◎She still wanted his life.◎

On the other side, Lan Shanjun was looking with complex emotions at the maids and matrons Mother had given her. Compared to ten years later, they were much younger, all wearing smiles on their faces, each coming forward to curtsy to her.

Lan Shanjun hurriedly helped them all up, saying softly: “Please be at ease. No need for excessive courtesy.”

These six people had helped her with affairs from the Lan family to the Song family over ten years, working devotedly without cease. But with her previous life’s departure from the Song family, they probably couldn’t have survived either.

This one life of hers must have implicated quite a few people who met their deaths.

Lan Shanjun’s heart filled with sorrow and guilt. She quickly turned her face away, saying softly: “It’s late. Make the bed.”

Nanny Zhao and Nanny Qin then led the four little maids—Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter—to help her change clothes and wash her face. Nanny Qin held the inner garments with a solemn expression, standing to the side without speaking much.

Nanny Zhao, however, was someone who loved smiling and talking. Her eyes curved as she said: “Miss, tonight this old servant and Fu Chun will keep night watch outside. If you need anything, just call us.”

The four little maids had lovely names: Fu Chun, Xuan Xia, Yin Qiu, and Ning Dong.

Lan Shanjun was very familiar with them, knowing Fu Chun was steady and most valued by Nanny Zhao. She nodded. Nanny Zhao tucked in her blanket corners and led everyone out.

Once they left and the room grew quiet, only then did Lan Shanjun open her eyes to stare blankly at the bed curtains. Having seen so many old acquaintances today, myriad feelings in her heart were difficult to express. After a long while, she exhaled a turbid breath and closed her eyes again, but sleep wouldn’t come.

She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep these past few days.

Especially on the first night after returning to life—she opened the window, holding a cage lantern, and sat against the wall, allowing snow flakes to fall on her brow without wiping them away, only staring fixedly at the cage lantern, fearing it would extinguish.

In such mental terror, she finally relaxed only when dawn broke at the hour of Yin.

She feared it was a dream.

If it was a dream, that would be too regrettable.

She hadn’t seen the old monk, nor had she seen her children.

The deceased had not yet been commemorated; the living had not yet been born.

If this wasn’t a dream, regrets still piled high.

The deceased could not be brought back; the living could never be born again either.

Comparing carefully like this, compared to the old monk, she felt more guilty toward the children who could never again appear in this mortal world.

But she couldn’t think carefully about her children.

She didn’t dare think of them when imprisoned in Huailing—one thought brought heart-piercing pain. Now she still didn’t dare think—one thought made hostility surge, making her hate the Song family even more, thinking if worst came to worst, she’d simply kill Song Zhiwei with one blade and perish together.

Yet she was truly unwilling to accept that. Having returned once already, if she still only acted as a confused reckless ghost, that would waste Heaven’s help.

She could only hate Song Zhiwei more.

She had been married to Song Zhiwei for many years without wronging him. Though the two had no love, they at least treated each other with respect. Before the incident, he hadn’t even spoken a harsh word to her. But when trouble suddenly struck, he stood by the window, quietly staring at her, saying nothing about the reason, as if she were a cheap item that could be discarded. Without any ripples, he said: “Shanjun, I also have no choice. I can only wrong you.”

Why no choice? What matter had no solution? Her first thought was that the Duke Zhenguo manor had met with trouble, implicating her.

But Song Zhiwei shook his head: “The Duke Zhenguo manor is fine. They likely won’t come looking for you.”

He stood up, refusing to say anything else, only saying with slight regret: “Shanjun, just go. I’ll take good care of the children.”

He casually decided her fate.

But she didn’t want to accept fate.

She never accepted fate.

She still wanted his life.

Lan Shanjun pushed open the window, gently exhaling pent-up breath. Unable to sleep, she simply stayed up until daybreak and came out to practice blade techniques.

She didn’t bring much luggage when she came—besides a few personal garments, only this blade accompanied her.

This was the short blade the old monk gave her before dying. It was also his precept blade. But while other monks’ precept blades were only used to cut fabric for clothing, he used his to cut pork for eating.

A wine-and-meat monk, abstaining from neither meat nor wine, yet he hadn’t taught her this carefree spirit.

Nanny Zhao and the others watched from the side, all surprised, not expecting Sixth Miss to wield such excellent blade skills. Xuan Xia’s temperament was more cheerful—she clapped: “Miss is truly impressive!”

But she didn’t know Lan Shanjun’s “background,” while Zhu Shi did know. As soon as she entered, seeing this scene, her brows furrowed. She quickly approached: “Shanjun, for a young lady, it’s better to practice blade techniques less.”

She greatly feared Lan Shanjun’s past as a pig butcher would be exposed. How could that be acceptable? Both Shanjun and Huihui hadn’t yet discussed marriage proposals.

But Lan Shanjun smiled and sheathed the blade, habitually using a cloth to carefully wipe the blade’s body, then pressed her lips together in a gentle smile: “Mother, this is the blade my master gave me. Before dying, he instructed me to practice more. Since I promised, I cannot break faith with him.”

Upon these words, Zhu Shi froze. After a moment’s hesitation, she said: “Since it’s your master’s dying wish, then so be it.”

Thinking it over, she still cautioned: “But outside, absolutely don’t let anyone discover it.”

Lan Shanjun smiled in agreement.

Her attitude was somewhat different from yesterday’s gentle obedience.

