Two branches, full of blossoms.

After leaving Cui Shi’s courtyard, Lang Jiuchuan returned to her own quarters — and nearly came to blows with Jiangche, for no reason other than that he would not stop talking.

“…The most pressing concern right now is not leaving the Marquis’s manor, but figuring out how to repair this near-disintegrating corpse of yours.” Jiangche jabbed an indignant paw toward the body lying on the bed, which barely rose and fell at all, and glared at Lang Jiuchuan.

Lang Jiuchuan said: “To restore a ruined vessel, one needs opportunity first. If I am confined to this rear courtyard, staring at the same patch of sky every day, what can I possibly accomplish? In the seven days since I entered this body, I have not stepped foot outside the Marquis’s manor except for the funeral procession out of the city — not once. Even if someone were on the brink of life and death, I would have no way to reach them. Given that — why not leave when the chance presents itself?”

That was a fair point.

He had also seen for himself — women faced far greater obstacles than men, with inconveniences at every turn.

But quickly, Jiangche gave a contemptuous snort. “So what if you’re a woman? With the two of us combined — could we truly be trapped beneath this small patch of sky? If you cannot go out openly, can’t you simply put on a disguise?”

Lang Jiuchuan gave him a sidelong glance. For once, he had said something sensible worth listening to, and she rather approved of it.

“Whether to leave can be set aside for now. This body truly is a problem — I have thought it over. Maintaining the appearance of a normal living person through an illusory concealment technique alone takes too much vital energy. There is a talisman I know — the Yang-Restoring Talisman — that once applied will make one appear indistinguishable from an ordinary living person. Go and find some materials so I can craft it.”

Jiangche pointed at himself. “You’re ordering me to run errands? On what grounds?”

Lang Jiuchuan’s face was cold as she laughed. “On the grounds that we share one body — for your good and mine and everyone’s good — of course we must divide labor and cooperate. What, am I supposed to do all the work while you sit back and reap the rewards? Is that what your cat paws dreamed up as their perfect arrangement?”

Jiangche: “!”

Wait — that wasn’t right. If he didn’t come, wouldn’t she still have to work hard to revive this corpse on her own? So it seemed she had been digging a pit to catch a capable runner-of-errands all along — and he had quite willingly jumped right into it himself.

Seeing through this point, Jiangche’s fur bristled again, and he felt a self-reproachful shame at his own foolishness.

He swallowed a mouthful of indignation and shot back: “Have some perspective in life — drop that petty small-mindedness of yours.”

“You have perspective — go call every stranger you meet your father!”

A single strike, instant kill.

Jiangche was so thoroughly put down that he bared his sharp tiger fangs at her.

Lang Jiuchuan idly played with her jade-bone talisman brush.

Come on then — who was afraid of whom?

Jiangche: “……”

The pair stared each other down with wide, unyielding eyes, until finally Jiangche conceded defeat.

“Fine. Tell me what you need.”

His voice had taken on a somewhat deflated quality, as though his tiger fangs had been pulled — stripped of his former imposing manner.

A glimmer of amusement passed through Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes. She reeled him in toward her, kneaded the back of his neck with her hand, and said: “Don’t feel as if you’re surrendering to my tyranny — though that is indeed the case. Just think of it this way: when this body is well, so will you be nourished. You are doing this for yourself, not for anyone else — and with that framing, there is nothing you cannot accept.”

Jiangche felt rather pleased by this, but sensed something was off. She had managed to cover both the stick and the carrot in a single breath — yet he couldn’t quite tell when she had learned the art of offering a slap followed by a sweet date.

But Lang Jiuchuan had been right about one thing — he was doing this for himself, not for her. So: he was in!

Jiangche rubbed his paws together eagerly, completely failing to notice that he was presently the size of a cat, and was squinting his tiger eyes blissfully as she scratched him behind the neck.

Lang Jiuchuan said: “To sustain it longer, an ordinary talisman would likely lose its effect in three days. We need to craft a superior one. It requires: top-grade yellow talisman paper, ash from incense burned before a Buddha, premium grade cinnabar, and water from a mountain-peak snowmelt spring. If no such spring water is available, collect snowmelt from the petals of meadowsweet flowers.”

Jiangche was puzzled. “Talisman-drawing requires all these things? And what is meadowsweet?”

