Lang Jiuchuan leaned against the coffin and knelt down, turning her head to look inside. She felt a thin current of merit flowing toward her, nourishing her physical body and her spirit, and let out a quiet breath.

Noticing that some of the karmic fortune was still dispersing toward the other members of the Lang Family, she furrowed her brow and stared fixedly at the corpse draped in white cloth. If she were the one lying in there, would all this merit and karmic fortune flow solely to her?

The mere thought of it delighted her. She wanted every last drop.

Lang Jiuchuan’s hastily borrowed pair of dog-eyes nearly bored a hole straight through the old patriarch lying in the coffin.

Whoosh.

A sudden gust swept through the mourning hall, sending the yellow paper offerings scattering across the floor, and setting the candle flames shuddering.

Everyone froze for a moment. Where had that wind come from?

Their eyes instinctively fell on Lang Jiuchuan. She was kneeling right there — could she be disturbing the old master’s rest?

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

Lang Jiuchuan felt the scorching weight of those stares and glanced over, then, as if nothing had happened, dragged the offering basin toward herself, picked up the scattered yellow paper from the ground, and tossed it in. “I’m burning paper for the old master,” she said. “To make sure his road in the underworld is smooth and clear.”

The onlookers’ expressions softened somewhat upon hearing this. At least the girl had a little filial heart in her — though what, exactly, did “smooth and clear” mean?

Cui Shi closed her eyes and resumed silently reciting a sutra under her breath.

Without warning, an old man’s howling voice erupted at the entrance — loud enough to shake the rafters.

A figure came charging in, walking stick in hand.

“You wretched old scoundrel! Your life just had to be shorter than mine! We agreed at seventy we’d see who could piss the farthest — you miserable wretch, you went back on your word!”

The mourning hall fell utterly silent.

Lang Jiuchuan’s paper-burning hand gave a small jerk. She raised her head to look at the newcomer, the corner of her mouth twitching.

The man was a white-haired elder with a young man’s complexion — robed in plain white, gripping a walking staff. He made his way to the coffin, and the moment he saw the face inside, his voice broke: “You wretched old fool, what are you lying there for? Get up and have a drink with me.”

“Grandfather.” A young man in a moonwhite robe helplessly steadied the elder, quietly urging him, “Please, offer some incense to the late Marquis first.”

“Yes, Elder Zhao — Father passed on very peacefully, please don’t grieve too deeply. If your health suffers for it, Father will not be able to rest easy in the afterlife either.” Lang Zhengping, the eldest son and heir of the Lang Family who had accompanied them inside, also stepped forward to offer comfort, while the rest of the Lang Family had long since risen to their feet; the men, including Lang Caimeng and the others, joined in with words of consolation.

“No need for any of you to comfort me — these old bones of mine are still sturdy enough. Letting myself weep for him once is only what he deserves.” Elder Zhao gazed at his lifelong rival and oldest friend, now lying with the funeral cloth drawn back, and his expression turned to grief. They had sparred with each other their entire lives; from now on, he would have no match left.

“What is there to weep over? You will be meeting him soon enough.” A voice, cold as frost and snow, broke through the sorrow.

The murmur of consolations went quiet. Every person in the hall stared at Lang Jiuchuan in stunned disbelief.

What was she raving about?

What kind of madness was this — was that something you said to an elderly man who had come to pay his respects at a funeral?

Lang Zhengping reacted instantly, his voice sharp with rebuke: “Outrageous! What nonsense are you spouting? Who are you — wait, no — whose family do you belong to?”

He stared at the completely unfamiliar young girl before him, momentarily at a loss. Where had she come from? Did the Lang Family have a daughter who looked like this?

Lang Caimeng hurriedly spoke up: “Father, this is Ninth Sister from Second Uncle’s household.”

Lang Zhengping heard that and immediately remembered — the child who had been sent away to be raised on the estate, the only flesh and blood of his second brother. He instinctively glanced at Cui Shi, opened his mouth, then thought better of saying anything. He simply waved his hand and said: “Look at her, frail as she is — don’t make her keep kneeling here. Take her somewhere to rest.”

Cui Shi’s expression had gone as dark as stagnant water. Her fingertips trembled; her chest heaved with suppressed fury. She fixed her eyes on Lang Jiuchuan.

This heretic — how dare she?