Lang Jiuchuan’s divine soul drifted without anchor, unable to settle, with nowhere to turn. She felt like a rootless waterweed, floating without a place to rest.
Now that she knew the true cause of Lang Zhengfan’s death, a thought took hold of her: the original inhabitant of this body had lived in disgrace on an estate because her birth father had died and her mother refused to acknowledge her. But what if everything could start over — if she had been born at full term, raised in her parents’ love and doting? Would life have unfolded differently? Would she herself have been different?
If she truly was the real Lang Jiuchuan, and if Lang Zhengfan had not died, would she have grown up like other noble daughters — clothed in silk, fed the finest food, living her days in peace?
No. Xie Zhenming had moved against Lang Zhengfan out of jealousy and a desire to take his place. And her own substitution at birth — that was likely yet another conspiracy entirely.
The more she turned it over in her mind, the more her soul refused to gather itself. The divine soul that was already weakened and depleted from the soul search grew even more scattered and diffuse.
Muyü could not help but sigh at the sight.
The Small Nine Pagoda was not all-powerful. If she did not collect and restore her soul, part of it would likely dissipate, and her path going forward would become even more treacherous.
But Lang Jiuchuan’s emotions were in turmoil, and all her turmoil stemmed from instability.
From learning that in all likelihood she was born of Cui Shi — a mystery of her very origins — to now uncovering the truth of her birth father’s death, she felt as though she had fallen into a vortex of ten thousand blades. The longer she stayed within it, the more it slashed and cut until she bled.
This was the first time Muyü and Jiangche had ever seen Lang Jiuchuan lose her composure.
Yet in this moment, she felt more human than ever — a person of flesh and blood and feeling, who could be unsettled and at a loss in the face of the unknown, rather than a cold creature that knew only slaughter and the accumulation of merit.
Muyü began to strike up a slow, steady rhythm, just as it had been played in the master’s presence long ago, struck again and again, like the murmuring sound of a Buddhist chant washing over everything.
As the Buddha said: “Life in this world is like being amid thorns. If the heart does not stir, the person does not move rashly — stillness brings no harm. But if the heart stirs, the person moves rashly; the body is injured, the bones ache, and thus one comes to know the myriad sufferings of the world…”
Lang Jiuchuan turned, and it was as though she glimpsed Master Luole floating in the air in meditation, propping his chin in his hand and murmuring a Buddhist verse to her. She drifted toward him and listened carefully, her brow knitting.
“Finding the Buddhist verse a bit of a chore to understand, are you?” Master Luole gave a light laugh. “Put simply — stop all this pointless brooding. Cultivating your body, tempering your heart, and achieving your own greatness — that is what you should be doing. When your power becomes strong enough, you will cut down gods when gods stand in your way and cut down Buddhas when Buddhas stand in your way. You will set everything that unsettles you to rights. What is there to fear in having no roots, no anchor? Why not choose a place yourself to take root, hack through the thorns and brambles, break through the wind and waves, and grow into a towering tree? When that day comes, people will seek shelter in your shade of their own accord. To be blinded by a single leaf is the folly of the ignorant. Do not be such a fool!”
Lang Jiuchuan was shaken. Her divine soul cleared in an instant. To choose a place and take root — was that not exactly her circumstances right now?
She would claim this body as her own, live on, repay every debt of blood, and right every wrong done to her.
Listening to the steady rhythm of the wooden fish striking, Lang Jiuchuan’s soul gradually gathered itself, slowly settling until it sank into the soul-nurturing formation. She cast aside all stray thoughts, formed a hand seal, and entered a state of profound contemplation.
Once she entered that state, days passed in the blink of an eye.
On the first day of the second month, someone from the Xuan Clan’s Gong Family arrived — still Gong Qi, but now with a little tagalong, Gong Shiliu, trailing behind him.
The two of them stood at the entrance of the Everything Shop, staring up at the horizontal plaque and the couplet flanking the door, clicking their tongues in admiration.
“Seventh Brother, doesn’t that plaque look like it has formation runes carved into it? It doesn’t seem ordinary to me,” Gong Shiliu said quietly.