Zhu Shi became thoughtful, carefully observing her for a long while. She discovered that when still, she was extremely gentle and graceful, very quiet, not fond of speaking much, her lips always bearing a smile—actually somewhat resembling her own usual demeanor. But when moving, she was crisp and heroic, every movement like a young tiger poised to strike—this posture also seemed somewhat familiar, as if she’d seen it on someone, but whose exactly, her mind remained unclear.

But in any case, this temperament wasn’t bad at all. At least far better than she’d imagined—truly unlike someone raised in the countryside. She didn’t think much of it, only attributing this merit to the literate old monk, assuming he had taught her.

Thus feeling even more grateful, she smiled: “I’ve already sent people to White Horse Temple. Once arrangements are made there, we’ll go hold a grand Buddhist ceremony for your master.”

Lan Shanjun thanked her sincerely: “Many thanks, Mother.”

Zhu Shi: “We’re family—why thank me?”

She intended to grow closer. Speaking of Buddhist ceremonies, she found a conversational thread to extend: “Do you believe in Buddhism?”

Lan Shanjun nodded: “I do.”

Zhu Shi: “Is it because you grew up in a temple from childhood?”

Lan Shanjun thought about it and shook her head: “Not really.”

Neither she nor the old monk believed in Buddha. If they did, how could they eat meat and slaughter pigs before Buddha?

Only after experiencing her previous life’s events did she feel there should be gods and Buddhas in this world.

She answered seriously: “With gods and Buddhas above, there is something to place one’s hopes in.”

All living beings—what they seek is nothing more than this.

Zhu Shi, seeing her expression, suddenly grew curious: “Shanjun… you have something you seek?”

Such a young age, yet the principles she spoke were quite profound.

Lan Shanjun nodded: “Yes, I have things I seek.”

Quite a lot, actually.

On the third day, when Zhu Shi took her to White Horse Temple to hold a Buddhist ceremony for the old monk, she knelt devoutly before Buddha: “Mother, please allow me to light reincarnation lamps here for two deceased persons.”

Luoyang had a custom—those who died before age fifteen received reincarnation lamps; those fifteen and older received eternal lamps.

Zhu Shi naturally had no objection. She invited the abbot and asked: “How old were they when they passed?”

Lan Shanjun couldn’t answer for a moment.

When she was bound and taken to Huailing, the children had just passed their sixth birthday, but she didn’t know how long she’d lived in Huailing.

At first, her consciousness was clear, and she still estimated in her heart how many days had passed. But as time lengthened, she lived in a daze, muddled and sinking, naturally no longer keeping track of days.

She could only estimate: “A bit over six? Probably not yet seven.”

In those unbearably difficult days, she probably didn’t persist for a full year.

Zhu Shi nodded: “What are their names?”

Lan Shanjun: “The boy is called Bai Xing, the girl is called Dan Yun.”

She had given birth to dragon-phoenix twins. At that time, everyone in the Song family rejoiced. The names were personally chosen by the old Duke Songguo, who laughed heartily: “Joy comes to my family—a son and a daughter.”

Hearing this, Zhu Shi nodded. Seeing her face show sorrow, she didn’t continue asking about their relationship, only saying: “May the deceased rest in peace. They’ve long since been reborn. Don’t be sad.”

Lan Shanjun was dazed for quite a while, then asked: “There are also some deceased persons whose names and death dates I don’t remember. Can I light a collective lamp?”

The two Nannies Qin and Zhao, and the four maids Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter were still alive in this world. Writing their names wasn’t appropriate—she could only remotely seek good prospects for their previous life selves before Buddha.

Zhu Shi felt Lan Shanjun was a person of deep feeling and filial piety, becoming even more satisfied: “Why wouldn’t that be acceptable?”

The abbot waited to the side. After they finished speaking, he smiled: “Then, there should be one last deceased person remaining?”

Lan Shanjun nodded: “It’s my master. His secular name is unknown, but his dharma name was Kong Ming.”

The abbot was surprised: “A monk?”

Lan Shanjun nodded: “Yes.”

The abbot murmured the two characters “Kong Ming.” After a long while, he smiled: “Coming empty, going empty—nameless and surname-less. Quite free and unattached.”

He said: “Since he was a monk, there’s no need for a secular name. Just use the dharma name.”

He asked again: “Do you know the year and month of his passing?”

Lan Shanjun nodded: “I know. The death date was the thirteenth day of the twelfth month, forty-third year of Yuanshao.”

Abbot: “Do you know his birth date?”

Lan Shanjun shook her head: “Master never mentioned this, but he appeared to be about seventy years old.”

The abbot knew this was already enough information to hold the ceremony. He composed his expression: “Then, please wait a moment.”

He went to write four memorial texts. The little monk grinding ink beside him saw them and asked curiously: “The people this patron commemorates are all quite strange. Two have names but no birth dates or death dates. One has no name, no surname, no birth date, and no death date—and it’s even a collective memorial. The last one has no birth date. How precarious—finally there’s a death date…”

The abbot glanced at him, lightly tapping his head in admonishment: “Among all living beings, not everyone can be given names. Not everyone is told their birth date by parents and kin. Not everyone has a clear death date.”

“Many more are from impoverished families with none of these.”

White Horse Temple’s incense offerings were flourishing. The little monk had followed the abbot since childhood, seeing only noble patrons coming and going. This was his first time encountering such a “poor person.”

He rubbed his smarting head, shaking it: “Master, I’ll definitely remember. Please don’t hit me again.”