Marquis Kaiping’s residence. All things returned to silence.

A figure appeared within Lang Jiuchuan’s study. Upon seeing the woman slumped over the desk, that figure snapped his fingers, and the woman sank into a deep, complete slumber.

This person was none other than the Imperial Preceptor Tantai Qing, who had just left the Pomegranate Garden.

The sequence of events that had unfolded since Lang Jiuchuan’s return to the capital — he had already come to understand them with perfect clarity. Looking at her manner of conducting herself, he found it difficult not to harbour suspicion and investigate: could it truly be her — his most beloved disciple?

And yet, if it were her, then the matter of the imperial mausoleum…

The Imperial Preceptor wished to see Lang Jiuchuan with his own eyes, to confirm the truth, before deciding what his next move should be. He would not allow this carefully laid game of chess to encounter unforeseen variables.

And he even less permitted that variable to be Lang Jiuchuan.

For master and disciple to have a falling out — unacceptable, unacceptable.

The Imperial Preceptor examined the spirit-gathering formation arranged within the study, along with the faint trace of a presence within it — distinct from the woman lying over the desk. That presence was exceedingly faint, nearly smothered by the scent of ink and soul-calming incense, and yet it still gave rise to a peculiar, familiar feeling.

His brow twitched. He quickly located a talisman used to anchor the formation from a certain position, unfolded it, and the thin line of his lips pressed slightly together.

He then retrieved a jade talisman, studied the carving technique, and the corners of his eyes grew faintly moist. He let out a quiet sigh.

So alike. Truly, so alike.

The technique behind these talismans and jade charms bore a startling resemblance to that disciple he remembered — the one of breathtaking genius and extraordinary gifts — yet with small, subtle deviations.

The power displayed by these talismans surpassed what that child had been capable of drawing, and they were richer in spiritual energy, suggesting that the Dao root behind them was pure, unsullied, and exceptionally high in calibre.

It was said she had also drawn golden lotuses to bear witness to her attainment of the Dao.

That was a phenomenon unseen for several hundred years — a phenomenon that every cultivator aspired to witness. It signified the acknowledgement of Heaven and Earth, and carried with it an enviable abundance of destined fortune.

To be blessed with such exceptional gifts was something that truly drew the envy of all.

He examined the Dao talismans more closely, and found in them something further — a presence he could not see through, a presence that repelled and unsettled him.

It was her, and yet it was not entirely her.

This recognition caused the Imperial Preceptor’s ancient-well-still mind — for the first time — to produce the faintest, most infinitesimal ripple, one just significant enough to put him on guard. Along with it came a flicker of displeasure; the sensation of being unable to control something made him somewhat restless.

If it was not her, then the game he had laid meant no significant change had occurred — the piece was not ruined, still an irreplaceable link in the chain.

But if it was her, then it meant she had broken free of her shackles and restraints. His scheme had developed a critical flaw and deviated from its course, and his foundations might even sustain damage because of it. Over a hundred years of painstaking planning, an expenditure of countless efforts — all of it would face tremendous threat.

The Imperial Preceptor contemplated this, and the hand clutching the jade talisman tightened fractionally. Especially when he thought of how the Purple Tether Star had dimmed, of how the dynastic mandate had been anomalously and drastically declining, and of the trace of a familiar divine consciousness he had perceived through the seal impression left on Rong Yiming’s soul — when all these signs were connected, they pointed to a possibility he dared not believe, and yet which made his heart shudder: something had happened at the imperial mausoleum.

He spun on his heel abruptly, his expression grave, and left the study.

Whatever storms this woman might stir, whatever chaos she might cause, she must absolutely not be allowed to threaten his carefully constructed plans. He had waited over a hundred years for this — he could not allow it to be undone in a single moment. Otherwise, that ancient saying would surely come to pass: a thousand years of Dao cultivation, lost in a single morning.

He would not allow such a mishap to occur.

He took one last look at the Lang family’s residence, swept through it once more with his divine consciousness in search of Lang Jiuchuan’s presence, found nothing, and left with a furrowed brow, heading directly toward the location of the Tantai clan’s imperial mausoleum.

A night breeze swept over the upturned eaves.

