Lang Jiuchuan’s sinister, villain-like bearing inexplicably made everyone’s scalp tighten — most of all Daoist Huang, who had suffered directly at her hands. Dread was rising fast in his chest.

Though he still didn’t understand why this ill-fated-looking girl had been completely unaffected by the yin energy in the coffin nail, he had no time to dwell on it. He had taken severe backlash and was in no state for a direct confrontation. Staying alive came first — better to run.

Watching Lang Jiuchuan approach, the Daoist’s pupils contracted sharply. He flung a yellow talisman paper at her with one hand. The talisman ignited without flame, and a dark fog immediately billowed out, blanketing the area. He then scrambled rapidly toward the doorway.

But before the Daoist’s hand could reach the door, a chill ran up his spine. By instinct, he spun around — and stared in absolute horror.

Lang Jiuchuan was standing right behind him.

“Who — who are you?!” Why did even the dark fog have no effect on her at all?

“The old heaven-sent grandmother you cannot kill!” Lang Jiuchuan held a small three-pronged trident in hand and plunged it toward his spiritual gate.

The Daoist let out an even more agonized shriek than before. Every last bit of strength seemed to be wrenched forcibly out of him. He crumpled to the ground, his life force draining at a terrifying rate, his throat making a wet, gurgling sound.

By this time, the dark fog had filled the entire mourning hall. Shadowy figures seemed to writhe and shift within it, and eerie, wailing cries rang out, sending everyone present into screaming panic.

But before their screams could carry beyond the mourning hall, a sound rang out — a ringing of bells that seemed to come from some ancient, primordial place, carrying within it a limitless sense of the Dao. It cleaved through the dense black fog, and everyone’s eyes and minds instantly cleared.

The bell rang. The fog dispersed.

The assembled crowd stood with ashen faces, still trembling, their expressions dazed.

What had just happened?

“Ah — ah —!”

In the sudden silence, Wu Shi abruptly seized the soft flesh of Lang Caimeng’s inner arm and shrieked, then ducked behind him.

Lang Caimeng’s eyes watered from the pain. He automatically looked down — and there, no more than two paces away, lay a withered, ancient-looking old Daoist, his eyes bulging as if they were about to burst from their sockets. And on top of him, a foot clad in a straw sandal was planted firmly.

It was Lang Jiuchuan.

One hand toying with a small bell at her waist, the other pressed against her chest as she struggled to catch her breath, her face completely bloodless.

Lang Caimeng pulled his wife back two steps, his expression carefully composed — or it would have appeared so, had Wu Shi not worked so hard to pry his hand loose, making it obvious he wasn’t as calm as he looked.

Lang Jiuchuan cast the two of them an irritated sideways glance. Her trembling hand stroked the Dizhong Bell, fingertips running over the inscribed symbols, and inwardly she cursed the Panguan for being utterly inconsiderate — saddling her with this ruined body. Maintaining the outward appearance of being alive already consumed enormous spiritual energy, and now she’d had to break this wretched charlatan’s talisman on top of that. Exhausted upon exhausted.

The sliver of merit she had earned was nowhere near enough to compensate. She had come out the loser!

Lang Jiuchuan ground her foot hatefully against the face of the barely-surviving old Daoist. Blame yourself, you wretched fraud.

The old Daoist nearly couldn’t draw his next breath. His throat let out a thick sound, and he looked more wretched than before.

“How did he end up like this?” Lang Cailing stared at the old Daoist in terror, then looked at Lang Jiuchuan, marveling that she actually dared stand on top of him. Did she have no sense of disgust at all?

Lang Zhengping’s face was dark as still water, his hands clenched into fists.

On the day of his father’s coffin-sealing, such a tremendous upheaval. If word got out, the Lang Family’s reputation would take a serious blow — and worse still, if a censor reported it to the throne, heaven only knew how the imperial family would regard them. Would they be seen as unfilial? Would the court think the Lang Family was dabbling in the bizarre and supernatural?

“Coming, coming!”

Lang Caiguang, who had been sent outside by Lang Jiuchuan to fetch people, returned in the midst of the hall’s stunned silence. He parted the crowd of onlookers and walked in, accompanied by two religious figures — a Daoist and a monk.

