The carriage wheels rumbled with a dull, rhythmic sound along the long street. Lang Zhengping sat cross-legged, watching the slender young girl seated across from him at the small table. When he saw her reach for a piece of cloud cake, he immediately slid the plate closer to her.

“The cloud cake from Ruyi Pavilion is sweet and soft — it is one of their signature confections. If you enjoy it, I will have the household servants buy some for you from now on.” Lang Zhengping’s voice was exceedingly gentle.

Lang Jiuchuan gave a small shudder.

This tone was far too soft. She was not accustomed to it.

She quietly set down the piece of cloud cake and looked at Lang Zhengping. “You need not be so careful around me. I am not some great flood or ferocious beast that bites people at random.”

Right. You do not bite. You just kill people with your mouth.

Lang Zhengping cleared his throat and ventured cautiously: “Have you ever studied Daoist arts?”

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyebrow arched. “What makes you say that?”

“Earlier, at your grandfather’s funeral hall, you demonstrated something. An ordinary person would not notice anything amiss with paper effigies, let alone use terms like ‘spirit animation’ — but you spotted it immediately. And that old Daoist — did you engage in some kind of spiritual contest with him? How else could he have ended up the way he did? Then there was Old Master Zhao: you said he would not live more than a few days, and sure enough, he…”

Lang Zhengping fixed his gaze on her. “Once is coincidence. Twice, three times — that is something else entirely.”

Lang Jiuchuan met his gaze steadily. His eyes held a measure of wariness, of probing, of doubt — he was clearly suspicious of her.

How fitting — Lang Jiuchuan had never intended to live according to the original occupant’s way of life in the first place. She needed to keep this body functioning, and from here on, she would inevitably encounter many things she could not explain away. She could not conceal everything forever, nor could she explain herself every single time. She would simply be herself — which was why she had never planned to hide things completely, but rather to let everyone gradually grow accustomed to the way she operated.

After all, she would one day become a truly new Lang Jiuchuan in her own right.

“It is not coincidence,” Lang Jiuchuan said. “Now, what do you intend to do about it?”

She acknowledged it outright: yes, she understood things ordinary people did not.

Lang Zhengping was taken aback. “How does a young girl like you come to know such things? Even if growing up on the estate meant a different upbringing than what the residence could offer, I know your grandmother hand-picked her most trusted Nanny to accompany and look after you, and a private tutor was also engaged. Neither of them would ever have taught you anything of this nature.”

Lang Jiuchuan’s eyes flickered — he still had not suspected that she was not the original person?

She lowered her head slightly, appearing to deliberate, and said slowly: “These past two years, I encountered a wandering Daoist practitioner. He observed that I had extraordinary bone structure and that a teacher-and-student affinity existed between us, and so he taught me—”

Her words were cut short by the faintly mocking look that appeared in Lang Zhengping’s eyes.

Lang Zhengping gave a cold laugh. Go on then, keep making it up. Why stop?

“‘Extraordinary bone structure’ — what he probably meant was you looked sickly and easy to exploit,” Lang Zhengping said. “Some wandering Daoist? More like a charlatan who preys on naive young girls like you. You take after your father in this, I will say that much. He was only ten years old when he ran into some con artist from the martial world who told him he had extraordinary bone structure and was a born martial genius — and that he would teach him a peerless technique. The man handed over a tattered manual of fist techniques and swindled several hundred taels right out of him…”

As he spoke, his mood abruptly deflated. The corners of his eyes reddened slightly.

Lang Jiuchuan saw the emotion surfacing on his face and said nothing.

It was clear he had been extremely close to the father of this body she now inhabited.

Lang Jiuchuan was well-behaved enough not to disturb someone lost in thoughts of a departed loved one. She picked up the cloud cake again — white as snow — and began to nibble at it in small, unhurried bites.

So sweet. So soft. So fragrant.

This was a flavor that only the living could experience.

How wonderful it was to be alive.

