Song Yinjian treated Uncle Tian with such courtesy for a reason.
The old man's identity was none other than Tianshu, one of the Liyue Qixing.
Moreover, his daughter Huixin was a secretary at Yuehai Pavilion—a true powerholder in Liyue.
If Song Yinjian wanted to thrive in Liyue's web of relationships, he naturally had to manage connections like these well.
At that moment, he couldn't help thinking of another senior sister of his—someone positioned high above.
She ran around like an idiot from dawn to dusk, so busy she didn't even have time to meet him. One day, when he became her master's husband, he'd make her his secretary.
Then—when there was work, the secretary would do it. When there wasn't… His lips curled into a grin that was both lecherous and shameless.
"Uncle Yinjian?" A somewhat honest, gentle voice suddenly came from behind him. Song Yinjian turned—
It was Chongyun, whom he hadn't seen in a long time. Song Yinjian's smile warmed like spring sunlight.
"So it's Chongyun. What a coincidence—perfect, actually. I have something I need your help with."
Chongyun looked puzzled, clear eyes full of curiosity. "What is it, Uncle Yinjian?"
Song Yinjian spoke with a bright smile. "Like this: I'm holding a funeral tomorrow. The deceased has no descendants. I want you to act as a temporary descendant for the rites. Afterward, I'll give you a ten-thousand-mora red envelope."
Chongyun thought for a moment, then looked troubled.
"Uncle Yinjian… tomorrow might not work. Xingqiu already asked me to go to the bookstore with him tomorrow to buy novels."
Song Yinjian immediately put on a stern face, adopting a proper elder's authority.
"Chongyun, as your elder I have to say a few things. Xingqiu isn't like you—he's a rich young master. He can just reach out and get whatever he wants."
His tone hardened.
"But you're different. Your family's finances are very poor. Your mother's hair has even turned white because of it. And you still have time to run around playing with him all day?"
Chongyun hesitated, then scratched his head awkwardly.
"Uncle Yinjian… actually… my mother's hair is naturally white. It's hereditary in our family. It didn't turn white from exhaustion."
Song Yinjian froze, embarrassed—yet he still tried to maintain the dignity of an elder, keeping his face stiff.
"Uh… that detail isn't important. What's important is that your mother works hard for the family every day. As the saying goes—when you want to care for your parents, they may no longer be there."
Chongyun's expression shifted into guilt.
"Uncle Yinjian… I understand. I'll come help you tomorrow." Song Yinjian nodded with satisfaction.
"That's more like it. As a man, you need to become the pillar of your household. And don't worry—your uncle won't shortchange you. Tomorrow I'll give you a twenty-thousand-mora red envelope."
Chongyun brightened, grateful.
"Thank you, Uncle Yinjian! You're really too kind!"
After that, Song Yinjian waved Chongyun off with a smile. He bought some vegetables from a street stall and returned to his shop.
The moment he stepped inside, he threw himself into preparations.
......
The next day, before dawn.
Only the faintest pale glow spread across the horizon, and the world was still soaked in the quiet before morning.
Song Yinjian had already gotten up.
He brought over Planner—the dim-witted donkey—and began loading funeral supplies onto the cart.
In no time, the cart was packed to bursting. Wreaths, paper money, ritual tools—everything needed for a funeral was piled like a small mountain.
When everything was ready, Song Yinjian walked to Shenhe's door. He raised his hand and knocked twice, gently calling, "Senior Sister." A moment later, the door opened slowly.
Shenhe appeared like a cold, distant immortal, dressed in plain white. Her expression was cool, as if she'd stepped down from the moon itself—beautiful enough to steal breath, yet distant enough to keep anyone at arm's length.
Song Yinjian spoke softly, "Senior Sister, we're going to handle Mister Zhang's funeral today. There are many tasks—please help me."
Shenhe didn't speak. She only nodded.
Song Yinjian smiled. "Thank you, Senior Sister." He turned to leave.
But behind him, Shenhe's voice—clear as icy springwater—rang out. "Junior Brother. In the future, don't say thank you."
Song Yinjian stopped.
He turned back and looked at her directly, something different in his gaze.
For some reason, Shenhe's heart began to race. Flustered, she closed the door quickly, leaning against it as she took several deep breaths before her emotions finally settled.
Outside, Song Yinjian's mood soared. He even hummed a cheerful tune.
Before long, he and Shenhe—walking side by side—led the cart loaded with funeral supplies toward Mister Zhang's estate.
When they reached the gate, Hu Tao and Zhongli were already waiting. Hu Tao looked as mischievous as ever. Zhongli was steady as a mountain.
Song Yinjian said little. He quickly called them over to help unload.
After the supplies were moved inside, the funeral procedures began—complex and solemn: setting up the mourning hall, dressing the deceased in burial clothes, and placing him into the coffin.
Throughout the process, Zhongli helped while quietly observing Song Yinjian's every move.
To his surprise, although Song Yinjian looked young, he was extraordinarily熟练 with funeral rites.
Each step was orderly and precise, as if he'd done it countless times—nearly flawless.
Especially during the encoffining: Song Yinjian's hands were practiced, gentle, and exact. Mister Zhang's face—rigid and twisted by pain in death—gradually softened under Song Yinjian's careful arrangement, becoming calm and peaceful, as if all suffering had finally left him behind.
Even Hu Tao, who normally held Song Yinjian's character in the utmost contempt, couldn't help but feel grudging admiration for his skill in this line of work.
After midday, sunlight spilled into every corner of the estate.
Uncle Tian arrived with a group of ten men—elderly, all past fifty. Most looked sallow and gaunt, worn down by hard lives.
Song Yinjian solemnly put on a white ritual robe—pure as snow, making him look all the more dignified and grave.
Uncle Tian and the old men followed suit, putting on white daoist robes.
Then, under Song Yinjian's lead, the group began chanting the Scripture of Salvation in low voices.
The deep, lingering cadence echoed through the hall—like it crossed the boundary between life and death—carrying comfort and deliverance for the departed soul as it drifted into the unknown.