over to extinguish the brazier. Yet suddenly, a chill struck his back, and he instinctively turned his head: “Who’s there?”

Lang Caimeng looked over: “What is it?”

Lang Caicheng’s heart tightened. He glanced toward that row of paper effigies of boys and girls, swallowed, and said: “Nothing, perhaps I was seeing things.”

Just now, he felt as though someone was staring at him, that gaze icy cold.

The third branch’s Lang Caize laughed: “Fourth Brother, don’t tell me you’re even scared in Grandfather’s mourning hall?”

Lang Caimeng frowned at him, clearly disapproving.

Lang Caicheng awkwardly said: “Of course I am not afraid.”

Lang Caize curled his lips, his eyes sweeping over the paper effigies: “Deng Ji White-Funeral Shop’s craftsmanship is indeed exquisite. These paper boys and girls are made so vividly, especially the eyes, painted so realistically, as if alive. Grandfather truly has fortune.”

Seeing his words becoming more and more inappropriate, Lang Caimeng rebuked: “Sixth Brother, in the mourning hall, you must not speak recklessly.”

“Tch, Eldest Brother lectures me. But compared to that village girl Lang Jiuchuan, I’m nothing. She never speaks without shocking people to death. Compared with her, I, your Sixth Brother, am merely a small trick. Besides, what did I say wrong? Look at these paper girls, aren’t they pretty? Fourth Brother, you tell me.” Lang Caize looked at the still unsettled Lang Caicheng.

Lang Caimeng’s face grew stern: “Though Ninth Sister has lived at the villa since childhood and is not versed in the fashions of the capital’s noblewomen, she is still our cousin, the daughter of Second Uncle and Second Aunt. For you to mock her so is to disrespect Second Uncle and Second Aunt.”

Seeing him so serious, Lang Caize found it boring, and sheepishly said: “Fine, I won’t say it then.”

He admired the prettiest of the paper girls, even reaching out to tap her red lips before turning away. Yet he did not notice—the eyes of that paper girl rolled as if alive, staring at the back of his head, and her crimson lips even curved slightly, eerie to the extreme.

Bang.

A gust of wind slammed in, banging the doors, spirit money flying everywhere. Yin energy surged from all directions, making the already extinguished brazier’s mourning hall colder still.

At this, even Lang Caimeng and the others frowned. Why was it suddenly so cold?

Bang, bang, bang.

The doors were beaten by the wind several times, then suddenly slammed shut. Inside, the candles were instantly extinguished.

“What the hell?” Lang Caize’s voice trembled.

Could it be that Grandfather has returned?

Lang Caimeng, worthy of being the legitimate eldest grandson, after a moment of shock, ordered Lang Caicheng to fetch a tinder to relight the candles, while he himself went to pull open the doors.

Yet the tightly shut doors did not budge in the slightest.

“Who is out there?” Lang Caimeng thought someone was playing tricks, and shouted sternly.

The only response was the howling wind outside.

Just as he was about to call again, suddenly behind him came a shrill scream. The fright nearly made him wet himself on the spot. Turning, he saw Lang Caicheng holding a just-lit candle, staring in terror at one spot.

He followed his gaze—there stood Lang Caize before the row of paper boys and girls, hands clawing at the air like tearing something away. His cheeks were sunken, lips puckered, drool running from the corners of his mouth. The sight was like someone had pinched his cheeks together.

That appearance—was it possession?

Or just an act?

“Sixth Brother, no fooling around!”

Lang Caize’s throat emitted hoarse sounds, struggling to say: “Help…”

This was no act!

The two brothers realized this instantly, and rushed forward. Yet as they neared, yin energy wrapped around them, and before their eyes appeared a ring of living boys and girls circling them, grinning as they spun around.

The three: “!”

Ghostly disturbances at a mourning hall were rare but not unheard of. There were tales of coffins refusing to close because the deceased’s descendants were unfilial, or of coffins too heavy to lift because of lingering grievances. But never had they heard of paper effigies at the mourning hall turning into real ghosts.

Now, the Lang family had set the precedent.

The paper-crafted boys and girls had come alive.

It was haunted.

The three brothers screamed silently, staring at the grotesque ghostly children, their lips and cheeks crimson while their faces were ghostly pale. The brothers’ complexions were no better—so pale they nearly matched the paper ghosts.

All at once, the three rushed madly toward the doors, tugging frantically.

They had to get out.

Just then, Lang Jiuchuan arrived. The courtyard that had monks chanting during the day now only had white banners fluttering. A few servants were rehanging the white lanterns blown down by the wind, while from inside the mourning hall, yin energy was already spilling forth.

Her eyes narrowed.

Oh? A few unlucky souls were inside.

Hearing the cries for help from within, Lang Jiuchuan walked forward and lifted her foot.

Bang.

The doors were violently kicked open.

Lang Caimeng and the others, standing by the door, were knocked back, sprawling on the ground.

Yin energy rushed straight at Lang Jiuchuan.

Ghostly wails pierced into her ears, cold and shrill.

How unpleasant.

Lang Jiuchuan waved her hand: “Shut up, all of you, so noisy!”

The chaotic ghost cries instantly fell silent.

But then, they rose again. Ridiculous—why should they heed this sickly girl? Look at her, almost at death’s door. Better to take this body for themselves, and once more taste the world of the living.

However, there were not enough bodies to share…

So—whoever seized it would own it!

In an instant, countless ghostly shadows lunged at Lang Jiuchuan.

She had already used spells earlier, and this body was at its weakest. Unprepared, one ghost slipped inside her, fighting her for control of the body.

A tiger fallen to the plain, bullied by dogs.

Lang Jiuchuan sneered. She might be weak, but not so weak that these dead wretches could trample her. This body she had obtained through backing—she hadn’t even warmed it yet, and they wanted to snatch it? Were they tired of being ghosts?

Did they not even inquire who she was—the very terror of the underworld?

Lang Jiuchuan directly dragged out the ghost that had entered her. In front of the others still trying to possess her, she focused her will into her hands—and tore.

Before their eyes, the unfortunate ghost that first possessed her was ripped to shreds, soul scattered.

The crowd of little ghosts: “!”

So terrifying.

They had met a ruthless one.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

Like birds scattering, they all fled.

Not a single ghost remained in the mourning hall.

Lest they be torn to pieces as well, they dared not stay. Couldn’t provoke her, but could flee.

Lang Jiuchuan did not pursue. With a wave of her hand, she scattered the yin energy in the hall. After all, her body was frail—she couldn’t afford the cold.

Turning, she met three pairs of stunned eyes on the floor. She nudged Lang Caize’s leg with her foot: “Your soul’s back.”

(End of Chapter)