Cui Shi jolted awake from her sleep with a start, her heart pounding, an inexplicable palpitation constricting her breathing. Cold spread through her body. She rubbed her arms — she was wearing her robes, yet her arms inexplicably broke out in goosebumps. She frowned and swept the study with her gaze. There was a presence in this room, one that left her feeling deeply ill at ease.

As though someone had passed through and left behind an oppressive, icy breath.

Was it that child?

Cui Shi shook her head almost immediately. No — it would not be her. Her presence was nothing like this.

She sat in a daze, staring at the talisman paper on the desk, rustling in the faint breeze, her mind circling and circling around the news she had heard these past few days about the Rong family. Each time it returned to her now, a sharp pain lanced through her heart. She desperately wanted to ask Lang Jiuchuan about the truth behind all of it.

But if things were truly as she suspected, then the child who had been tormented to death was that little girl — the one she had despised and left to live out on the estate. What could she possibly use to atone for that?

Cui Shi’s face was ice cold. She reached up to touch it and found that at some unknown point, tears had begun to fall.

She sat numbly until daybreak. After taking a brief meal, she made her way to the front courtyard in search of Lang Zhengping.

Lang Zhengping looked even more haggard than she did, but upon seeing her pallid, ailing appearance and her increasingly gaunt frame, he let out a quiet sigh: “Sister-in-law, you must take care of yourself too. Wearing your body down this way does your longevity no good.”

Cui Shi seemed not to hear him. She asked: “Is there any word of her?”

Lang Zhengping’s expression faltered. His mouth felt dry and bitter. He shook his head: “None. Don’t worry — that girl is clever. Besides, didn’t the shopkeeper at her store say she’s in seclusion cultivating? I’ve heard that for people of their Daoist school, a seclusion can last anywhere from a few days at the short end to a year or two, even several years at the longest. So let’s simply think of her as still resting at the estate.”

But even as he said it, he knew how hollow it sounded. Pretending not to worry would be dishonest. He too had long since learned from Gong Qi’s own mouth what the scene had looked like during the upheaval at the Rong family.

Lang Jiuchuan had truly gone up against the head of the Rong family alone.

Although the Rong family head had fallen and the Rong family had collapsed, what price Lang Jiuchuan had paid in the process was difficult to imagine. What he feared most was that she had used herself as the expenditure — a method of harming the enemy that cost herself grievously in return.

And Lang Zhengping had a feeling that his eldest niece was exactly the sort who would do precisely that — for there was always something a little wild and reckless in her bones.

Oh, and the eldest niece might not actually be the true eldest niece.

But who really cared about that? She had stepped into this identity, and she was now a daughter of the Lang family. Perhaps this had been arranged by his second brother through some unseen turn of fate.

The two sat in silence until the estate manager came rushing in with news from the palace — something had happened.

What had happened?

Emperor An’he had suddenly issued an Edict of Self-Condemnation, declaring that his conduct had been improper, bringing upon himself punishment from Heaven, and that he was therefore abdicating the throne. He would withdraw to guard the imperial mausoleum and pray for blessings on behalf of Daan’s people.

And the one to whom he was abdicating was merely a sixteen-year-old member of the imperial family — Tantai Yan — not even a son of Emperor An’he’s own body. The whole of Wu Jing was in an uproar. Every senior official and minister had entered the palace, and preparations for the transfer of the imperial seat were already underway.

Lang Zhengping grew all the more unsettled and apprehensive. Could this tremendous upheaval also have something to do with his eldest niece? Why was his heart beating so fast?

The transfer of imperial power. The court was seething beneath the surface, turbulent and unsteady — but swiftly, the Sacred Maiden imposed her absolute authority and suppressed it all.

Meanwhile, the Imperial Preceptor stood deep within the imperial mausoleum, watching the dynastic mandate drain away. His complexion had gone iron-grey. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, and within his eyes storm clouds churned. His voice was barely audible — one could not even distinguish whether it held joy or fury: “So it really is… you. Your master looks forward to the day we meet again.”

(Author’s note: Please forgive me — I’ve had a splitting migraine for days and the medicine isn’t helping, one throbbing stab after another, absolutely miserable. And my whole mouth is full of canker sores, and on top of that I’ve got eczema on the back of my left hand — these misfortunes just keep piling up. Who could possibly understand this suffering!)