Lang Zhengping looked at Lang Jiuchuan with a complex expression and said, “The coffin-sealing cannot be delayed — we’ll deal with the rest afterward. Bring this old Daoist away.”

The household servants stepped forward nervously and warily.

“Wait.” Lang Jiuchuan withdrew her foot and crouched down, rummaging through the Daoist Huang’s sleeves.

The others: “…”

Several of the young women’s expressions shifted. She was a young unmarried woman searching the body of a man, with not a trace of concern for the proper decorum between men and women. Was that not taking things too far?

Instinctively, they glanced toward Cui Shi. Sure enough, the second aunt — a woman who valued propriety above all — had gone a shade of iron-grey. Her lips were pressed together in a tight, rigid line.

Clink, clink.

Something was tossed out by Lang Jiuchuan — several long, pitch-black nails. They weren’t new nails; they were entirely black, with something deeply unsettling about the sight of them.

“What are these?” Lang Zhengping frowned and counted them. Seven. They should be the descendant nails used to seal the coffin — except these were not new nails, and they were unusually sharp. Something was off.

He looked at the fresh wound on Lang Jiuchuan’s hanging hand. It looked as though it had been scraped and pierced by exactly these nails.

“Ninth Sister, aren’t these just nails?” Lang Caimeng reached down to pick one up.

Just as his hand was about to touch them, Lang Jiuchuan snapped, “Don’t touch them.”

Her voice was cold and sharp. Lang Caimeng’s fingertip gave a startled jerk; he had just grazed one nail, and the dark, icy killing energy that radiated from it jolted him like an electric shock and he yanked his hand back.

Ice cold.

“These coffin nails carry a heavy yin aura.” The Daoist in the pale blue robe — the one Lang Caiguang had brought in — frowned down at the nails on the ground.

Beside him, the monk pressed his palms together and recited a soft “Amitabha.”

“A yin aura?” Lang Zhengping’s expression shifted drastically. He stepped forward quickly and cupped his hands in a respectful bow. “Dare I ask, Daoist Zhong — what do you mean when you say the coffin nails carry a yin aura? Can you explain?”

Daoist Zhong produced a talisman and held it in one hand, then bent down and picked up one of the coffin nails. As the yin energy and resentment reached him through the talisman he said, “This poor Daoist’s suspicion was not wrong. These coffin nails were tempered in a place of dark yin — at minimum, they were steeped among corpses. They are objects of sinister yin evil, and must not be touched.”

Everyone present let out a collective gasp.

“But — Daoist, you’re still holding it!”

Daoist Zhong smiled faintly. “This poor Daoist was born during an hour of pure yang, and I carry a protective talisman given by my master. It is not a concern for me.”

Ah, so that’s why. Dare we ask if you have any spare protective talismans? We’d very much like some too!

Lang Zhengping wanted to ask more, but the corner of his eye caught Lang Jiuchuan moving toward the coffin. She was crouching down and reaching inside, feeling around for something. He immediately called out sharply, “What are you doing now?!”

He strode over in three quick steps. He saw that her hand was already reaching toward his father’s head, and his eyes went wide with fury. “You are out of line!”

She dared to disturb the remains of the deceased — this girl had extraordinary audacity.

Everyone’s attention was pulled in that direction, and they were collectively at a loss for words. She really does dare anything.

Cui Shi’s lips were trembling with rage.

Lang Jiuchuan’s gaze shifted upward. Her cool, still eyes met Lang Zhengping’s directly. Her hand never stopped moving. She found the acupuncture point at the top of the head — the Baihui point — and paused there for just a moment before drawing out whatever was embedded in it.

A long needle, equally jet-black, radiating cold.

Lang Zhengping’s body swayed. His vision darkened and a stifling pain pressed in on his chest.

From the paper figure’s eyes, to the coffin nails saturated in yin evil, and now a long needle of equally sinister energy pulled from his father’s head — whoever was behind this, what did they intend for the Lang Family? The methods were endless. They had not even spared the dead. To desecrate his father in such a way — how vicious, how utterly ruthless.

The flames of fury erupted and shot straight to the crown of his skull.

Pfft.

Lang Zhengping could not hold it back. He spat a mouthful of dark blood.