The estate of the Duke of Founding Glory — a hundred-year legacy of distinguished service. The ducal title was hereditary and perpetual, the estate spanning over a hundred acres, with gardens and lake scenery so exquisite one could say every ten steps brought a new landscape.
The current Duke of Founding Glory, Zuo Rui, was a fierce general stationed at the northern border. Now approaching his sixtieth year, no small number of men from the Zuo Family followed the Duke in campaigns to defend the north, their achievements and merits illustrious. Moreover, the Zuo Family had never involved themselves in the struggle for the crown, serving only the Emperor with unwavering loyalty — and so the family’s title remained as stable as a mountain.
What made the Zuo Family’s position especially secure was that three generations of the family had all been men deeply devoted to love. From the previous Duke of Founding Glory down to the current one, and even Zuo Yan — not a single exception. The current Duke, Zuo Rui, had even lost his wife in the prime of his life, yet stubbornly refused to remarry, declaring that he already had a son to carry on the lineage and had no need to take another wife.
Zuo Yan was likewise a man of deep devotion. Now thirty years of age, married for many years yet still without children, he had kept only his lawful wife by his side throughout. Even when his wife, frail and sickly, had personally arranged a concubine for him out of concern for the matter of heirs, he had never once wavered.
For the Emperor, a fierce general with a vulnerability was the easiest to keep in check. Three generations of the Zuo Family devoted to love — was that not precisely what made them so reassuring?
The rules within the estate of the Duke of Founding Glory were exceedingly strict. Servants moving about did so without a sound, and even upon seeing the Young Lord accompanied by a slender-framed yet transcendently composed young woman, not a single one showed any surprise or dared to stare. They simply stepped aside and bowed their heads, departing only after the pair had passed.
A hundred-year lineage of distinguished service — it was not something Marquis Kaiping’s estate could compare to.
Arriving before the main courtyard, Lang Jiuchuan’s steps paused almost imperceptibly. Her gaze settled on the rooftop, then she glanced once more at Zuo Yan. Seeing that the marital palace on his face had grown even darker — the omen of a widower now fully manifest — she let out a quiet sigh.
So it was today.
Zuo Yan found her gaze peculiar. He followed her line of sight up to the rooftop, saw nothing, and had just opened his mouth to speak when a startled cry rang out from inside the main courtyard. His expression changed instantly, and he rushed inside.
Lang Jiuchuan walked inward at an unhurried pace, gesturing casually toward the rooftop as she went, then asked the steward still accompanying her, “Is there yellow paper available?”
The steward blinked, then nodded. “There is.”
“Fetch some, along with fine wine, good incense — and move quickly.”
The steward immediately turned to attend to it.
The ghost runner crouching on the rooftop of the main chamber felt himself particularly unlucky. He never should have trusted a recently arrived riverbed con artist from the underworld who had told him he would encounter a windfall today — and so he had agreed to cover a shift. And now, not only had he found no windfall, but he had run straight into the legendary scourge of ghosts.
The ghost runner drifted to stand before Lang Jiuchuan with an expression of utter world-weariness, his face blank, speaking in the manner of one simply doing his duty: “Your Excellency, this subordinate is merely following the Book of Life and Death. I ask that Your Excellency grant me ease of passage.”
Lang Jiuchuan said, “What is your name? Why are you not wearing your name hat?”
The ghost runner touched his empty head, realized he had forgotten — he was new — and fished a white hat from his sleeve. Written crookedly across it were two characters: Toward Goodness.
“That is a fine name.” Lang Jiuchuan caught sight of the steward and a servant hurrying over with arms full out of the corner of her eye, then said, “Please wait a moment.”
The ghost runner named Toward Goodness glanced at the hour, decided waiting was fine — the appointed time had not yet arrived anyway.
“Miss, the things you requested are here.” The steward arrived wiping sweat from his brow, carrying a crock of wine, while the servant held yellow paper, incense sticks, candles, and the like — along with a freshly roasted pig’s trotter.
An inkling formed in the ghost runner Toward Goodness’s heart. Surely not?
