The Spirit Hall was crowded with people dressed in plain clothes.
When Duan Ling arrived, they all parted to make a path for him, allowing him to walk straight up to the coffin without obstruction.
The Paper Money tossed by the servants drifted up and then fell down, brushing against Duan Ling’s shroud.
Some even grazed his face; the sharp edges of the paper reddened his skin, yet he didn’t even blink as he stared at the coffin.
Inside the coffin, Lin Ting’s hands were crossed neatly over her front, her eyes tightly shut, her makeup applied just so.
According to custom, a person must be properly adorned before the funeral procession.
The makeup on Lin Ting’s face was the one Duan Ling had applied that very morning.
Duan Ling’s gaze swept over Lin Ting’s brows and eyes, down her nose bridge, to the lips brushed with bright red rouge.
His eyes then stopped at her chest, where there was no rise or fall—meaning Lin Ting still had no breath, no sign of coming back to life.
Duan Ling blinked, his eyes dim and unclear as he slowly looked away.
Li Jingqiu was also looking at Lin Ting.
A few days ago, Li Jingqiu had been able to hold back her tears at the Spirit Hall.
Today, she couldn’t anymore.
Once the burial was done, she would never see her daughter again.
If she wanted to think of Lin Ting, it would only be by the gravestone.
Like on the first day after Lin Ting’s death, Li Jingqiu collapsed by the coffin, utterly broken, crying uncontrollably: “Leyun.”
Tao Zhu feared Li Jingqiu might fall and hurt herself, so she supported her while sobbing.
Over so many years, Lin Ting had always been Tao Zhu’s pillar of strength.
Losing her suddenly, Tao Zhu felt lost and dazed, trapped in an endless haze she couldn’t escape no matter how far she walked.
Tao Zhu wanted to reach out and touch Lin Ting, but was afraid of disturbing the body, so she only dared to stand by the coffin, calling softly, “Seventh Miss.”
Duan Xinning listened to their cries, her eyes filled with tears, unable to imagine life without Lin Ting.
They had often gone out together for meals and fun, covering for each other whenever trouble came to reduce the chance of parental scolding.
Whenever Duan Xinning faced grievances she couldn’t tell her parents about, she sought out Lin Ting.
Lin Ting would listen patiently and try her best to help find solutions.
During the early days of her pregnancy, without Lin Ting’s comfort, Duan Xinning might not have made it through.
Lin Ting had helped her so much, yet when Lin Ting fell ill, Duan Xinning could do nothing but watch helplessly as she died.
Duan Xinning was filled with guilt and even hatred for her own helplessness: “I’m sorry, Leyun.”
Jin Anazi stood silently.
Though there is no feast that does not end, and many part ways as they walk along life’s road, he did not like parting in this way.
Jin Anazi lifted his head, finally looking into the coffin.
Besides attending Lin Ting’s funeral, today Jin Anazi had one more task to do—something Lin Ting had repeatedly begged him to do before she died, even making him swear a bitter oath to fulfill it.
The matter was absurd and would never be accepted by others; it had to be done in secret.
His gaze landed on Duan Ling.
Duan Ling suddenly turned his head toward the outside of the Spirit Hall.
“Bring them in.”
As soon as he spoke, several Imperial Guards led a few doctors through the crowd into the hall.
Everyone present was puzzled by this.
Madam Feng wiped the tears from her face and stepped forward to ask, “Ziyu, today is Leyun’s funeral. Why did you bring doctors?”
He took Lin Ting’s hand and spoke as if it was something ordinary: “To have them take her pulse.”
This statement caused a stir among the onlookers.
What pulse could a corpse possibly have?
Hadn’t the pulse of the dead long since vanished?
They thought Duan Ling was still unwilling to accept that Lin Ting was truly gone, even on the seventh day after her death.
Despite being an Imperial Guard accustomed to death, in the end, he refused to believe his wife had died.
The thought moved them to sigh inwardly.
Duan Father stepped forward.
“Ziyu, the funeral is about to begin. You must not act recklessly.”
He had also heard the rumors that Duan Ling had lain beside Lin Ting’s body in the coffin overnight.
He thought Duan Ling was simply overwhelmed by grief and not thinking clearly, which was why he kept doing strange things.
Duan Father blocked the doctor who was about to approach the coffin and sternly scolded, “What you’re doing will only disturb Leyun’s peace in death!”
His generation placed great importance on funeral rites and decorum.
Duan Ling ignored him and gently told the doctors, “Take her pulse.”
The doctors were sweating profusely.
This was their first time facing such a situation—being summoned by the Imperial Guard early in the morning to take the pulse of a young woman about to be buried on her seventh day.
Their fear was not about bad luck; as doctors, they did not hold such superstitions.
Rather, the difficulty was that Duan Ling wanted them to take the pulse, while Duan Father forbade it.
Caught in the middle, they didn’t know what to do.
They neither dared approach nor retreat, looking at Duan Ling helplessly.
“Sir Duan…”
Duan Father replied coldly, “Step back.”
The cold wind stirred the hem of Duan Ling’s shroud, but his body remained motionless as he stood guard over the coffin, repeating firmly, “Take her pulse.”
The doctors truly did not know whom to obey—one was the Imperial Guard Commander, the other was the Imperial Guard’s Deputy Commander.
According to rank, they should obey the Imperial Guard Commander, but the Deputy Commander’s fingers alone could crush an ordinary doctor.
So the doctors quickly cast pleading glances at Madam Feng, who had spent years practicing vegetarianism and Buddhist prayers.
“Madam.”
Madam Feng sensed their gaze; even if they didn’t look at her, she would not stand idly by.
“Ziyu, why do you suddenly want doctors to take Leyun’s pulse? Do you still believe she’s alive?” Madam Feng crossed calmly past Duan Father and approached Duan Ling.
Having doctors take Lin Ting’s pulse was no trivial matter and had to be treated with utmost caution.
Close relatives were different from strangers—strangers touching the body just before burial could disturb the departed soul.
From the perspective of the living, it was a grave sign of disrespect to the deceased.
Thus, Madam Feng hoped Duan Ling would reconsider.
The cold wind stirred Duan Ling’s shroud again, but he didn’t move, standing vigil by the coffin and repeating: “Take her pulse.”
The doctors still did not know whom to listen to.
The scene repeated itself, their eyes desperately pleading toward Madam Feng.
“Madam.”
Madam Feng sensed their distress.
“Ziyu, why do you suddenly want doctors to take Leyun’s pulse? Do you still think Leyun is alive?” she repeated, crossing again past Duan Father to stand before Duan Ling.
At this moment, the woman who had traveled the Jianghu for many years, sensitive to the sound of steel, looked back at Duan Ling with shocked eyes.
A few days ago, when she saw Duan Ling’s calm reaction, she thought he had accepted Lin Ting’s death.
Little did she know that even on the seventh day after Lin Ting’s death, he refused to accept it, insisting on having doctors take her pulse.
But out of respect for his position, she said nothing more and simply watched.
Hearing this, Li Jingqiu wiped away her tears and said, “Listen to Ziyu. Let the doctors take Leyun’s pulse. I believe Leyun would not blame him.”
As Lin Ting’s mother, Madam Feng and Duan Father naturally deferred to Li Jingqiu’s wishes.
Duan Father no longer stopped them.
As he stepped aside, Duan Ling sheathed the Spring Embroidery Dagger.
The crowd’s tense hearts settled; no one wanted to see bloodshed on the day of the funeral.