Lang Jiuchuan glanced at the name on the pure black wooden plaque, then turned it over. On the back, a brief inscription described Cong Gui — just a few short lines that summed up an entire life.

Cong Gui. Born in a yin year, a yin month, on a yin day. Endowed with innate spiritual roots, gifted with keen intelligence and exceptional comprehension. Blessed beyond others. Died in the prime of youth.

A soft sigh escaped from Lang Jiuchuan’s lips.

“If it were me, I would be filled with boundless resentment and hatred as well.” She passed the wooden plaque to A’Piao for him to examine.

A person born with extraordinary spiritual roots would naturally be quick to learn anything — yet to die in the prime of youth at the hands of one’s own father. How could one not be consumed by hatred and resentment?

A’Piao said in a low voice, “Those folk histories weren’t wrong either — described as wrathful to the extreme, with immense resentment. That demonic practitioner Kongjin is truly deranged and vicious, to have devised such a vile and malicious technique. And as for Cong Bian — who knows where he learned it — he even harbors the delusion of snatching a reincarnation for himself. What a wild fantasy… and yet—”

“Audacious beyond measure — describing it as mad and deranged hardly does it justice.” Lang Jiuchuan completed the sentence.

A’Piao had no desire to offer any praise, but since someone had already said it, he could only exhale in sullen displeasure.

Lang Jiuchuan stared fixedly at the spirit-tablet plaque, and a flash of inspiration suddenly struck her. “From what those folk histories said — this demonic practitioner Kongjin — I wonder who exactly this person is, in which era they were born, and whether or not they took on disciples?”

A’Piao was no fool. He understood the implication of her words in an instant. “Are you suggesting that Cong Bian might be a disciple of that demonic practitioner Kongjin?”

“There’s no harm in letting one’s mind wander down that path — it’s not as though thinking about it violates any law.” Lang Jiuchuan tapped her temple. “It was only a passing flash of inspiration. In any case, we don’t know who taught Cong Bian.”

A’Piao had nothing to say to that.

Lang Jiuchuan held the wooden plaque and walked back to the genealogy laid out on the offering table, flipping through the pages until she stopped at the name Cong Jinling. She studied the recorded birth date and year, counting on her fingers. “This Cong Prince Consort died a year ago.”

A’Piao walked over. “Long-premeditated. Hardly an injustice to accuse them.”

“Within such a timeframe — dying so conveniently — he was most likely made into fodder for their old ancestor.” A glimmer of darkness flashed through Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes. A deep revulsion rose in her heart, and a surge of cold fury welled up from within.

Such complete disregard for human bonds, such selfish and malicious cruelty — it was truly hateful. More hateful, even, than the jiangshi itself. She wished for nothing more than to be rid of him at once.

Lang Jiuchuan turned her head, caught sight of the black meditation cushion, and walked over to it. She glanced around the room, then retrieved a pair of lamp-wick scissors from the offering table and cut the cushion open.

Something fell out of it.

The two of them exchanged a glance.

“Be careful. Don’t get caught by another trap,” A’Piao said.

Lang Jiuchuan nudged it open with her foot. It was a worn garment made of hundred-family cloth — a patchwork of scraps stitched together. Such garments were typically either donated by neighbors or assembled by parents who had gathered fabric from a hundred households, stitching it together stitch by stitch, weaving every wish and blessing into the cloth.

Seeing nothing strange leap out, she picked it up and shook it open. It was a small garment, very old, carrying a faint musty smell.

She moved to a brighter spot to examine it, then turned it over. At the collar, she found a line of fine, beautifully embroidered characters: a blessing incantation, along with a childhood name and a set of Four Pillars and Eight Characters — though they had worn so faint as to be barely legible.

“This wouldn’t happen to be that old wretch’s Eight Characters, would it?” A’Piao squinted at it, looking and looking, but the markings were too faded to read clearly.

Lang Jiuchuan reached out and traced the threadwork lines and contours with her fingertips, gently closing her eyes. She committed those faint ridges to memory, and only after a long moment did she open her eyes. Her gaze glimmered. “It’s possible.”

“One’s Four Pillars and Eight Characters are not something to be casually displayed before others — so why would they be embroidered onto a small garment?” A’Piao was deeply puzzled.

