“Your Highness, how am I to report to the Empress and the ancestors? You—how could you let me send a white-haired person to a black-haired one? W-what am I to do? Wuwuwu…”
“Your Highness, take me with you, don’t leave me behind!”
“Wuwuwuwu…”
Gu Qinglu was getting a headache from the endless, heart-wrenching wails—and then, she woke up.
Who was sick in the head?
Didn’t they know she liked quiet when alive?
Didn’t they know how to respect the dead?
What kind of manners were these?
“Get Qi Heng to fetch the imperial physician quickly! If Your Highness truly enters the coffin tonight, none of us will leave the capital. Ten miles beyond the Prince’s mansion, seal off all entry and exit!” A deep, urgent voice carried into the coffin.
Wait… wait a second.
This isn’t right.
The capital?
This should be Fengdu, not the imperial capital!
She remembered clearly: she had secluded herself for half a year to cultivate her gu poison.
When it was finally perfected, she celebrated with wine—but drank too much, mistaking the gu insects for peanuts.
The moment she swallowed them, her meridians shattered.
Her heart and lungs gradually corroded.
The pain of the gu devouring her heart and lungs seared itself into her mind.
At that moment, Gu Qinglu was certain: she was dead.
She had overturned in the gutter and died under her own ultimate gu king.
The greatest disgrace of her life—there was no other.
Yet the wailing around her continued, making her frown.
It was far too noisy.
She recalled the travelogues she had read—none mentioned a “capital” in the underworld.
Had she gotten lucky and arrived just as the underworld relocated its capital?
And was this new “capital” Kyoto welcoming new souls with mourning and wailing?
Still, that wasn’t right—she was a Saintess.
They should be crying for the Saintess, not some prince!
She had to see who was responsible for this—such poor judgment, crying for the wrong person.
Straining, she lifted her heavy eyelids.
The chamber was dim and oppressive.
The air smelled of incense and polished wood from the coffin.
Her fingers brushed something soft—her usual silk inner garments.
Not bad, she thought.
The tribe remembered to burn my clothes.
Next, her hand touched the solid coffin wood. She sniffed—it was fine golden nanmu. Not bad at all.
She took a deep breath, chest tightening.
Gu Qinglu froze.
She was dead.
Her organs, flesh, even bones had been corroded by gu poison, leaving only a puddle of blood.
So why did it still hurt?
Confused, she reached toward the light slipping through a crack.
No one at the noisy mourning hall noticed the slender, pale hand reaching out, then quickly retracting.
She gathered her strength, pushing upward with both hands.
The coffin lid, not nailed shut, creaked ominously.
Outside, the crying continued, as if her movement hadn’t startled anyone.
Grasping the coffin edge, she slowly rose.
She took in the dim scene: white and red silk fluttered in the midnight wind, burning paper money drifted and fell, incense burned sharply. The flickering candlelight confirmed it—this was indeed the underworld.
She glanced at her sleeves, fingers twisting the silk.
So, I never married in life, and the tribe burned a full set of phoenix crown and red bridal robe? Even the elders, usually tightfisted, went all out this time.
She smiled quietly and added, Don’t worry, I will bless the tribe with prosperity.
Seated in the coffin, she turned toward the crying.
Her gaze swept above the heads of the mourners, landing on a ghostly pale man’s profile.
Something beneath his skin was moving—quickly.
Could gu poison affect souls too?
Realization struck, and she immediately checked her own pulse.
Her heart was beating. Her pulse was steady.
She was alive.
Her eyes returned to the crying crowd. Frowning, impatient:
“He’s only poisoned by a gu. Once treated, he’ll be fine. He won’t die—stop crying, you’re giving me a headache.”
The moment the words left her hoarse, drifting voice, it hit like thunder.
The mourning hall fell silent.
All heads turned.
The servants kneeling before the sickbed seemed enchanted—they stared, mouths agape, eyes wide, utterly terrified at the figure seated in the coffin. Tears streaked their faces, expressions frozen in horror.
Gu Qinglu surveyed them, then the man on the bed.
The air fell into a deathly silence.
She considered whether to save the man bravely resisting the Shigu gu.
Her inner voice shouted: save him, accumulate merit for your descendants.
Decision made, she pushed herself up on the coffin edge.
“Ah! Ghost—ghost—ghost!” A young maid on the outer edge screamed, eyes rolling back, fainting onto the floor.
The wailing hall erupted into chaos: screams, crashing chairs, the tumult of people scrambling.
Seeing the figure in the crimson bridal gown, black hair floating in the wind, stepping forward, more fainted from fright.
The rest scrambled backward, desperate to escape the hall, the mansion, perhaps the entire underworld.
Reaching the sickbed, Gu Qinglu extended a hand toward the eldest matron with streaked white hair: “Grandmother, get up.”
“Your Highness… the… the Consort? Did I… cry myself to death?” The aged woman tried to shield the man, hands wide, trying to delay until guards arrived.
Gu Qinglu frowned. Consort?
Were they calling her that?
Then the near-death man must be the prince.
No time to question—if she didn’t act, he would die.
She pulled the matron aside, seated on the edge of the bed, one hand stabilizing the prince’s neck, the other gently tracing the gu beneath his skin—both to soothe and suppress it.
The matron froze, unable to stop her.
Gu Qinglu snapped: “Pull open his clothes—quickly, or he’ll really become a ghost.”
The matron, still confused by this “dead-then-alive” Consort, obeyed.
She tugged at the silk.
The prince’s chest was exposed—tanned skin scarred by cuts and arrows, gu crawling beneath.
Gu Qinglu’s hands moved deftly, guiding the gu from his chest to his armpits and arms.
Instinctively, she reached for: “Silver needles.”
The matron, terrified, asked: “What needles?”
Gu Qinglu frowned, realizing: Ah, any sharp hairpin will do.
The matron hesitated: “There are burial items in the coffin—can we use one?”
“Bring it.” One hand restraining the gu, Gu Qinglu pressed vital points on his chest.
The matron handed the hairpin. Gu Qinglu plunged it into the prince’s chest.
Witnessed by the arriving crowd, they froze, mouths open, unable to scream.
The prince’s head jerked, a gush of black blood splashing across her crimson bridal robe. The acrid scent spread through the hall instantly.