Gong Qi replied, “Your eye has sharpened — no wonder the Young Lord praised you recently.”
Gong Shiliu looked a little dejected. “But the Young Lord still won’t let me join that Special Affairs Surveillance Bureau.”
“Do you think that’s some desirable posting? It’s nothing more than a place where the Xuan Clan and the Imperial Family check and balance each other, like river water and well water that never mingle — each keeping to its own side, neither provoking the other. Those who enter this bureau are either bold thorns with real ability, or those with enough cunning to navigate it. Otherwise, one misstep and you’ll be the one who loses out. Don’t underestimate officials — every one of them is born with a hundred schemes behind their eyes. When their machinations come at you, do you really think you can outplay them?”
Gong Shiliu’s eyes lit up as he looked at him. “Seventh Brother is the finest thorn in my eyes. I want to follow your example and enter the bureau myself one day.”
Gong Qi’s mouth twitched. He had no interest in that particular title, thank you very much.
“Gong Qi, what brings you here?” A man in his early thirties stepped out from inside.
Gong Qi looked at him and felt a faint sense of familiarity. “And you are…?”
“I am Fuqi. You may call me Innkeeper Fu going forward.” Fuqi cupped his hands in greeting and tugged his sleeve slightly, looking somewhat ill at ease.
This was A’Piao’s doing — seeing that Lang Jiuchuan had not emerged for several days and that Fuqi was greatly inconvenienced without a physical body, she had taken one of her own paper forms, altered its appearance slightly, and lent it to him for temporary use.
Fuqi cultivated the Ghost Dao, honing the power of slaughter. Even inhabiting a paper form, his murderous aura was difficult to conceal, and even Gong Shiliu instinctively reined in his playful grin.
Gong Qi stared in astonishment. “This body of yours…”
“A mere paper figure for temporary residence — forgive the unorthodox appearance,” Fuqi offered in explanation.
Gong Qi blinked and looked him over again, marveling privately at how utterly flawless it was. Had he not known of Fuqi’s situation, he would have taken this for a living person — just as the foolish youngster beside him undoubtedly had.
Fuqi led them inside. As it happened, Lang Jiuchuan had just emerged from her contemplative state, and he was immediately overjoyed, hurrying forward to meet her.
Gong Qi, however, paused in his stride, looking at Lang Jiuchuan with a sense that something was different.
“It’s only been a few days — why does it feel like she’s grown even stronger? That detached, frigid air about her is even harder to approach now, even more impossible to offend. Strange,” Gong Shiliu whispered into Gong Qi’s ear, eyes fixed on Lang Jiuchuan.
The Lang Jiuchuan walking slowly toward them seemed as though she had taken some miraculous medicine to cleanse her bones and marrow to the core. She was like a figure stepping out of a remote mountain mist — mysterious and powerful, coldly distant, inspiring awe at a glance.
Gong Qi’s brow furrowed. He stepped forward and studied her closely. “Did something happen to you?”
Such a dramatic change in so short a time — something must have occurred.
Lang Jiuchuan replied evenly, “Nothing much. I simply happened to learn that there are a few enemies who won’t rest until one of us is dead — enemies that I need to finish off.”
Both Gong Qi and Gong Shiliu shivered at her words, and for no reason they could quite name, they found themselves feeling a grain of sympathy for whoever those enemies were.
Why would anyone provoke her?
Lang Jiuchuan looked past the two of them and asked, “I sent word to your clan — why is it you two who came? Where are the people from the Enforcement Hall? Did you join the Enforcement Hall and come specifically to collect someone?”
“They had just come across an old Daoist who was struggling against a ghost and couldn’t hold his own, so they went to help. We came ahead,” Gong Qi had barely finished speaking when there was a sound from the rooftop. Two cultivators in matching Daoist robes dropped into the courtyard — one of them with a chain in hand, at the end of which hung a barely-conscious female ghost.
Lang Jiuchuan’s gaze swept over them. When it landed on the red garment the female ghost was wearing, her expression shifted. She shot forward. “Let her go!”