In the capital city, funerals held by the noble and powerful were nothing new — but a funeral that caused as much unusual commotion as the Lang Family’s was unheard of. Who in the world, at anyone’s funeral, would be so audacious as to desecrate the deceased? Well, not desecrate exactly, but to make such a vicious move against a dead man.

Yet the Marquis of Kaiping had suffered precisely this great injustice, nearly finding no peace even in death.

Indeed, after Lang Zhengping entered the palace and wept his fill, news that someone had attempted to use sinister means to sabotage the Marquis of Kaiping’s funeral rites in order to harm the Lang Family spread widely, and tongues all over the capital wagged endlessly. What enemy had the Lang Family made, to be targeted with something so wicked — refusing to even let a dead man rest in peace?

In any case, amidst all the gossip and commotion, after lying in state for seven days, the Marquis of Kaiping was seen off smoothly and without incident. And precisely because the story of those sinister dealings had already circulated beforehand, the day of the funeral procession drew quite a few onlookers who had set up roadside offerings to see him off.

Lang Jiuchuan blended into the procession of filial descendants, shuffling along at a slow pace, thinking to herself that once the funeral was over, she might as well go back to the manor to observe the mourning period and then slip back — sooner or later she would find an opportunity to repair her broken body. Otherwise, trapped inside this secluded residence, would she not be just like a bird with a broken wing?

She had shamelessly crawled her way back from the underworld — not to play the role of an obedient, well-behaved young lady, but to recover her one soul and two spirit fragments. Only then would she be a whole person.

Without that, relying on this frail and brittle body alone, what could she possibly accomplish?

Listen — everyone around her thought she was delicate.

Lang Jiuchuan was helped up from the frozen street by a maidservant, and from the corner of her eye she caught a few onlookers — some of whom perhaps recognized members of the Lang Family — who had noticed her unfamiliar face and were whispering amongst themselves, asking who she was.

Only, did those words really need to sound quite so unpleasant? “Frail as a willow in the wind” was one thing, but…

A face doomed to an early death?

Lang Jiuchuan looked down at her pale, bluish hands, the corner of her mouth twitching. She turned to look — that same pallid face of hers, paired with those large, dark eyes, gave people a strangely unsettling feeling. When her gaze swept over, anyone talking felt themselves go quiet without quite knowing why.

“Ninth Sister, are you alright?” Wu Shi noticed her sluggish movements from the corner of her eye and asked in a trembling voice.

Lang Jiuchuan looked at her — her own face just as deathly white, shivering from head to toe with cold, thinner than the first time they had met, her breathing unsteady — and yet she had not forgotten to ask after her. Lang Jiuchuan shook her head.

Funerary rites were exhaustive ordeals. For women who had spent their lives in the inner courtyard, sheltered from hardship, this was bound to be a torment — especially in winter, and a particularly cold one at that, dressed in nothing but thin mourning garments of hemp. It would cost a person half their health.

It seemed likely that quite a few people would collapse once they returned.

Truly gruelling.

Lang Jiuchuan quietly applied a technique to herself; warmth rose up from the soles of her feet, and she exhaled in relief, then followed the winding procession.

In the Western District of Wu Jing, the City God Temple housed a ginkgo tree that had lived for eight hundred years. In the barren cold of winter, the ginkgo had long shed all its leaves; snow pressed down on its crown, as though it had taken on a new robe of clouds.

The ancient ginkgo, which should have been still and silent, suddenly began to tremble without any wind, and the snow slipped from its branches in a cascade of soft falls.

A beggar boy huddled inside the City God Temple rubbed his eyes and stared at the old ginkgo, tilting his head. There wasn’t much wind today — why was that old tree trembling?

He must have been so frozen that his eyes were playing tricks on him.

What he did not know was that inside the trunk, a wisp of white mist, glowing faintly like foxfire, was surging up and down in a very lively fashion.

“Old Silver, Old Silver — my turning point has moved! I can feel it!” The white mist cried out with excitement. “Waited nearly a whole year — and the old man has finally lived to see it.”

