Lang Jiuchuan was in poor spirits. And when she was in poor spirits, she wasn’t about to let anyone else feel at ease — she needed to stir something up. But this was Huguo Temple. What trouble could there possibly be to find?

She walked through the meditation courtyard with a dark expression — until she heard the sound of commotion somewhere nearby. She turned her head. Well. That was the courtyard where that false bodhisattva was staying.

Lang Jiuchuan walked into the crowd and listened to what the onlookers were saying. Apparently, a female lay-practitioner had been possessed by a nightmare spirit right here in the temple — she had scratched her own face badly, and nearly clawed one of her eyes halfway out. Sounded rather terrifying.

“Getting possessed by a nightmare spirit inside a temple — she must have done a lifetime of wicked deeds. Even the Buddha can’t suppress all that karmic retribution anymore,” someone remarked with a light scoff.

“Indeed.”

Lang Jiuchuan listened to this commentary with a slight lift at the corner of her mouth. No amount of sutra-chanting was going to dissolve Fang’s accumulated karma, and Fang had best not think otherwise.

Shortly afterward, a monk came out and dispersed the crowd, forbidding people from standing around watching.

Some of the onlookers drifted off reluctantly. Lang Jiuchuan stayed where she was, watching as a monk with notably striking features stepped out from the meditation room — even with a shaved head, his handsome appearance did nothing to conceal a certain roguish charm.

So this was Fang’s paramour — that Master Xuanming, the one renowned for seducing other men’s wives?

Her gaze was too intent to go unnoticed. Xuanming looked over and saw her, his brows shifting slightly. He walked toward her: “Amitabha. This young lay-practitioner…”

Lang Jiuchuan took one look at the residual yin energy that had not yet fully dispersed within the courtyard, let out a cold laugh, and turned to walk away.

Xuanming blinked, then his brow furrowed deeply.

Was it her? Fang had woken up claiming that someone had cursed her — that Lang family ninth girl. She was certain it was her who had worked some underhanded dark art.

And the nightmare spirit that had entered Fang’s dreams had been exceptionally vicious. He had just used his protective talisman bells to suppress it, though he wasn’t sure they would hold.

What a nuisance.

Just as Xuanming was growing exasperated, another scream erupted from inside the room. He wheeled around and stepped back in quickly — the woman who had only moments ago calmed down had seized a silver hairpin and was driving it toward her bandaged eye.

Her expression was contorted and savage, vicious beyond reason — as if she were possessed.

Xuanming’s face darkened. His gaze dropped to her wrist. The protective talisman bells he had placed there had gone completely ashen, cracked through, their power spent.

With no other option, he pulled out his own prayer beads, looped them around Fang, and began to chant the Diamond Sutra.

Lang Jiuchuan stepped out of the courtyard, feeling somewhat better. Then she noticed a monk standing ahead of her. Her conscience gave a small, guilty twitch, and she gave a measured nod.

The monk walked toward her, pressed his palms together, and recited a brief word of Buddha’s name before saying, with a tone of mild resignation: “Lang lay-practitioner, the Head Abbot has conveyed that he hopes you will, out of respect for him, put down the blade and show mercy for now.”

Lang Jiuchuan: “…”

She asked, with a slight chagrin: “The Head Abbot has come out of seclusion?”

The monk sighed. “Should you insist on wielding the blade, he would have no choice but to do so.”

Recalling the blood Master Xuanneng had coughed up when he helped her deal with Cong Bian, Lang Jiuchuan gave a grudging pull of her mouth. “The Head Abbot is merciful. So too shall I be merciful.”

All right — this was Master Xuanneng’s domain, after all. To take a life here was indeed somewhat disrespectful to him.

Out of consideration for him, she would refrain from slaughtering the woman while she was in Huguo Temple.

The monk recited another “Amitabha.”

Lang Jiuchuan formed a seal with her fingers and withdrew the nightmare art from Fang’s body, calling it back to herself.

Inside the room, Xuanming, pale-faced and sweating through his brow from chanting the Diamond Sutra, suddenly saw the prayer beads he had wound around Fang snap apart, the strand broken. She went limp and crumpled, her expression returning to peace. He stared, bewildered.

The nightmare spirit — it just left on its own?

That thought only darkened his expression further. Didn’t this mean exactly what Fang had been saying — that someone had worked a curse on her?