Lang Zhengping allowed himself a moment of grief, then pretended he felt nothing, lifting his gaze to the wall of the carriage before bringing it back to Lang Jiuchuan. He caught sight of her two little cheeks moving — she looked just like a small mouse nibbling away — and the image overlapped with a memory of a small boy who used to trail after him with a piece of maltose candy in his mouth. His eyes softened, and he personally poured a cup of tea and set it in front of her. “Slow down. Do not choke.”

Lang Jiuchuan accepted the cup, took a sip, and repeated: “I do know a little of the natural way of the Dao.”

Believe it or not. She left the choice to him.

Lang Zhengping took it lightly — he assumed she had picked up some minor, trivial scraps. At most, her mouth carried some sort of spiritual potency and had a bit of a deadly edge. After all, certain people were simply born with unusual traits. Some were gifted with perfect recall and were praised as walking literary stars. Some were born with extraordinary physical strength. And some could easily perceive things unclean.

This one, then — had a divinely charged mouth, it seemed.

But to truly think of her as one of those peculiar individuals on par with the great Xuan Clan families — he did not dare allow himself to go that far.

Lang Zhengping thought for a moment, then spoke earnestly: “A young lady should cultivate virtue and quiet decorum. You are a daughter of the Lang Family — my niece. Even without your father here, I will apply myself to your future and find you a good husband. So let go of these strange and uncanny matters.”

Lang Jiuchuan was momentarily taken aback, and then she let out a light laugh. “With a constitution like mine, I had better not bring misfortune upon anyone’s household. The last thing I want is for the Lang Family women to earn a reputation for bringing ruin to their husbands.”

Lang Zhengping’s expression shifted, and he frowned. “Do not speak so poorly of yourself. A body can always be nursed back to health.”

Lang Jiuchuan offered neither agreement nor argument.

Seeing her like this, Lang Zhengping wanted to say something encouraging, but the words rose to his throat and would not come out. He fell into silence.

He had let down his second brother.

“What was that business with Magistrate Shen?” Lang Zhengping changed the subject. “Do you know his son?”

“I do not know him,” Lang Jiuchuan replied. “I can simply see. As I said — I know a little of the natural way of the Dao.”

Lang Zhengping studied her, finding nothing dishonest in her manner, and narrowed his eyes. “Then when you said he would die a miserable death — would that truly come to pass?”

“If the problem he is facing is not resolved, that is exactly what awaits him.” Lang Jiuchuan watched as he refilled her tea without any trace of ceremony, considered for a moment, and offered a small observation: “That man is upright and incorruptible — a person of great moral integrity. He is worth cultivating a genuine friendship with.”

Lang Zhengping let out a dry laugh. “A third-rank official with real authority in his hands — who would not want to befriend him? The question is whether someone like him would look twice at the Lang Family.”

The self-deprecation in his words was completely undisguised.

Wait — had she not just said Shen Qinghe would die a miserable death? Then why was she telling him to pursue a friendship with the man?

Could it be she truly believed she could help the Shen family resolve something significant?

Impossible. She was so young — and that frail little frame looked like it could not withstand a gust of wind, let alone accomplish anything of that magnitude.

And yet — in the next instant Lang Zhengping recalled the image of the Peng family heir dropping dead on the spot. A wave of goosebumps rose across his entire body.

He wanted to ask. And yet he dared not.

He was afraid that the mouth she had apparently had blessed would open and deliver more words he did not want to hear.

The carriage rolled to a stop. They had arrived back at the Marquis’s residence.

Lang Zhengping stepped down from the carriage first and immediately found his trusted steward Gaoping hurrying toward him with a face full of grief.

Lang Jiuchuan glanced at Gaoping from behind Lang Zhengping and said quietly: “He has lost a child.”

The child-and-descendant palace of his face was dim and darkened, edged with the shadow of ill fortune, and the lines there bore the shape of a blade cutting through — the mark of a recent death.

Lang Zhengping’s heart lurched violently. “What did you say?”

Gaoping had only one son and one daughter. If it was his son — then was Cailiang gone?

“Young Lord.” Gaoping approached and knelt, his voice thick with barely suppressed grief. “Your servants failed in their duty. Cailiang is gone.”

Well then. Another one dead.

Lang Zhengping nearly blacked out on the spot. Had the deaths he had encountered and heard of in recent days been a little too densely packed together?