“It is a cold-hardy flower, as well as a medicinal herb — it treats wind-cold illness, coughs, and aching in the head and body. As for why these particular ingredients — an ordinary talisman requires only cinnabar. But incense ash that has been offered before a Buddha day and night carries within it the accumulated power of ten thousand prayers — it is an exceptionally potent ward against evil…”

“A ward against evil — are you planning to harm yourself?” Jiangche cut her off without hesitation.

She was, after all, a soul that had taken up residence in another’s body. By the reckoning of those who considered themselves arbiters of the righteous path — whether Buddhists or Taoists — something like her could well be labeled a malevolent spirit. And she dared to apply a ward against evil upon herself?

“It is both a ward and a restorative — what I actually need is its accumulated wish-power. My intention is to use this incense ash and snowmelt water, supplemented with other medicinal ingredients, to paint a Yang-Restoring Medicinal Talisman.”

Jiangche turned it over carefully in his mind. He thought to himself: this woman does not seem to be bluffing — she actually knows what she’s doing.

“What about the medicinal herbs? Are we not needing those?”

“Could a manor this grand not have medicinal herbs?” Lang Jiuchuan thought a moment, then added: “You are the King of Beasts — if you can find a ginseng root of many years’ growth deep in the mountains, that would be better still.”

“Understood. Leave it to me.” Jiangche asked no further questions, and his spiritual consciousness departed from the Marquis’s manor.

In their current bond, the most vital part of his being resided within her spiritual platform for safekeeping. The rest of his awareness could depart from the body without incident — and if he encountered trouble outside, he still had a fallback of having her come to his aid, or at the very least, surviving by whatever means necessary.

With Jiangche gone from the manor, Lang Jiuchuan called for Jian Lan and requested brush and ink. After a moment’s consideration, she wrote down the names of several medicinal ingredients she would need.

Jian Lan waited attentively at her side. When Lang Jiuchuan set down the brush, Jian Lan’s eyes drifted surreptitiously to the paper — and at what she saw, she froze, filled with admiration.

“Your writing is so beautiful, Young Miss.”

On the white xuan paper, the ink had driven through the sheet with full force — the brushwork was vigorous and powerful, the strokes bold and magnificent, with a sweeping grandeur to them.

Jian Lan could read, and looking closer at the characters, she saw they were all names of medicinal herbs. She asked: “Has Young Miss written out a prescription? What is it treating?”

Lang Jiuchuan glanced over at her. When Jian Lan met that gaze, a shiver ran through her, and she stepped back a pace, bowed her head, and said meekly: “This servant spoke out of turn.”

“It is not exactly a prescription.” Lang Jiuchuan stared absently at the characters on the paper.

She was simply a little curious — were these things she knew through the faint residual impressions left by the original soul, acting on her instinctively, or had she known them herself all along? And this handwriting — was it from the consciousness of her true self?

If it was — then who had taught her these arts, who had guided her hand stroke by stroke to produce this vigorous, pine-like script?

Lang Jiuchuan shook her head. Once the ink had dried, she passed the paper to Jian Lan and said: “I would like these medicinal herbs. Can the manor provide them?”

Jian Lan took the paper and replied: “Young Miss, you are the young mistress of our second branch — of course it can be arranged.”

Lang Jiuchuan raised an eyebrow and looked at her. “Do you truly believe I am the young mistress of this second branch? Even your Madam does not acknowledge me. When not even she — as a mother — claims me, who would ever genuinely regard me as a young mistress deserving of respect?”

“This servant would!” Jian Lan answered without a moment’s hesitation.

“Are you pitying me?”

Jian Lan’s expression changed. She wanted to say something in her own defense — but before she could, Lang Jiuchuan added: “Well — you would be right. A person like me — who wouldn’t pity the sight of it?”

Regardless of what the truth might be, as the legitimate daughter of the second branch, she ought to have been raised in luxury, doted upon and indulged — and instead, her father had died and her mother had cast her aside, and she had been exiled to a remote estate from childhood. Who would not sigh and call it pitiable?

Lang Jiuchuan did not wallow in self-pity before Jian Lan. Her thoughts turned to the pulse she had felt in Cui Shi’s wrist when she pressed the Neiguan acupoint, and she shifted the subject: “Madam’s heart condition — how long has she had it?”

(Reader note at bottom of original chapter: “Felt it the moment I looked at it, but the moment I tried to learn it, I lost it — deeply humbled. Those who agree, type 1.”)