When someone is being dishonest, a sharp needle and some effective medicine are usually enough to set them right.

Lang Zhengping, as First Uncle, experienced this firsthand. After the needling and the medicine, he broke into a sweat all over — and his spirit actually improved. At the very least, much of the ashen, sickly pallor had left his face.

Madam Fan had initially harbored some doubts about Lang Jiuchuan’s medical skills, but one look at how her husband appeared to have come back to life after the acupuncture and medicine, and she was overjoyed, her eyes opened wide to Lang Jiuchuan’s abilities.

She had long heard things from Lang Zhengping about Lang Jiuchuan’s capabilities, but most of it had seemed like him speaking freely and flattering his niece. Seeing it now with her own eyes — the girl genuinely had real skill.

After the needles and the medicine, Lang Zhengping was able to get out of bed. He moved to the parlor, sat down, and spoke with Lang Jiuchuan. “You didn’t have to be quite so harsh. I would have recovered slowly on my own.”

“Slow recovery that drags into consumption of the lungs is a poor trade,” Lang Jiuchuan said, holding her teacup with equanimity. “To ruin your own health simply to avoid one Marquis of Zhenbei is foolishness. It harms the body and wastes money on medicine.”

Lang Zhengping said sheepishly, “I didn’t do it on purpose—”

“I told you long ago: do not trouble yourself over him. I have already made my preparations; you need only wait and watch.” Lang Jiuchuan glanced over at him. “Now that he has entered the capital, I imagine he will have more than enough to occupy him.”

Lang Zhengping had just been about to ask her about what was happening behind the scenes when the steward Gaoping came to report, “My lord, the Xie heir and the young grandson of Princess Anyang’s household — they call him Little Qilin — have come to blows in Liuchun Alley over the courtesan woman called Wan Bai from the Bureau of Music.”

“Which Xie heir?” Lang Zhengping started, then caught up a beat too late. He set his teacup lid down with a clink. “Xie Zejing?”

“That’s right. And he split Little Qilin’s head open.”

“He’s lost his mind!” Gaoping said, his voice charged with excitement.

Lang Zhengping was stunned, and instinctively looked toward Lang Jiuchuan. She was unhurriedly using her teacup lid to skim the tea leaves across the surface, entirely unsurprised. When she finally raised her eyes to meet his, the corners of her lips curved into a cold, sharp smile.

Lang Zhengping’s spirits surged with sudden excitement. The show has begun!

The catastrophe destined for Marquis Zhenbei’s household had slowly begun to unfurl its opening act — this was the gate ceremony welcoming the Marquis of Zhenbei back to the capital.

When the Marquis of Zhenbei’s iron cavalry charged through Dongping Gate into Wu Jing, dark clouds had massed overhead, lightning flickering within their depths. He looked up at those heavy, ominous clouds and his brow furrowed. His face — weathered by years of wind and frost yet still carrying the air of strict authority — was pulled taut.

A thunderous crack.

A deep rumble suddenly exploded overhead like a great hammer driving down into his chest, pushing the unease that had shadowed him throughout the entire journey to its peak. An inexplicable sense of dread washed over him.

The iron cavalry entered the city. Raindrops as large as soybeans began to fall.

The Marquis of Zhenbei abruptly reined his horse to a stop and turned to look back. The heavy, solid city gates loomed tall and impregnable behind him — like a great beast, staring at him with predatory intent.

“My lord?” a trusted guard called out to him.

The Marquis pressed his lips together and said in a low voice, “We enter the palace to pay respects to the Emperor.”

He drove his heels into his horse’s flanks with force, and the steed shot forward like an arrow released from a bow.

Jiang Che watched the Marquis of Zhenbei ride into the distance, then moved like a bolt of lightning, leaping across rooftop after rooftop on his way back to Marquis Kaiping’s residence.

Lang Jiuchuan had, on this rare occasion, shared the evening meal with Cui Shi. When the tea was brought after dinner, they each held a cup and sat — facing each other in silence.

Mother and daughter, this distant and cold with each other — it was not the only such case in the world, but it could still be called a sorrowful one.

Even knowing that she was in all likelihood the child Cui Shi had lost, Lang Jiuchuan could not bring herself to feel any pull of warmth or closeness, nor could she find any common feeling. Perhaps those who had entered the Dao became a little more indifferent to such things.

Cui Shi’s heart held feelings she could not quite name. Her fingertip traced the flower pattern on her teacup, and just as she was about to speak, Lang Jiuchuan rose and set her cup down — and Cui Shi closed her mouth again.