In Huguo Temple, someone dared to be this brazen. Who was it? Was it really that little Lang girl? Did she have the capability?

Lang Jiuchuan found a young novice monk and asked him to go and let the people on Cui Shi’s side know that she had gone up the back mountain, and there was no need to look for her.

Huguo Temple’s terrain was itself a place of favorable natural energy. She planned to absorb the vital breath of the mountains and all living things within — it would be of great benefit to her cultivation.

Seeing that the mountain path was deserted, she considered for a moment, then worked the Spirit-Walking Art. Since her rebirth, she had not yet used this technique, and she was curious to test whether her current level of cultivation would allow her to truly cover a thousand li in a single day.

A quarter of an hour later, Lang Jiuchuan was leaning against a great boulder at the mountain peak, breathing hard. She rubbed at her aching spiritual center. A thousand li in a day — at her current strength, it was still a strain.

After adjusting her breath to settle herself, she sat cross-legged on the stone, formed seals with both hands, circulated her cultivation method, drew in the vital energy of the mountain’s plants and trees, guided it into her meridians and spirit court, and entered a state of deep contemplation.

Jiangche followed the trail of energy back to Huguo Temple’s rear mountain. Catching sight of that black-hearted woman in a state of cultivation, he immediately suppressed his own presence and let out a low, disgruntled huff.

I am absolutely not preparing an ambush here. I’m simply testing how sharp her instincts are.

Jiangche drew in his presence until it was nearly imperceptible, then broke off a large leaf and draped it over his neck as a disguise, and began to creep — step by cautious step — in Lang Jiuchuan’s direction.

Once the distance was less than a single zhang, he launched his attack with a sudden burst of speed.

A fierce, trembling cry that shook the mountain forest — a savage, explosive sound.

He sprang forward with nimble grace, moving with the swiftness of lightning, stirring up the fierce and violent energy within his body. In the empty air, a massive tiger took shape with jaws gaping wide, lunging down at Lang Jiuchuan to bite.

Surely not — with all this buildup, how can she show not the slightest intention of dodging? If this actually lands, she is going to suffer.

Jiangche was both furious and frantic. In those golden pupils, the reflection of her slender frame. He wanted to pull back — but it was already too late. The great jaws were nearly upon her head, and he was forcing himself to abort the strike when, in the space of a lightning flash, a burst of golden light shot out from Lang Jiuchuan.

Boom.

Jiangche took the full force of the blow. The tiger formed from savage energy instantly shattered and dispersed. He gave a howl, and plummeted from midair.

“Shameless! You sensed me long ago, and played me for a fool!”

A voice that was quite soft came out of his mouth.

Lang Jiuchuan reached out and caught his falling body with one hand. She laughed coldly. “This is called using deception in warfare. I told you not to be sentimental and act on misplaced sympathy.”

She scooped up a little ball of flesh no bigger than her palm and gave it a squeeze — the texture felt off. She looked down, and her eyes widened: a small, pink, rounded little lump. “Where’s your fur?”

Was this thing a tiger? Where were those thick, glossy, smooth stripes? No fur — what was she supposed to stroke?

“You dare bring that up? Who was the one born straight into a tribulation? Me. And you still talk about fur — all burned off. This skin of mine has barely just healed!” Jiangche flipped himself upright in a single clean motion and sat crouched in her palm, seething. “If you had given me even a word of warning, it never would have come to this.”

“If you don’t go through nine deaths to find one life, how would the heavens ever allow your spirit to enter this little tiger cub?” Lang Jiuchuan peered down between his legs. “Oh — male. So your wish was granted after all.”

Jiangche: “?”

He looked down, and immediately covered himself with both paws, quivering with indignation, his bare skin going even pinker with fury: “Avert your eyes — shameless!”

Lang Jiuchuan flicked his forehead. “You’re nothing but a tiny little cub. Not even a tuft of fur on you. Looking at you isn’t going to cost me anything.”

“You—”

“Hush. Stop making noise.” Lang Jiuchuan suddenly stood, turning her gaze down the mountain. She pressed two fingers together in a seal, and her expression shifted abruptly. She pushed off with the tip of her foot, worked the Spirit-Walking Art, grabbed Jiangche by the scruff of his neck, and sprinted down the mountain at full speed.

Something had gone wrong.