Lang Jiuchuan said, “As it happens, I came across something like this in a collection of folk anecdotes while I was at Huguo Temple. It recorded a story: a child fell gravely ill and couldn’t recover, so his mother knelt and begged fabric from a hundred families to make a garment of blessing and longevity. She embroidered the child’s name and birth date and characters upon it, kowtowed eighty-one times with the utmost devotion, and offered the garment before the Medicine King Bodhisattva — praying for her child’s fortune, longevity, and good health — then dressed the child in the garment, which was said to ward off ill fortune and illness.”

A’Piao fell silent.

In other words, this small garment had been sewn by a mother, who had knelt in absolute devotion before the Bodhisattva and prayed for the health of her own child.

He couldn’t quite find the words for what he felt. After a pause, he said, “If this belongs to Cong Bian, how does he deserve such a blessing? And what has he done to his mother? If she knew her son would grow into a monstrous madman, would she have regretted not drowning him in the chamber pot while she had the chance?”

Lang Jiuchuan carefully folded the small garment — already too fragile to withstand much more of time’s ravages — and glanced at him. “When you have nothing better to do, spend less time listening to market women curse their useless sons.”

A’Piao received that jab, shot her a glare, and said, “Why are you taking all this? What use do you have for it?”

“I have my plans.” Lang Jiuchuan walked out of the ancestral hall. “Let’s go. This trip wasn’t wasted after all. I wonder if the Xuan Clan has managed to track down the jiangshi’s whereabouts yet.”

No sooner had she spoken than Jiangche’s spiritual sense stirred: “Lang Jiu, come see what I’ve found.”

After she had entered the hidden chamber of the ancestral hall, she had sent Jiangche out through the secret passage to investigate where it led beyond the city walls. As it turned out, the passage opened near a small earth-god shrine on the outskirts.

“Did you not find it strange — a secret passage leading out of the city to an earth-god shrine?” Lang Jiuchuan asked A’Piao.

A’Piao: “?”

A small earth-god shrine, no matter how much incense it received, would only attract the occasional passerby and the people from a nearby village coming to pay their respects. Who would pay it any real attention?

Still — what exactly did that look of contempt in her eyes mean?

Lang Jiuchuan turned back into the secret passage and moved quickly in the direction Jiangche had indicated toward the earth-god shrine.

Upon exiting the passage, they emerged into a mountain forest. Lang Jiuchuan jumped down from A’Piao’s back and followed Jiangche’s position.

A’Piao, who had been conscripted into service as a living carriage: “……”

Not even a word of thanks — and sure enough, the incense offerings she’d burned at his altar hadn’t been for nothing. Nothing in this world comes free.

“I must never go soft-hearted again,” A’Piao muttered in self-reproach. Had he not noticed that she’d barely been walking a short while before her complexion went pale and her breath grew faint and shallow, he would never have offered to carry her.

And look how that turned out — she couldn’t even be bothered to say thank you.

Lang Jiuchuan stepped out of the mountain forest onto the official road. Not far from the road stood an earth-god shrine, roughly half a person’s height. Jiangche was perched on top of it, and upon seeing her, gave a little wave of its claws.

But she didn’t hurry forward. Instead she stood where she was, surveying the surroundings in a full circle, then studied the placement and orientation of the earth-god shrine. A look of surprise crossed her face.

“Why have you stopped?” A’Piao walked over. “I told you there was nothing worth noticing here.”

Lang Jiuchuan shook her head with easy disagreement. “An outsider sees only the spectacle. An insider sees the principle beneath it.”

A’Piao was taken aback. What did that mean — was she calling him ignorant?

Lang Jiuchuan walked up to the earth-god shrine. Jiangche leaped onto her shoulder and crouched there, pleased with itself, eager to receive credit. “I found something extraordinary — take a look at that earth-god statue.”

A’Piao could sense Jiangche’s presence again, and remembering what Lang Jiuchuan had said before — was this truly the spiritual sense of that good-for-nothing creature?

“Brother Good-for-Nothing?” he called out tentatively.

Jiangche: “?”

Lang Jiuchuan nearly stumbled and fell headfirst in front of the earth-god shrine in a full kneeling bow, barely suppressing her laughter. She tossed Jiangche toward him. “He’s calling for you.”

Jiangche flew into a rage and hurled itself at A’Piao, ready to brawl all over again.

Lang Jiuchuan’s brow and eyes smoothed out into amusement — but the moment she crouched down and looked at the clay earth-god statue, the laughter faded from her face. She let out a breath of cold incredulity.