Every year in the deep cold of the twelfth month, the elderly and infirm who could not endure the chill would pass away in considerable numbers. First came a noble such as Marquis Kaiping. Less than two days after his passing, the former Minister of Personnel, the honorable Master Zhao Xinlong, also departed this world. People found it a little strange — they had not heard that old Master Zhao’s health had been failing. How had he gone so suddenly?

Yet the cause of death the Zhao family gave was that the old master had passed peacefully in his sleep, and those who came to pay their respects were met with a face of unmistakable serenity. So there was nothing to find particularly jarring in it.

As such, the Zhao family’s funeral was conducted with great ceremony. White hung in every corner, and those who came to offer condolences far outnumbered the mourners who had gathered two days earlier for the Lan family — a noble house that had seen better days. After all, old Master Zhao had once held the rank of First Pin official, and though it could not quite be said his teachings had spread across all under heaven, his sharp eye for talent had guided a great many of his students into positions of authority within the court. Whether one looked to the monk or the Buddha behind him, attending was the only proper course.

Looking at the dense crowd of mourners, Lang Zhengping felt more than a touch of bitterness. The contrast was as stark as it could be between a household at the height of its glory and a marquisate in decline — and a single funeral ceremony could lay that contrast completely bare.

And that was not all. He heard the sound of hoofbeats and the rumbling of carriage wheels, and raised his eyes to look. The markings on the carriage left him shaken.

It bore the emblem of the imperial palace. Who might be riding within?

Thinking of old Master Zhao’s standing at court, his fingers curled slowly inward and his heart clenched — and before long, after a flurry of activity, what little remained of that heart shattered completely.

Shattered into many pieces, not even paste could hold it back together.

It was an imperial edict from the palace conferring a posthumous honor: old Master Zhao was to be posthumously titled Wenhen Gong — Duke of Scholarly Balance. It was the highest of honors.

Feeling the glances directed his way from all around — subtle, yet unmistakable — Lang Zhengping kept the smile fixed on his face, while inside he had plunged into a vat of vinegar, sour beyond all bearing.

He should not have come today.

Lang Zhengping’s gaze slid sideways to the slight young woman at his side — dressed in a plain blue-gray robe, hair gathered into a bun at the top of her head, her entire person adorned with nothing but an old, worn little bell hanging at her waist. His expression was layered with grievance and something close to reproach.

If not for her, he would not be standing here today, enduring those looks loaded with unspoken meaning.

Lang Jiuchuan looked back at him and said, “That bitterness of yours has nothing to do with me. Looking at me for it is useless.”

Lang Zhengping: “…”

You are not wrong, but why must this child say everything quite so plainly?

“Worthy younger brother.”

Zhao Kun, dressed in full mourning white, came hurrying over with quick steps and cupped his hands toward Lang Zhengping. “I did not expect worthy younger brother to come — elder brother failed to welcome you properly.”

“Brother Qining says that to embarrass me. I have come to offer incense to the elder uncle — as has this child.” Lang Zhengping said warmly. “That the elder uncle has received the posthumous title of Duke Wenhen — it is a recognition fully worthy of a lifetime of selfless dedication to the state. My congratulations.”

A flicker of joy passed across Zhao Kun’s face, though he kept it from showing, offering only a few polite words. He then looked toward Lang Jiuchuan, his expression settling into something more measured, and said, “Let me escort you both to the mourning hall. The time to bear the coffin out is nearly upon us.”

He led the two of them through the crowd, drawing no shortage of sidelong glances — most of which lingered on Lang Jiuchuan.

The eldest heir of Marquis Kaiping’s household had brought along quite an unfamiliar young face. Slight build, delicate frame — was this a young lady?

Zhao Yuancheng had heard that Lang Jiuchuan was here, and it struck him like the arrival of a formidable opponent. He rushed out from within the mourning hall, and in one sweep of the crowd, he found her.

Why was that?

She was slight enough that a breeze might carry her off, and her face was not the kind of dazzling beauty he had encountered before — yet in the midst of a crowd, he had spotted her in an instant.

Not because she was particularly striking to look at, but because of something in her bearing — something that could not be named or clearly described.

Distant. Indifferent. Remote.

As though she did not belong to this world at all.

