Chapter 27: Whose Turning Point Is a Delicate Maiden

In the capital, holding a funeral for the nobility is nothing new, but to have a funeral as sensationally disruptive as the Lang family’s is unheard of. One might ask, what kind of family would have someone so bold as to disturb the peace of the dead—or rather, to strike from the shadows?

Yet, the Marquis of Kaiping suffered this great grievance, nearly denied peace even after death.

Indeed, after Lang Zhengping went to the palace to weep, rumors spread that someone had attempted sinister, destructive acts during the Marquis’s funeral rites. This set the capital abuzz: what kind of ruthless enemy had the Lang family offended to be targeted so viciously, not even sparing the dead?

Regardless, amidst the turmoil, after seven days of mourning, the Marquis’s funeral proceeded smoothly. Because of the rumors of the foul play, many people even set up roadside altars to pay their respects on the day of the procession.

Lang Jiuchuan mingled with the line of mourning descendants, moving slowly. She thought that once the funeral was over, she would simply return to the manor to observe the mourning period, then slip away. There, she might find a chance to restore her damaged soul; otherwise, trapped in the deep confines of the estate, she would be no different from a bird with clipped wings.

She had clawed her way back from the underworld with desperate tenacity, not to play the part of a docile young lady of high birth, but to retrieve her missing soul and spirit—only then would she be whole again. Without that, what could she possibly achieve in this frail, brittle body?

Listen to them; everyone thought her delicate.

As the servants helped Lang Jiuchuan up from the cold, frozen street, she caught a glimpse of the onlookers out of the corner of her eye. Perhaps some recognized the Lang family and noticed her unfamiliar face, whispering among themselves to ask who she was.

Yet, could their words be any harsher? "Frail as a willow in the wind," "weak and sickly"—that was one thing, but... "Short-lived"?

Lang Jiuchuan looked at her own pale, thin hands and twitched her lips. She turned her head, her own deathly pale face framed by large, dark eyes, creating a gaze so chilling that those who had been gossiping fell silent the moment she looked their way.

"Ninth Sister, are you alright?" Lady Wu asked, her voice trembling as she noticed the sluggishness of Lang Jiuchuan’s movements.

Lang Jiuchuan saw that Lady Wu was just as pale, shivering uncontrollably in the cold, her face having thinned significantly since they first met. Her health was clearly failing, yet she still remembered to show concern. Lang Jiuchuan simply shook her head.

Funeral rites are cumbersome. For women who have lived in the inner chambers all their lives without hardship, this was an ordeal, especially in the winter. This year was particularly cold, and wearing thin mourning hemp was enough to cost one half their life. She imagined that after this, more than a few would collapse.

It was truly exhausting.

Lang Jiuchuan secretly cast a spell, feeling warmth rise from the soles of her feet. She exhaled and caught up with the winding procession.

***

At the City God Temple in the western part of the city, there stood an eight-hundred-year-old ginkgo tree. In the bleakness of winter, its leaves had long since fallen, and the crown was blanketed in snow, as if dressed in a new garment of clouds.

The old ginkgo, which should have been dormant, suddenly trembled without a breeze, causing the snow to tumble down in a flurry.

A beggar huddled in the temple rubbed his eyes, staring at the tree and tilting his head. The wind wasn't strong today; how could the old tree shake? It must be that his eyes were playing tricks on him from the cold.

Little did he know that inside the trunk, a cluster of white, fluorescent mist was churning actively.

"Old Ginkgo, Old Ginkgo, my turning point has moved! I can feel it!" the white mist exclaimed excitedly. "I’ve waited nearly a year; finally, my time has come."

The old ginkgo trembled slightly, as if in response.

The white mist, seeing it remained silent, pressed against the inner trunk, its cloud-like fluorescence stroking the branches. "This past year, thank you, Old Ginkgo, for letting me shelter here. Once I seize my turning point and recover my strength, I will surely repay you for your hospitality."

A dull vibration echoed from within the trunk, like a sigh, but still, no words came.

The mist didn't mind. "Old White is off!"

With a flash, it vanished from the trunk, surging toward the direction it sensed.

Only when the mist was far away did the old ginkgo let out a sigh of relief. It had been soft-hearted, pitying the creature after its failed tribulation and the near-dissipation of its spirit, and had allowed it to take shelter in its trunk. But this thing was such a glutton—it had nearly drained the years of accumulated devotional energy the tree had gathered. Meanwhile, the mist had grown stronger day by day, while the tree had become dangerously weak.

When a tree grows weak, even its leaves lose their luster. No wonder the pilgrims coming to offer incense were beginning to wonder if the old tree’s life force was exhausted—why else would its leaves be so sparse and dull?

Now that this parasite was finally gone, the old ginkgo almost wanted to set off firecrackers in celebration. It suddenly felt as if it had forgotten to tell that creature something. What was it? Oh, never mind.

Good riddance to the plague god.

In the winter air, the funeral music sounded particularly desolate.

Lang Jiuchuan watched as Lang Zhengwen, accompanied by Lang Caimeng and Lang Caize, carried the coffin away, and she finally let out a breath of relief.

"Ninth Sister, let’s get into the carriage," Lady Wu said, beckoning her.

With this, the funeral was officially over; all that remained was the period of mourning.

Lang Jiuchuan did not refuse and climbed into the carriage, where Lang Cailing and Lang Caiyao were already seated.

The Lang family had over a dozen grandchildren, but excluding those who had died in infancy and the eldest daughters of the main branch who were already married, the only ones remaining unmarried were Lang Cailing, Lang Jiuchuan, and Lang Caiyao of the third branch. The boys included Lang Caimeng of the main branch, two illegitimate brothers, one brother of the same mother, and the third branch’s one legitimate and two illegitimate sons. They could be counted on one's fingers.

Thus, the carriage was filled with the women of the same generation.

As soon as she entered, Lang Jiuchuan closed her eyes to rest.

As the carriage jolted, she suddenly snapped her eyes open, staring straight through the carriage wall. A golden light flickered in the depths of her pupils.

Outside, a cluster of white mist was darting about like a headless fly.

"The resonance is clearly here, but which one is it?" The mist was growing anxious and annoyed. It thought for a moment, then suddenly formed a small whirlwind of fine mist, sweeping toward the carriages traveling through the snow. Instantly, the wheels of the carriages buckled and collapsed.

*Clatter.*

Screams rang out from inside the carriages.

Lang Jiuchuan’s gaze sharpened as she lifted the curtain.

When the carriages came to a complete stop, the Lang family members stepped out one by one. Seeing that all the carriages had suffered the same broken wheel, leaving them tilted, everyone looked perplexed.

Lang Zhengping ordered the steward and the coachman to investigate.

Lang Jiuchuan stepped out of her carriage and stood to the side, watching the white mist coldly. She saw it eagerly swirl toward the Lang family’s men, only to leave again just as quickly.

"No, none of them? How can it not be them?" The mist shrieked in frustration. "It’s clearly here! Where did it go?"

Lang Jiuchuan’s fingertips moved, tapping lightly against the imperial bell at her waist.

The white mist froze. It drifted over and hovered before her in utter astonishment, as if unable to believe it. It even circled her once.

No... was this brittle little woman its turning point?

Outside the City God Temple, the old ginkgo tree murmured to itself, "I forgot to tell it—its turning point is a little girl."