Lang Jiuchuan had laid bare the true face of the National Preceptor before Tantai Diji.

She was not afraid that Tantai Diji would turn around and report back to the National Preceptor, for she and that man had long since been engaged on a battlefield of wits. Given his intelligence, he would not fail to calculate that she had already peeled back a layer of truth — after all, she had been inside his game of chess, losing piece after piece, yet she was no fool, and he understood that well.

Between her and Tantai Wuji, both sides had merely held their cards close; neither had revealed everything.

So even if Tantai Diji spoke of this, she had nothing to fear. If that man grew anxious and moved prematurely because of it, that might even suit her purposes — it would prove that he too feared his thousand-year scheme might yet go awry.

She also knew that Tantai Diji would not betray her. Just as she knew her own temperament, Lang Jiuchuan knew Diji’s as well. Her heart was not wicked, nor was she a bad person. She might feel envious of her at times, but she had never once harmed her — and she would never harm the people of the world.

Tantai Diji was, as she had said, nothing more than a stand-in used to conceal the truth — a pitiable soul desperate for recognition.

Lang Jiuchuan had placed this cruel truth before her with a selfish purpose in mind: she wanted to win her over. She needed to enter the Imperial Mausoleum, but she required a key.

“You’re telling me all of this — what is it you want me to do?” Tantai Diji regarded Lang Jiuchuan with cold indifference and said, “You know full well that the blood of Tantai flows through my veins. Regardless of whether he is truly Tantai Qing, he is the founding ancestor of our Tantai clan — even the founder you speak of, a man of immense power and extraordinary ability. His existence ensures our clan’s peace and security. Is that not something every member of Tantai would welcome? You said so yourself!”

As long as one’s clan grew powerful, what did it matter who he truly was? Most of the clan would think this way, she supposed — they would only hope he grew stronger still, so the Tantai name might endure in wealth, prestige, and glory for a hundred generations, revered by all.

People were selfish by nature; no one did not wish for their clan’s greatness. She was the same. The blood in her veins was like that — selfish and cold.

That was what she told herself, yet why did her chest feel so heavy she could barely breathe?

Tantai Diji lowered her head, concealing the self-mockery in her eyes, not daring to look at Lang Jiuchuan, afraid the other woman would see through the wretchedness she was trying to hide.

Lang Jiuchuan said, “I told you because I know that within your heart, there lives a true and rightful path — a path that holds compassion, mercy, and the lives of all the people in this world. You have entered the Dao. Your Dao-heart has always been righteous. I have never doubted it.”

Tantai Diji’s nose stung sharply. She snapped her face away, terrified her tears would fall, and said in an icy tone, “There’s no need to flatter me. I am not as noble as you make me out to be. You don’t need to coax me.”

“Why would I need to coax you? I grew up alongside you from childhood. Even if you always kept your distance and kept yourself in check, how could I not know what kind of person you are? If your Dao-heart were corrupt, why would you have taken it upon yourself to handle this disaster? Why not do as that man did — stand by with folded arms, keeping to yourself? Why not look after your own interests alone?” Lang Jiuchuan said calmly. “It is precisely because you carry compassion in your heart that you shouldered this burden. Had you been unwilling, the new Emperor would never have heeded your instructions and issued those commands. Instead, the countless common people infected with the corpse-poison would have been burned and slaughtered. The relative calm that Dayu enjoys today would not exist — it would already have become a living hell.”

Daoist practitioners could save lives, could develop antidotes, could draw protective talismans — but two fists could not fend off four hands. No matter how numerous the Daoists, how could they outnumber Dayu’s army of nearly a million soldiers? If the army were truly unleashed in suppression, how many people could the Daoists save?

That the plague of corpse-poison had been kept in check was not the merit of the Daoists alone — the court had played its part as well. Without the cooperation of the authorities, what they could accomplish was limited. They were, after all, only cultivators of the Dao — not gods, not immortals, who could recite an incantation and cure poison and banish pestilence in an instant.

