He Xianjin’s expression was terrifying. Her once petal-soft lips now looked like a monster’s soul ready to devour. Her once slender, upturned eyes had become blades—ghostly and lethal.

Cold face, ruthless heart. Those four words flashed through Chen Silang’s mind, and he shivered involuntarily.

“Did you hear me clearly?!” He Xianjin’s fingers pressed hard, leaving a clear four-fingered mark on his face.

Chen Silang nodded frantically.

She released him, clasped her hands behind her back, and quietly flexed her trembling joints.

Chen Silang whimpered, flailing his hand as he searched for cold water. In her mind, He Xianjin matched the scene with a viral soundtrack from a long-gone app in her previous life.

“Baifu! Baifu! Water! Cold water! Someone get me water!” At this point, Chen Silang didn’t care about sounding cool anymore.

Outside the mourning hall, all that remained was the shrill squawking of a teenage boy mid-voice change.

He Xianjin didn’t spare him a single glance, hands behind her back as she walked into the hall.

After a while, the racket outside finally faded.

Behind a white mourning banner, Nanny Zhang clutched a tribute box, trembling all over. What had she just witnessed!? She saw that little baggage He Xianjin dumped a bowl of scalding wax on Silang!

That wax was boiling hot! It hardened on contact with cold air! Like a layer of burning crust stuck to his skin!

Silang’s right hand was red as a shrimp shell! And he was the young master—the third wife’s favorite son—the one who used that hand to write and study…

Nanny Zhang shook uncontrollably, the tribute box rattling in her hands.

He Xianjin’s gaze swept over.

Nanny Zhang’s knees nearly buckled. “Jin… Jinjie’er…”

He Xianjin nodded gently. “You’re here to replace my mother’s tribute box?”

Nanny Zhang nodded quickly. “Yes, yes! It’s been a day—the offering needs refreshing!”

He Xianjin smiled. “Thank you for caring about me, Nanny Zhang.”

Nanny Zhang backed away, waving her hands. “No, no! Just doing my duty!” As she retreated, she gritted her teeth and half-turned to peek back. “Jinjie’er, about what just happened, you should let Third Master know in advance. Soften up, cry a little. He responds to that. Don’t wait until Third Madam comes down on you—then it’ll be too late!”

He Xianjin raised her brows in surprise.

Nanny Zhang added quickly, “We all watched you grow up. I even helped wash your bed sheets when you wet the bed!”

Ah. So this was a friendship forged over a wet bedsheet.

He Xianjin looked away, saying nothing. Her silence made Nanny Zhang break out in a cold sweat.

“He won’t tell anyone,” He Xianjin said softly.

Just when Nanny Zhang thought He Xianjin wouldn’t speak, she broke the silence softly: “There’s a vigil for the Eldest Master in the front hall. If someone sneaked into the women’s quarters in the back, that person won’t get off easy.”

Then her tone shifted: “But there’ll still be consequences—small punishments, at the very least. If you truly care about me, could you help me buy ten sheets of jute paper and some ink?”

Jute paper was the cheapest kind.

As she spoke, He Xianjin slipped half a string of coins into Nanny Zhang’s hand.

The Chen family lacked many things—but not paper. She could’ve asked for a few sheets from any gatekeeper. The money was a gift.

Nanny Zhang rubbed her hands but didn’t take the coins. “How could I take your money? Your mother just passed. Everything’s hard right now—keep it for yourself.”

He Xianjin thought for a moment. “Do we have any good pens? Ones with firm tips?”

That wasn’t Nanny Zhang’s area. Pens were the business of the neighboring Wang family. She shook her head.

He Xianjin had once seen bamboo-tube pens in a museum in Gansu, though she couldn’t recall the exact dynasty. Probably not the right era for those now. “Then could you help me find a short piece of bamboo with a pointed tip? I need it.”

Nanny Zhang wanted to ask why, but the image of Chen Silang’s shrimp-red hand made her bite her tongue. “Alright.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, she returned with the items. Sometimes, brute force was simple and effective.

Once everyone had left, the mourning hall was so quiet that even the sound of candles burning felt tangible. No matter how bustling the day had been, with people coming and going, once the rituals were done, it all returned to dust. Paths diverged—no more ties.

In her past life, lying in bed, her only goal had been survival. But now?

In this absurd era where a man could buy a burial jade for a woman and be praised for a month; in this bizarre world where I’m the master, you’re the servant, you don’t even get to offer incense; In this ridiculous time where “you should beg Third Master while he’s soft-hearted to settle your affairs” was considered sound advice…

What was her goal? Her life, her worth, her future—decided by others, but no one could decide what she thought.

He Xianjin knelt before the coffin, a flicker of fire dancing in her eyes. The candles in the mourning hall burned through the night.

At dawn, the funeral procession arrived. Chen Fu followed, dazed and hollow. Before the coffin was lifted, He Xianjin bowed three times, solemn and firm. From this moment on, she would live carrying the weight of three lives.

Third Master Chen insisted that the funeral procession exit through the grand front gate of the Chen family estate. Not even the second gate of the inner courtyard could stop a nearly forty-year-old man with a romantic obsession.

The procession surged toward the front hall.

Chen Fu, elated, handed each pallbearer a silver coin and shouted, “That’s the spirit! If Ainiang’s coffin goes out the front gate, I’ll reward each of you with ten gold melon seeds!”

The funeral horns blared louder.

He Xianjin, dressed in mourning garb and clutching He Ai’s memorial tablet, followed closely behind. They were about to collide with another funeral in the front courtyard.

A middle-aged man with ram’s horn whiskers and red eyes rushed forward. “No, no! Third Master! Two funerals mustn’t meet—it brings a century of misfortune! Please, take Heniang out the side gate!”

Chen Fu brushed him aside. “Where will the Eldest Master’s coffin go tomorrow?”

The man was nearly in tears. “Of course, the front gate! There’s never been a precedent for a concubine’s coffin to exit through the main gate!”

“Well, once Ainiang goes out the front gate, there’ll be a precedent!” Chen Fu was determined. He glanced at the crowded mourning hall.

So many people—like ants, scrambling and self-important. He had no respect for them. He raised his head, shoved the pallbearers aside, and took the coffin onto his own shoulder, shouting commands to lead the procession forward.

“Let him go mad!” A commanding female voice rang out.

It was Madam Qu—the matriarch of the Chen family. She wore a round bun and a black hemp robe. Her face was round, her stature short, but her presence was formidable. She dragged her right foot as she walked, clearly impaired, but her cane struck the ground with authority.

At the sight of his mother, Chen Fu instinctively shrank back.

But this time, she didn’t aim for his head. Crack! Her cane struck the back of his knee.

Chen Fu’s leg buckled, and the coffin nearly toppled. He Xianjin rushed forward, still holding the memorial tablet, and the corner of the coffin slammed into her back.

“Ugh!” A sharp pain shot up her spine.

He Xianjin bit her lip hard—this damned romantic fool!

Hurting others and himself.