“I have some matters to attend to. Retire early, Madam. And do not drink strong tea — it will shorten your sleep.”

With that, Lang Jiuchuan walked out.

Cui Shi watched her stride quickly out of the courtyard — and then something came hurtling through the air toward her, too fast to make out clearly.

Lang Jiuchuan caught Jiang Che in her arms and ran a hand across the dense, prickling fur that had grown on his body. “You’ve grown fur.”

Jiang Che swiped a paw at her. Could she not bring this up every single time they met? Was she never going to let this go?

“Congratulations on coming back to life,” he grumbled.

“Thank you for your trouble, serving as my guardian beast,” Lang Jiuchuan said.

Jiang Che gave a haughty little sniff. “I was only afraid a certain someone would wake up, discover the changes at home, and fly into a fit. That was all.”

Lang Jiuchuan said nothing aloud, but she took note of it inwardly. She reached up with two fingers and kneaded the back of his neck.

Jiang Che nearly squinted his tiger’s eyes shut in bliss and almost let out a contented sound — then thought of the tabby cat at the neighboring residence that was perpetually draped across its owner’s arms doing exactly this, and he immediately snapped his amber eyes wide open with fierce alertness.

He was Jiang Che, the White Tiger King. He was no one’s house cat.

Lang Jiuchuan brought him back to the study and asked, “How many men did the Marquis of Zhenbei bring back with him?”

“His personal soldiers appear to number around a hundred — every one of them carrying the aura of blood and killing,” Jiang Che said. “He went straight to the palace from the city gate to pay his respects to the Emperor, so he probably doesn’t yet know what his son has done.”

Lang Jiuchuan said lightly, “No matter. Once he leaves the palace gates, he will learn soon enough.” She paused. “It seems Zuo Yan knows his craft well. This generous gift — I wonder whether the Marquis of Zhenbei will be able to receive it gracefully.”

A young heir about to be wed, carrying on a secret liaison with a courtesan from the Bureau of Music — in itself, that was not particularly devastating. What mattered was that the Xie heir was on the verge of his wedding and this shameful affair had now been exposed, slapping the face of his future wife’s family. More critically — and this was the real catastrophe — he had split the head of Princess Anyang’s precious grandson over this woman. That was the true disaster.

Word had it that Princess Anyang was fiery-tempered and fiercely protective of those she loved. Having lost her son at a young age, she doted on this grandson above all else. With his head now split open, this matter was not going to be easily resolved.

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes curved in amusement. Imagining the Marquis of Zhenbei returning to the capital only to be greeted by this complete mess — she wanted to see his expression for herself.

And this was only the beginning. What awaited him was a string of troubles, one after another. She hoped he could weather it.

“A pity for Miss He, though. Word is that this courtesan woman called Wan Bai is with child, and the Xie heir was arranging a false death for her when that madman they call Little Qilin stumbled upon it.”

Lang Jiuchuan’s smile faded. The image of that graceful, composed, and gentle young woman came to her mind. She rubbed her fingertips together slowly for a long moment, then took up her brush and ink, ground the ink, and began to write. She set down a slip of paper. “Go to the He household and deliver this to Miss He.”

Jiang Che glanced at it. On the slip was written: A woman of good fortune does not enter a house without fortune.

“Involving yourself in another’s cause and consequence — that is not your usual way,” he remarked.

Lang Jiuchuan folded the slip with unhurried fingers and pressed a Daoist seal upon it. “It is never easy to be a woman,” she said evenly. “And the Xie family is destined for ruin. Why let an innocent person suffer alongside them?”

At that very moment, the lights in the home of Assistant Minister He burned bright. With a wedding on the horizon, the revelation that the future son-in-law had been caught in such a disgrace was an absolute humiliation.

Just as the household was convening to deliberate, a gust of wind swept through the room, extinguishing every lamp.

Assistant Minister He felt something brush across his hand — prickling and sharp. When the lights were relit, he found a ball of paper had appeared in his grasp. He unrolled it, read the characters written there, and his eyes went wide.

“Father!”

“My lord!”

The He household erupted in cries of alarm, watching helplessly as the slip of paper in the Assistant Minister’s hand ignited without flame.

Assistant Minister He sank into his chair, staring at his hands for a long moment before finally turning to look at his daughter — red-eyed from weeping, yet her expression unyielding. “The Xie family has gone too far. We break off the engagement.”