“Brother Yuancheng, who is that young woman?” someone asked curiously about Lang Jiuchuan’s identity. To be personally escorted by the heir of Marquis Kaiping’s household — who could she be?

Zhao Yuancheng’s voice was cool and flat. “The ninth-ranked young miss of the Lan family.”

The person made a sound of understanding and looked Lang Jiuchuan over once more. The Lan family had a young miss like this?

Slight, delicate, frail-looking. She had the look of someone who would not live long.

Not the kind of woman suited to be anyone’s wife.

The person quickly lost interest and looked away.

Lang Jiuchuan came before the spirit tablet, accepted the incense Zhao Yuancheng offered her with both hands, raised it to her forehead, bowed three times, and placed it in the incense burner.

A faint gust of wind moved through the mourning hall.

Zhao Kun’s scalp prickled. He looked instinctively toward the coffin. Father — is that you?

Lang Zhengping watched her do nothing more than offer incense without incident, and the tension in his chest eased.

But then — Lang Jiuchuan walked out of the mourning hall, swept her gaze around the courtyard, and moved directly toward the group of men with black bands of mourning crepe tied at their arms. She stopped with precision before Shen Qinghe and fixed him with a steady, unwavering look.

Shen Qinghe was of tall and powerfully built stature, and his bearing was more reminiscent of a military official than a civil one. He kept a close-cropped beard along his jaw, and his eyes were sharp as a hawk’s — keen and piercing, with a gaze like a lit torch. The aura of upright integrity that surrounded him was dense and palpable.

Jiangche had not been wrong. This man truly carried a body full of righteous energy.

But that righteous energy was locked in a full-scale struggle against a mass of yin malevolence and inauspicious darkness — a foul, mixed current of black-red blood-energy, viciously thick, nauseating to encounter.

Lang Jiuchuan’s brow furrowed sharply, and she drew back a step.

She had no fondness for that energy. It bore claws and fangs — shadowed, vile, deeply malicious — and it carried within it the faintest thread of wish-power.

How strange. Who would be offering devotion and worship to something as wretched as this?

Shen Qinghe noticed Lang Jiuchuan approaching. He paid her no particular mind at first — assuming she had simply taken a wrong turn. But seeing her come to a stop directly before him, he grew somewhat curious.

What was this young miss intending?

“Come with me,” Lang Jiuchuan beckoned Shen Qinghe and stepped to one side.

Shen Qinghe: “?”

Was this girl not quite right in the head?

Lang Jiuchuan, seeing that he did not move, said one thing only: “Shen Peng.”

Shen Qinghe’s gaze sharpened to a point. He considered for a moment, then walked over. “Who are you?”

“The ninth young miss of the Lan family,” Lang Jiuchuan said. “Regarding the matter concerning your son — the trouble was brought upon him by you. Where have you been recently? What have you stirred up?”

Shen Qinghe’s pupils contracted. His hand closed into a fist, and his voice dropped to something sharp and cold. “What are you talking about?”

How did this young girl know of Peng’er’s situation? And on what basis was she claiming it was his own doing that had brought trouble upon the boy?

“Every effect has its cause. If you want to resolve what has befallen your son, you must first resolve what you have recently stirred up — otherwise you are treating the symptom and not the root. Worse still, you may find yourself trapped with no way out, meeting a wretched end.” Lang Jiuchuan said, her tone ice cold.

Righteous energy could protect the body — but if his ill fortune continued to accumulate, that righteous energy would gradually weaken. Then that mass of yin malevolence would strike in full force and crush him completely, until death.

Lang Zhengping had finished offering his incense, and he and Zhao Yuancheng were walking over together when they caught sight of her — she had managed to draw Shen Qinghe into a confrontation. Their steps quickened, and they arrived just in time to hear those final words.

Trapped with no way out. A wretched end.

This wretched child.

Something exploded in Lang Zhengping’s mind, brilliant and blinding, like a great white flower blooming and consuming everything in its path. He went dizzy, his face draining to a deathly pallor.

He had known it — last night’s ominous premonition had been right. This walking disaster never rested. Did she know who she was talking to? This was Shen Qinghe — Shen Qinghe, the sharp-edged, incorruptible official known as Clear-Skied Shen, renowned throughout the courts for cracking impossible cases.

Zhao Yuancheng’s eyes had gone red around the edges. This crow-mouthed menace — she was at it again, cursing people once more!