Chapter 6: This Heretic, How Dare She?

Lang Jiuchuan knelt down before the coffin, turning her head to look inside. Feeling the meager merits flowing toward her, nourishing both her physical body and her soul, she couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief.

Seeing that some of the fortune was still being distributed among the Lang family members, her brows furrowed. She stared intently at the corpse covered by the white cloth, wondering if all this merit and fortune would flow solely to her if she were the one lying inside.

The mere thought brought her joy; she wanted to pluck it all.

The temporary "dog eyes" Lang Jiuchuan had embedded in herself nearly stared a hole through the old master inside the coffin.

*Whoosh.*

A sudden gust of wind swept through the mourning hall, sending the yellow paper on the floor fluttering wildly and causing the candlelight to flicker incessantly.

Everyone froze for a moment. Where did this wind come from?

Subconsciously, they looked toward Lang Jiuchuan. Was her kneeling there disturbing the old master's peace?

Lady Cui’s expression was grim, her brow tightly knit.

Sensing the burning gazes upon her, Lang Jiuchuan glanced over, then nonchalantly dragged the ritual ash basin in front of her. She picked up the yellow paper from the floor, tossed it in, and said, "I am burning some paper for the old master to ensure his path is smooth in the underworld."

The crowd's expressions softened slightly upon hearing this; at least she showed some filial piety. But what on earth did "ensuring his path is smooth" mean?

Lady Cui closed her eyes, silently chanting sutras.

Suddenly, a loud, deafening wail erupted from the doorway.

Someone came rushing in, leaning on a cane.

"You old bastard! Your life was just shorter than mine! We agreed to see who could urinate further when we hit seventy, but you damn well broke your word!"

The mourning hall fell silent.

Lang Jiuchuan’s hand, mid-burn, trembled slightly. She looked up at the newcomer, her lips twitching.

The man was an elderly gentleman with white hair and a youthful complexion. Dressed in plain robes and clutching a walking stick, he approached the coffin. When he saw the person inside, he choked up: "You old bastard, what are you doing lying there? Get up and have a drink!"

"Grandfather," a young man in a moon-white robe said helplessly, supporting the elder and advising softly, "Please offer some incense to the late Marquis first."

"Indeed, Uncle Zhao, my father passed away very peacefully. Please do not grieve too much. If you harm your health because of this, my father will not find peace in heaven either." Lang Zhengping, the Lang family heir who had accompanied him, also stepped forward to comfort him. The rest of the Lang family had already stood up, and the men, such as Lang Caimeng, followed suit in offering condolences.

"There is no need to persuade me. These old bones of mine are still sturdy. A good cry for him is something he deserves." Looking at his lifelong rival and old friend, whose shroud had already been lifted, Old Zhao looked sorrowful. They had fought their whole lives; from now on, he would have no opponent.

"What is there to cry about? You will meet again very soon." A voice as cold as frost and snow broke the mourning atmosphere.

The murmurs of consolation fell silent. Everyone turned to look at Lang Jiuchuan in shock.

Was she having a fit?

What kind of madness was she spewing? Was that something one could say to an elder who had come to pay his respects?

Lang Zhengping reacted instantly, rebuking her sharply, "Presumptuous! What nonsense are you talking about? You are... no, whose family are you from?"

He stared at the completely unfamiliar young girl before him, momentarily stunned. Where did she come from? Did their family have such a girl?

Lang Caimeng quickly interjected, "Father, this is Ninth Sister from Second Uncle's house."

Upon hearing this, Lang Zhengping immediately remembered—the child sent away to the manor to be raised, the only flesh and blood of his second brother. He instinctively looked toward Lady Cui, opened his mouth, but found he had nothing to say. He simply waved his hand and said, "She looks frail; don't make her kneel here. Take her down to rest."

Lady Cui’s face was as dark as stagnant water. Her fingertips were trembling, and her chest heaved with indignation. She stared at Lang Jiuchuan—this heretic, how did she dare?

(End of Chapter)