When Cui Shi stepped over the threshold into the Ksitigarbha Hall, her foot caught and she nearly stumbled, almost pitching headlong into the heavy door. Fortunately, Nanny Cheng and Molan were quick to steady her.

Seeing how terrible Cui Shi’s complexion was, Nanny Cheng leaned in and quietly advised: “Madam, that Fang lady is clearly the sort of person with crooked intentions. Whatever she said to you, please don’t take it to heart — no sense letting her get under your skin.”

She couldn’t imagine what that woman had said to her Madam to leave her looking so wretched. She could only hope it wasn’t anything about the Young Miss, especially since Old Nanny Gu had mentioned the woman seemed to harbor a degree of hostility toward her.

Madam had only just managed to set aside some of her reservations and was trying to draw closer to the Young Miss — their mother-daughter bond seemed to be slowly mending. If this woman stirred things up and sent them back to where they started, what would become of it all?

Cui Shi drew in a deep breath and said: “I know.” She paused, then added: “Don’t mention to the Young Miss that Fang was intercepting me and speaking to me.”

She didn’t even bother to call her “Lady” — she simply said “Fang.” Her revulsion toward the woman was genuine.

Whatever her relationship with Lang Jiuchuan might be, Fang had come running to her face to drive a wedge between mother and daughter. Was that out of goodwill? No — it was malice, plain and simple.

She hadn’t gone so far as to lose her ability to distinguish a stranger’s goodwill from their spite.

As for Lang Jiuchuan — Cui Shi closed her eyes. Her fingers curled in, nails pressing hard into her palm, and a wave of bitterness swept through her.

Don’t mistake your own daughter. But what if she has?

Cui Shi didn’t dare let her thoughts go further.

She stepped into the Ksitigarbha Hall. The cold, dim air inside made her complexion pale further — yet it also sharpened her clouded mind somewhat.

Cui Shi walked directly to the longevity tablet enshrined for Lang Zhengfan. The eternal flame still burned — it had been lit by Lang Jiuchuan on the first day of the New Year. The wick was short, yet the small flame burned uncommonly bright, its light reflected in the tablet, the tiny tongue of fire falling precisely over the character Fan.

There wasn’t much lamp oil left. Cui Shi reached out to add some, and the monk tending the hall approached. He glanced at the lamp and said: “No oil has ever been added to this light. Our head abbot has said there is no need — it will not be extinguished. It will burn eternally. And indeed, it has never once gone out.”

Cui Shi was startled. She looked back at the eternal flame, and her mind was suddenly flooded with the image of Lang Jiuchuan walking the ritual paces to light it. Her expression grew distant.

Her abilities are nothing like what I imagined them to be. And precisely because of that, she felt all the more that she was an elusive and unreachable presence — someone she didn’t dare draw close to, didn’t dare acknowledge, and perhaps even feared.

And yet…

“If Fan-ge didn’t acknowledge her,” Cui Shi murmured to the tablet, “this lamp wouldn’t have accepted her either.”

The hall was utterly silent. No one answered. Only the flame responded — it trembled faintly, and then burned a little brighter.

Though Cui Shi had told her not to say anything to Lang Jiuchuan, Lang Jiuchuan found out all the same. She didn’t know exactly what Fang had said to Cui Shi, but word had reached her that Cui Shi’s expression had been quite sour — which meant it almost certainly hadn’t been anything pleasant.

In all likelihood, it had been aimed at her!

Lang Jiuchuan let out a cold scoff. She hadn’t done anything to Fang yet, and already the woman was rushing forward to offer up her own head. Well then — don’t blame her for not holding back.

That night, Lang Jiuchuan slipped quietly to the meditation courtyard where Fang was staying. With a subtle working of her art, she sent something pushing into the room.

A nightmare — staying in a sacred Buddhist place was no protection against being haunted in one’s sleep, especially for someone like Fang, who had done her share of wicked deeds.

She ought to feel for herself the despair and terror of those who had died because of her.

The nightmare art Lang Jiuchuan worked was no ordinary thing — she genuinely called upon the sinister energy of yin and shadow to summon a nightmare spirit and send it in. The experience would leave an impression Fang would carry for the rest of her life.

