Chapter Forty: Lang Jiu Begins Cursing Again

Every winter, many elderly and frail people succumb to the biting cold. First, there was the nobility, such as the Marquis of Kaiping, who passed away. Only two days after his death, Zhao Xinlong, the former Minister of Personnel, also departed. While people found it somewhat strange—having heard nothing of the old minister being in poor health—it was accepted without much fuss.

The Zhao family claimed the old man had passed away peacefully in his sleep, and his serene expression in death made the explanation seem plausible. Thus, the funeral was held with great pomp. The residence was draped in white, and the number of mourners far exceeded that of the Marquis of Kaiping’s family just two days prior. After all, the old man had served as a first-rank official. Even if he didn’t have followers everywhere, his keen eye for talent had produced many high-ranking officials who now held real power. Whether for the sake of the master or his disciples, everyone felt compelled to pay their respects.

Watching the dense crowd of mourners, Lang Zhengping felt a twinge of bitterness. This was the stark contrast between a flourishing household and a declining noble family, laid bare by a single funeral.

To make matters worse, the sound of horse hooves and carriage wheels drew his gaze. He looked up, and the insignia on the carriage made him shudder. It was a carriage from the palace. Who could be inside? Thinking of the late Minister Zhao’s status, his fingers curled, and his heart tightened. Soon, after a flurry of activity, his heart finally shattered—shattered into pieces beyond repair.

It was an imperial decree conferring a posthumous title: Minister Zhao was honored with the title "Duke Wenheng." This was the highest possible distinction.

Feeling the subtle, lingering gazes of those around him, Lang Zhengping kept a smile on his face, though his heart felt as if it had been dropped into a vat of vinegar. He shouldn't have come.

Lang Zhengping glanced at the thin, pale girl beside him. She was dressed in simple, plain cyan robes, her hair tied in a bun, adorned with nothing but a worn, small bell hanging from her waist. His eyes were filled with resentment and grievance. If not for her, he wouldn't be here today, enduring these meaningful, knowing glances.

Lang Jiuchuan looked back at him and said, "Your grievance is not of my making. Don't blame me; looking at me won't help."

Lang Zhengping: "..." Although you are right, why must you be so blunt?

"Virtuous brother."

Zhao Kun, dressed in heavy mourning clothes, hurried over. He bowed to Lang Zhengping and said, "I didn't expect you to come. Please forgive me for the lack of a proper welcome."

"Brother Qining, you flatter me," Lang Zhengping replied with a forced smile. "I came to offer incense to the late master, and this child did as well. To have the late master honored with the title of Duke Wenheng is truly a testament to his decades of dedicated service to the nation. Congratulations."

Zhao Kun showed a hint of joy but quickly suppressed it, offering a few polite words before turning his gaze to Lang Jiuchuan. His expression grew more serious. "I will take you both to the mourning hall; the coffin will be sealed soon."

He led the two through the crowd, drawing many sidelong glances, most of which lingered on Lang Jiuchuan. This young member brought by the heir to the Marquis of Kaiping was a stranger to them. She looked so frail—was she a girl?

***

Zhao Yuancheng, hearing that Lang Jiuchuan had arrived, felt as if he were facing a formidable enemy. He rushed out of the mourning hall and spotted her in the crowd instantly.

Why? She was so thin a gust of wind could knock her over, and her face was not the breathtaking beauty he had seen elsewhere, yet in the crowd, he could pick her out at once. It wasn't because of her appearance, but her aura—something indescribable. Distant, cold, and remote, as if she did not belong to this world.

"Brother Yuancheng, who is that young lady?" someone asked, curious about her identity since she was being escorted by the heir to the Marquis of Kaiping.

Zhao Yuancheng’s voice was cold. "She is the ninth daughter of the Lang family."

The man realized, taking another look at Lang Jiuchuan. The Lang family had a daughter like this? Frail and delicate, she looked like someone with a short lifespan. Not the type to be a suitable wife. He quickly looked away, his interest fading.

Lang Jiuchuan reached the altar, took the incense sticks from Zhao Yuancheng, bowed three times before her forehead, and placed them in the burner. A light breeze stirred the mourning hall. Zhao Kun felt a shiver down his spine and subconsciously looked at the coffin. *Father, is that you?*

Lang Zhengping, seeing that she had merely offered incense without causing trouble, breathed a sigh of relief and stepped up to offer his own. Unexpectedly, after leaving the hall, Lang Jiuchuan scanned the area, walked up to a group of men wearing black mourning bands on their arms, and stopped precisely in front of Shen Qinghe, staring at him intently.

Shen Qinghe was tall and sturdy. His demeanor was less like a civil official and more like a military man. He wore a beard, and his eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s, glowing with an intense, upright aura.

Lang Jiuchuan hadn't been wrong; this man was indeed filled with righteous energy. Yet, this righteous energy was struggling to resist a sinister, dark miasma—a filthy, thick, and repulsive scent of black and red blood. Lang Jiuchuan frowned and took a step back. She disliked that aura; it was aggressive, sinister, and malicious, yet strangely tainted with a trace of karmic will.

It was truly bizarre. Who would worship such an evil entity?

Shen Qinghe had initially ignored her, thinking she was merely lost, but seeing her stop before him, he grew curious. What was this young lady trying to do?

"Come here," Lang Jiuchuan gestured for Shen Qinghe to step aside.

Shen Qinghe: "?" Was she not quite right in the head?

Seeing him unmoved, Lang Jiuchuan said, "Shen Peng."

Shen Qinghe’s eyes sharpened. He hesitated, then walked over. "Who are you?"

"The ninth daughter of the Lang family," Lang Jiuchuan said. "The trouble with your son was brought on by you. Where have you been lately, and what have you provoked?"

Shen Qinghe’s pupils contracted. He clenched his fists, his voice chilling. "What are you talking about?" How did this young girl know about Peng'er? And how dare she claim he was the cause of the trouble?

"Every cause has an effect. If you want to solve the problem with your son, you must deal with what you have provoked recently. Otherwise, treating the symptoms without addressing the root cause will only land you in prison, and you will come to a tragic end," Lang Jiuchuan said coldly.

His righteous aura could protect him, but if his bad luck continued and that energy faded, the sinister miasma would eventually suppress him entirely, leading to his death.

Lang Zhengping, having finished his incense, walked over with Zhao Yuancheng, only to arrive just in time to hear those final words.

*Land in prison, come to a tragic end!*

This disaster of a child. Lang Zhengping felt his head throb as if a blinding, soul-devouring white flower had bloomed inside it. He felt dizzy, his face turning deathly pale. He knew his bad premonition from last night was right. This troublemaker never stopped. Was her mouth really coated in lethal poison? To be so venomous the moment she spoke—did she even know who she was talking to? That was Shen Qinghe, the legendary "Judge Shen," known for his brilliance in solving cases and his incorruptible nature!

Zhao Yuancheng’s eyes turned red. This jinx was back to cursing people again!