In this matter, Tantai Diji had made use of her position and done a great deal. Had she been a selfish and heartless person, Dayu would not be as relatively stable as it was today.

Good was good. Bad was bad. Lang Jiuchuan would not condemn an entire ship of people because of one person’s bloodline — just as she had with the Rong Family: she had not destroyed them utterly, and had even sent a proper Daoist technique back through A’Piao, one they could pass down through their family line.

Was she some saintly, magnanimous figure? No, she was not. She simply believed in repaying enmity with enmity and grievance with grievance. If the Rong Family felt wronged, they were welcome to come seek their revenge in the future — so long as they had the ability to do so.

Tantai Diji’s heart stirred, though her expression did not show it. She said, “So, then — what is it you want me to do for you?”

She had come without announcement, and clearly had an agenda — especially since she had broken open so absolute a secret.

“I want to explore the Imperial Mausoleum.” Lang Jiuchuan said. “I know the mausoleum is a heavily guarded place — not only are there soldiers stationed there, but there are grand formations protecting it. What is more, only a true bloodline of Tantai can open the formation’s gate, and you…”

Her words came to an abrupt stop. She looked at Tantai Diji for a long moment, then finally said, “Forget it.”

If Tantai Wuji’s great Dao truly lay hidden within one of those mausoleums she was sealed beneath, then after a thousand years of meticulous scheming, he would have been supremely cautious. He trusted no one but himself — his own descendants would naturally be no exception to his wariness.

That place would undoubtedly be sealed layer upon layer with prohibitions. If Tantai Diji were to force her way in, it would surely alert him. At that point, she feared Diji would become one more soul within the mausoleum, feeding blood and spiritual essence to sustain the national fortune.

What would be the point of such a pointless sacrifice?

She owed her nothing.

“Treat today as though I was never here.” Lang Jiuchuan said. “If the day ever comes when it falls within your power, look after my family.”

“What exactly do you mean?” Tantai Diji seized her sleeve, her voice cold. “Is it that you think me too lowly to be of help to you? Or that you fear I will stab you in the back at a critical moment — because I am Tantai Diji, the Holy Maiden personally ordained by the National Preceptor himself? So you don’t trust me. And I am the same. You stand against him. By rights, I should kill you — and be done with it once and for all.”

“To kill me, there’s no need for you to act. When the time is right, he will move against me himself. And he won’t truly allow you to touch me either — I am too useful to him.” Lang Jiuchuan smiled faintly. “Also — stop putting on a tough front. You wouldn’t lay a hand on me, either. I trust you.”

Rather than being moved, Tantai Diji grew even more furious at those words. “If you know what’s good and bad, why do you still walk toward your own death? Was what happened in Pangi not enough to make you cautious?”

“It’s not that I don’t want a way to live — it’s that he won’t allow it. We are both pieces on his board. I simply happen to be a wretched piece that refuses to move the way it’s supposed to.” Lang Jiuchuan gazed steadily at her, then suddenly reached out her hand — just as she had when they were children — and lightly tapped the corner of her eye. “A’Yue is so beautiful. It would be better to stay alive.”

The moment her last words fell, she slipped away as silently as she had come, vanishing into the shadow road.

Tantai Diji stood in place, staring at the direction in which she had disappeared. Her lips pressed together, and she murmured softly, “Still just as insufferable as she was when we were children.”

A cold wind swept past. Her face was icy. She reached up to wipe it, and her hand came away covered in tears.

Tantai Diji’s legs gave way beneath her, and she sank to the ground. Her eyes remained fixed on the empty air before her, the tear tracks on her face still damp — yet within those eyes, which had been filled with torment and struggle just moments ago, a thread of resolute, burning determination began to slowly kindle, the determination of one who has chosen to burn their boats behind them: “The Imperial Mausoleum… I’ll go.”