If you want to stir up trouble — well, once you’ve started, you might as well make it count.

Before dawn the next morning, Lang Jiuchuan opened her eyes from meditation.

When Jian Lan tiptoed in without a sound, she found her clothes and braids already neat and tidy, the bedding behind her still perfectly smooth and undisturbed. She blinked in surprise: “Young Miss, have you been up for a while, or have you not slept at all?”

Lang Jiuchuan smiled: “For those who walk the path of cultivation, sitting in meditation and contemplation is itself rest. Going a whole night without sleep is nothing unusual.”

Jian Lan looked at her bright, alert eyes without a trace of exhaustion, and believed her at once. She lifted the bundle of clothing she was carrying and said: “You should wash up and change now — the family members from the household are nearly all arrived.”

Today was the memorial ceremony for Lang Zhengfan. Aside from herself and her mother, and those who were unwell or unable to come, the other descendants of the Marquis Kaiping household would all be attending — as they did every year. Ironically, Lang Jiuchuan, his own daughter, was participating in such a memorial ceremony at a temple for the very first time. Said aloud, it carried a certain sting.

Lang Jiuchuan paid this no mind. She looked at the clothing in Jian Lan’s hands — she had never seen it before, and it was clearly freshly made. The color was a deep purple threaded with gold, not overly showy, but looking at it, one felt a sense of gravity and solemnity.

Jian Lan spread it out and said: “When you said you would personally preside over the ceremony, Nanny Cheng asked me for your measurements and had this made up quickly.”

Lang Jiuchuan was a little surprised. The clothing was understated yet dignified, with a suggestion of a Daoist ceremonial robe, softened with a touch of feminine elegance.

She didn’t refuse.

This was the first time — and the last — that she would mourn Lang Zhengfan as his daughter, for a man who was perhaps her true father. Being solemn about it was only right.

Lang Jiuchuan dressed herself with care, putting on the garment. Even her hair, which she usually wore in a simple braid, was undone and coiled into a neat round bun at the crown of her head, secured with a single violet jade hairpin. At her waist, as always, hung the Dizhong bell, and a ritual writing brush was tucked alongside it. As she raised her hand, her sleeve fell back to reveal the luminous, lustrous strand of flowing pearl beads at her wrist.

Over the ceremonial robe was another layer of sheer gauze; as she moved, the gold silk embroidery of cloud patterns on the robe caught the light, flickering with faint golden radiance that lent her an air of elegance and distinction.

Lang Jiuchuan turned around. Jian Lan stared, briefly dazzled.

The young woman before her wore solemn and dignified robes. Her features were cool and still, her skin a cold, flawless white. Her phoenix eyes were black as jet, startlingly bright. Her lips were a pale rose, her frame slender, yet her posture was straight and unyielding — slight as her figure was, she inexplicably gave the impression of a pine tree: not easily felled.

Most compelling of all was her bearing — pure and otherworldly, like a snow lotus clinging to a cliff face: proud and solitary. When her gaze moved, her eyes seemed to carry a glint of cold light, as though they could see through to the heart of a person. One did not dare to meet them directly.

A chill crept up Jian Lan’s spine. The look in her eyes as she watched Lang Jiuchuan had taken on a good deal of reverence.

“What is it?” Lang Jiuchuan noticed Jian Lan’s tense expression and couldn’t help raising an eyebrow.

Jian Lan said: “With you dressed like this, Young Miss, you look just like a celestial descending from the heavens. It makes this servant feel awed just looking at you.”

“It is rather formal,” Lang Jiuchuan agreed, spreading her arms. “Fortunately I’m only wearing this for one day. If I dressed like this every day, it would be a bit of a burden.”

Old Nanny Gu called from outside — it was time to head over to the side hall.

Lang Jiuchuan walked out. Old Nanny Gu looked up, and her gaze fixed on her for a long moment before she caught herself, quickly bowing to one side to let her pass. Only after Lang Jiuchuan had gone by did she reach up and dab at the perspiration on her brow.

Dressed like this, the Young Miss seemed even more imposing and authoritative than usual. Who would dare claim this was not the daughter of a noble household?