The old ginkgo trembled softly, as if in reply.

The white mist saw it had nothing to say and pressed itself against the inner bark, its cloud-like luminescence stroking along the trunk. “This past year, Old Silver, I thank you for lending this place as my shelter. Once my turning point is secured and I have recovered, I will surely come back to repay you for this kindness.”

A resonant hum came from deep within the trunk, something like a sigh, and still no words.

The white mist paid no mind. “Old White is on his way.”

With a flash, it vanished from inside the trunk and shot off in the direction of the pull it had sensed.

Only after it had run far did the old ginkgo let out a breath. Long ago, in a moment of soft-heartedness, it had taken pity on the creature after its tribulation crossing had failed, its spiritual consciousness on the verge of scattering to the four winds, and had lent it the shelter of its trunk — only to discover the thing ate ravenously, nearly draining all the votive power it had accumulated over hundreds of years, growing stronger by the day while the ginkgo itself grew weaker and weaker.

The tree had weakened so much that its leaves had not come in as gold and dense as in years past. No wonder some of the incense-burning visitors to the temple had begun to wonder whether this old tree’s life force was finally running out — why else would its leaves suddenly be so sparse and pale?

Now, at last, this great glutton was gone.

The old ginkgo truly wanted to set off a string of firecrackers in celebration, then suddenly had the feeling it had forgotten to tell that creature something — what was it? Ah, never mind.

Good riddance to a plague.

In the chill of winter, the sound of funeral music felt all the more desolate and final.

Lang Jiuchuan watched as Lang Zhengpeng led Lang Caimeng and Lang Caize away, bearing the coffin into the distance, and finally let out a breath of relief.

“Ninth Sister, let us get into the carriage,” Wu Shi called to her.

The funeral was over now. What remained was the mourning period.

Lang Jiuchuan did not refuse and climbed into the carriage. Inside, Lang Cailing and Lang Caiyao were already seated.

The Lang Family claimed over a dozen grandchildren in this generation, but after accounting for those who had died in infancy and those daughters already married out, the young women still waiting to be matched were only Lang Cailing, Lang Jiuchuan, and the Third Branch’s Lang Caiyao. Among the male descendants there were the First Branch’s Lang Caimeng and two sons born of concubines, one full younger brother by the same mother, while the Third Branch had one legitimate son and two sons of concubines — just enough to count on ten fingers.

So inside this carriage sat all the young women of the same generation.

The moment Lang Jiuchuan settled in, she closed her eyes and rested.

As the carriage rocked and swayed, she suddenly opened both eyes wide, her gaze cutting straight through the carriage walls to something outside — and deep within her pupils, a flash of golden light came and went.

Outside, a ball of white mist darted about like a headless housefly.

“The pull is clearly right here — which one is it?” The white mist was growing frantic with agitation. It thought for a moment, and then its entire body of fine mist formed a small whirlwind and swept toward the carriages rolling through the snow. The wheels of one carriage immediately tilted and gave way.

Thud.

Shrieks erupted from inside several carriages.

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes sharpened. She lifted the carriage curtain.

Once the carriages had fully come to a stop, the Lang Family members stepped out one by one, only to find that several carriages had simultaneously lost a wheel, causing the bodies to tilt at an angle — a rather peculiar coincidence that left everyone puzzled.

Lang Zhengping instructed the steward and the drivers to investigate.

Lang Jiuchuan stepped down from the carriage and moved to one side, watching the ball of white mist with cold eyes. She saw it rush eagerly toward the Lang Family’s male members, then quickly pull away again.

“Wrong, none of them are right — how can none of them be right?” The white mist howled in frustration. “The pull is clearly here — so where has it gone?”

Lang Jiuchuan’s fingertip twitched, and she lightly tapped the Dizhong bell hanging at her waist.

The white mist froze, then came hurtling toward her in an instant, stopping before her with an expression of utter disbelief, and even circling her once.

This fragile little woman was its turning point?

At the City God Temple, the old ginkgo muttered to itself: “I forgot to tell it — its turning point is a little woman.”