Just then, Zuo Yan came running back out of the room and, seeing Lang Jiuchuan still standing in the courtyard, rushed over with red-rimmed eyes and grabbed her arm. “My wife has fallen unconscious — you must quickly—”
“It’s all right — she won’t die yet.” Lang Jiuchuan effortlessly freed her hand, took up the yellow paper, and began folding paper ingots, while instructing the steward to arrange everything into an offering table.
Zuo Yan’s face darkened. Seeing the scene before him, the veins at his temple stood out. “What are you doing?”
“Minor ghosts are troublesome to deal with. Without a little bribery, they won’t leave.” Lang Jiuchuan said lightly.
Zuo Yan: “?”
The ghost runner Toward Goodness: “!”
And then he watched as she finished folding several paper ingots, lit incense, set up the offerings, drew a talisman and transmuted the spirit money — and in no time at all, those fine gifts arrived in his hands.
So this was where the windfall was meant to fall.
The ghost runner Toward Goodness looked at the weighty items in his hands, then looked at Lang Jiuchuan, who was smiling faintly at him without saying a word. After a moment’s hesitation, he put everything away and said, “Your Excellency is truly a principled person. Please — this subordinate shall go tend to the next assignment!”
Whether the person could be pulled back from the gates of death — that was up to her now.
He, for his part, simply followed the Book of Life and Death.
The ghost runner Toward Goodness whooshed away. Zuo Yan and the others felt a chill pass through the hall; the burning incense and spirit money on the ground suddenly snuffed out all at once, and every one of them felt their scalps prickle.
“Let’s go — let’s see to your honored wife.” Lang Jiuchuan walked inside, saying to the steward, “You may clear these things away.”
Zuo Yan stood somewhat dazed, watching her unhurried figure from behind, then glanced down at the pile of incense and candles on the ground. He waved his hand and hurried after her.
The steward hesitated, tore off a piece of the pork — took a bite — and spat it out immediately. Tasteless!
Inside the room was a heavy smell of medicine, tinged with a faint metallic scent of blood. The air was oppressive and stifling.
The room was full of servant women and maids, all at a loss. When they saw Lang Jiuchuan, their eyes held both surprise and a certain numbness — mostly the bewildered look of people uncertain about their futures.
Zuo Yan caught up and led her into the inner bedchamber, where a physician from the estate stood with a pallid face, applying acupuncture needles.
On the bed lay a frail and slight woman. A thick cotton quilt was pulled up over her, making her look all the more delicate — like a small child.
Lang Jiuchuan had not expected to encounter a woman even frailer than the body she herself inhabited, nor had she expected that this powerfully built Zuo Yan would be devoted to such a woman who looked as though she might be blown away by the wind.
“My wife was not always this frail when she was still in her maiden home.” Zuo Yan seemed to read Lang Jiuchuan’s expression and quickly offered an explanation.
Lang Jiuchuan smiled faintly, stepped forward, and the estate physician, hearing that she was a doctor brought by the Young Lord, stepped aside — though upon seeing her take up the lady’s hand, he said, “The Lady began running a high fever last night which has persisted without breaking. Just a short while ago, she also coughed up blood.”
The Young Lord’s wife had a face no larger than a palm. Her complexion, aside from the feverish flush on both cheeks, was elsewhere an ashen white — so pale that fine blood vessels were visible beneath the skin. And the death aura was already close to fully covering her face.
As Lang Jiuchuan placed two fingers on her pulse to take a reading, she simultaneously studied the woman’s physiognomy, and felt something slightly off.
She held the pulse for a long while, even using both hands. When she finally withdrew, she said, “First, administer acupuncture to bring down the fever.”
The estate physician wanted to say it would not work — he had already needled her twice — but seeing that Zuo Yan said nothing, he held his tongue as well.
Lang Jiuchuan took out her personally carried gold needles, located the acupoints, and inserted them one by one. Most of the needles were placed on the head, both hands, and both feet. Once all the needles were set, she applied a needle-sealing technique, pressing the seal-knot across the gold needles.
The tail ends of the needles shook in unison. After a single breath’s time, Lang Jiuchuan began withdrawing the needles. As each one was pulled out, the unsealed acupoints drew out small amounts of black-tinged blood.
The estate physician’s pupils contracted sharply. How could this be?
Zuo Yan’s expression also darkened. His hands clenched into fists. What kind of condition would cause a person’s blood to turn black — had she been poisoned?