Chapter 22: Breaking the Spell, She Suffered a Huge Loss!

Lang Jiuchuan’s wicked, villainous aura was inexplicably chilling, leaving even the seasoned Daoist Huang—who had suffered most at her hands—trembling with dread.

Though he could not fathom why this girl, who looked as if she were fated for an early grave, remained completely unaffected by the baleful energy of the coffin nails, he had no time to dwell on it. Having suffered a severe backlash, he was in no position to trade blows with her. Survival was paramount, and flight was his only option.

As Lang Jiuchuan approached, the Daoist’s pupils constricted. He flung a yellow talisman at her, which ignited spontaneously, instantly shrouding the room in a thick, black fog. He seized the opportunity to bolt toward the door.

Yet, before he could even reach it, the hairs on his neck stood on end. Instinctively, he turned back, his face contorted in horror to find Lang Jiuchuan standing directly behind him.

"You... who exactly are you?" Why could even the dark mist cause her no harm?

"I am the grandmother of heaven, the one you can’t kill!" Lang Jiuchuan retorted, plunging a small, three-pronged trident into his crown chakra.

Daoist Huang let out a wail even more wretched than before. His strength seemed to be forcibly drained away, and he collapsed to the floor, gasping as his life force ebbed rapidly, his throat emitting a sickening, gurgling sound.

At that moment, the black fog permeated the entire mourning hall, filled with the shadows of ghosts and the sounds of mournful wailing. The people present shrieked in terror, thrown into utter chaos.

But before their screams could even escape the hall, a sound like a bell ringing from ancient times—resonant with infinite profound intent—sliced through the thick, black mist, clearing the air and the minds of those present.

The bell chimed; the fog dissipated.

The crowd stood pale and shaken, their eyes vacant and bewildered. What had just happened?

"Ahhh!"

In the sudden silence, Madam Wu clutched the soft flesh of Lang Caimeng’s arm and screamed, hiding behind him.

Lang Caimeng, stung by the pinch, felt tears welling in his eyes. He looked down involuntarily. Just two steps away lay the withered, aged Daoist, his eyes bulging as if they were about to burst. Resting upon him was a foot clad in a straw sandal.

It was Lang Jiuchuan.

She toyed with a small bell at her waist with one hand, while the other pressed against her chest as she caught her breath, her face deathly pale.

Lang Caimeng pulled his wife back two steps, maintaining a facade of composure—though had Madam Wu not pried her hand away, one might have truly believed him to be that calm.

Lang Jiuchuan shot them an annoyed glare. She stroked the runes on the Emperor Bell, her hand trembling slightly. In her mind, she cursed Judge Cui for his incompetence; providing her with such a fragile, decaying corpse was a nightmare. Merely using techniques to maintain a "living appearance" was exhausting enough, and breaking that charlatan's talismanic arts had drained her further.

This meager amount of merit would never make up for it—she had been royally swindled!

Lang Jiuchuan spitefully ground her foot into the face of the gasping, dying Daoist. "It’s all your fault, you dog of a priest."

The old Daoist nearly choked, his throat emitting a gurgling sound as he faded further into despair.

"How did he end up like this?" Lang Cailing looked at the Daoist in horror, then at Lang Jiuchuan, disgusted that she would dare to step on him.

Lang Zhengping’s face was as dark as water, his hands balled into fists.

On the day of his father’s funeral, such a catastrophe had occurred. If this got out, it would tarnish the Lang family’s reputation. Worse, if a censor were to impeach them before the Emperor, he dared not imagine how the throne would view them—as unfilial, or perhaps as practitioners of black magic?

"They’re here, they’re here."

Lang Cai-guang, whom Lang Jiuchuan had sent to fetch help, emerged from the stunned crowd, leading two monks and a Daoist.

Lang Zhengping glanced at Lang Jiuchuan with a complex expression. "The sealing of the coffin cannot be delayed. We shall discuss other matters later. Someone, take this Daoist away."

The servants approached, trembling.

"Wait." Lang Jiuchuan retracted her foot, crouched down, and began to rummage through the sleeves of the fallen Daoist.

The crowd: "..."

The young ladies present turned pale. For a girl to search a man's body without the slightest regard for propriety—was this not too uncouth?

They instinctively looked toward Madam Cui. As expected, the second aunt, who valued decorum above all else, was livid, her lips pressed into a thin, straight line.

*Clink, clink.*

Lang Jiuchuan tossed something aside: several pitch-black, long nails. They were not new; they were stained entirely black, making them deeply unsettling to look at.

"What is this?" Lang Zhengping frowned. He counted them—seven nails. These were meant to be the ancestral nails for sealing the coffin, yet these were not new, and they were abnormally sharp and strange.

He looked at Lang Jiuchuan’s hanging hand; the fresh bloodstains there appeared to have been caused by these very nails.

"Ninth sister, aren't these just nails?" Lang Caimeng reached out to pick one up.

Just as his fingers were about to touch the metal, Lang Jiuchuan barked, "Don't touch it!"

Her voice was so cold and stern that Lang Caimeng’s fingertips trembled. When he brushed against a nail, the icy, malevolent aura felt like an electric shock, and he recoiled instantly.

So cold.

"These coffin nails are heavy with baleful energy," the green-robed Daoist brought by Lang Cai-guang remarked, frowning at the nails on the floor.

The monk beside him pressed his palms together and chanted, "Amitabha."

"Baleful energy?" Lang Zhengping’s expression shifted violently. He hurried forward, cupped his hands, and bowed. "May I ask, Daoist Zhong, what you mean by these nails carrying baleful energy?"

Daoist Zhong produced a talisman, held it in his hand, and stooped to pick up a nail. Upon touching the cold, resentful energy, he said, "My suspicions were correct. These nails were tempered in a place of dark malevolence and have been soaked in piles of corpses. They are evil objects; one must not touch them."

The crowd gasped in shock.

"Ah! Daoist, why are you holding them then?"

Daoist Zhong smiled faintly. "I was born during an hour of extreme yang, and I carry a protective talisman gifted by my master; there is no cause for concern."

So that was it. If only they had some extra talismans—they wanted some too!

Lang Zhengping wanted to ask more, but his peripheral vision caught Lang Jiuchuan walking toward the coffin. She bent over and began to feel around inside. He roared, "What are you doing now?"

He strode over in three steps, and seeing her hand reaching toward his father’s head, he glared. "You are being insolent!"

To disturb the body of the deceased—this girl was far too bold.

The attention of the crowd was drawn to her as well, all of them speechless at her audacity.

Madam Cui was so angry her lips were quivering.

Lang Jiuchuan shifted her gaze upward, her cold, steady eyes locking with Lang Zhengping’s. Her hand did not stop; she reached the Baihui acupoint on the top of the head, paused for a moment, and pulled out what had been lodged there.

It was a long needle, equally pitch-black and radiating a chilling aura.

Lang Zhengping stumbled, his vision blacking out, a dull pain crushing his chest.

From the dotting of the paper figures' eyes to the baleful coffin nails, and now a needle radiating ominous energy pulled from his father’s head—what was the person behind this trying to do to the Lang family? Their methods were endless, and they were so vicious that they would not even let the dead rest, desecrating his father in such a cruel manner.

A flame of fury surged to the top of his head.

*Pfft.*

Lang Zhengping could no longer hold it back, and he spat out a mouthful of dark, stagnant blood.