I Don't Want to Have Little Mushrooms with You - Chapter 10

Song Tai instinctively turned to her for help, clutching her sleeve with a panicked tone, “Did you see it?”

Qu Chunjun looked at her expressionlessly, her voice puzzled, “See what?”

Song Tai hadn’t yet snapped out of the earlier situation, her words rushed and frantic, “The fungal threads here—they were about to wrap around my feet. Can’t you see them…?”

Qu Chunjun cut her off, “What are you talking about?”

Song Tai turned back in a daze. The entire room was spotless. Though the environment was slightly damp, the surface of the stone statue was clean and dry, bearing only the rough marks left by wind erosion—not even a speck of dust.

Where were the fungal threads?

For a moment, Song Tai felt disoriented.

Had it been another hallucination?

Qu Chunjun lowered her gaze, watching her calmly.

The girl’s cheeks were flushed with an unhealthy redness, her eyes glazed with a thin layer of mist, her expression blank and dazed. Clinging to Qu Chunjun’s chest, she wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, refusing to let go—clearly terrified.

So obedient.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Qu Chunjun’s lips. “Song Tai, close your eyes.”

Song Tai obediently shut them.

“Calm the heart, steady the breath, focus the mind, unify the spirit…” Qu Chunjun murmured softly, her cool fingertips lightly pressing against Song Tai’s forehead.

Song Tai shuddered violently. She didn’t understand the incantation, but whether it was psychological or not, the slimy sensation that had been clinging to her suddenly vanished, leaving her body light and unburdened.

She opened her eyes in a daze.

The two were standing close. Qu Chunjun’s dark eyes gazed at her, reflecting her own image.

Song Tai didn’t believe in such things. Just moments ago, she had been irritated and repulsed by Qu Chunjun’s mannerisms. Yet now, Qu Chunjun’s composed expression inexplicably soothed her, as if her heart had been gently stroked, instantly filling her with a sense of security.

Qu Chunjun’s gaze drifted downward, landing indifferently on her arm.

Song Tai froze in alarm—only then realizing that, in her panic, she had been gripping Qu Chunjun’s waist tightly.

The smooth fabric of Qu Chunjun’s clothes was crumpled in her grasp, wrinkled beyond recognition.

Guiltily, Song Tai loosened her grip and took a step back. “Thank you, Teacher Qu.”

Qu Chunjun gave a faint hum, her expression cool as her eyes swept past Song Tai’s lashes before shifting away—only to land abruptly on the prayer cushion in front of the statue.

Song Tai snapped back to reality, but it was already too late.

Qu Chunjun had bent down and picked up the game console lying on the cushion.

“This is…” Song Tai attempted to explain, “It was just so boring, and my knees hurt from kneeling too long. I couldn’t help playing for a bit…”

Qu Chunjun stared at her silently, her gaze as cold as snowmelt.

“I didn’t play for long, just a little while…” Song Tai immediately fell silent.

Qu Chunjun didn’t ask further, but she also didn’t return the console. Instead, she cast a warning glance at the serene-faced goddess statue before turning to leave, tossing over her shoulder, “The vegetarian meal is ready.”

Song Tai mumbled a dazed, “Okay.”

Qu Chunjun was already walking away.

Song Tai hurried after her, unsure of her stance. The game console was still in Qu Chunjun’s hands—was she going to report it to Song Xuehe?

She certainly didn’t want Qu Chunjun telling Song Xuehe about the console.

But Qu Chunjun’s expression was so indifferent that Song Tai lacked the courage to ask again.

Song Xuehe was already seated at the dining table. Seeing Song Tai shuffle in slowly, she frowned. “I asked Teacher Qu to call you for lunch. Why did it take so long?”

Song Tai instinctively glanced at Qu Chunjun.

Qu Chunjun remained the same as ever, her face cold and expressionless.

Too much like a teacher.

The fear of teachers is ingrained in students’ DNA.

She wasn’t afraid of teachers.

But she was terrified of teachers tattling to Song Xuehe.

Song Xuehe undoubtedly loved her—even doted on her.

But Song Xuehe’s love came with conditions.

She couldn’t cross certain boundaries—

Like skipping class. Even if she zoned out during lessons, she had to stay seated.

Every romantic partner had to be vetted by Song Xuehe first, and only with her approval could things proceed.

And then… she couldn’t divorce Qu Fengling.

In short, anything Song Xuehe deemed bad, she wasn’t allowed to do.

Song Xuehe had raised her alone after her divorce, striving to give Song Tai the best life possible. She didn’t want Song Tai to feel looked down upon or that she was any less than other children.

Over the years, Song Xuehe’s demands on Song Tai had grown increasingly detailed and stringent.

At first, they were the usual parental expectations—no skipping class, no neglecting homework, no sneaking off to play games, no early relationships…

Later, it extended to Song Tai’s career choices, every person she dated, her arranged meetings, her marriage…

Song Xuehe wanted to micromanage every decision, afraid she’d stray down the wrong path.

But she gradually forgot—Song Tai had the right to choose.

Song Tai had grown up, but Song Xuehe still treated her like a well-behaved child.

Once, Song Tai had cycled through girlfriends so frequently that Song Xuehe accidentally found out.

At first, Song Xuehe lectured her earnestly. Song Tai held back for a while, but soon fell back into old habits.

Back then, Song Tai was still in university. When Song Xuehe found out, she immediately arranged for leave and confined her at home to reflect.

“Reflection” was the term, but Song Xuehe didn’t restrict her in other ways.

Aside from being barred from leaving the house, her cards still worked, she could still play games, and she didn’t even have to attend classes.

At first, Song Tai didn’t take it seriously at all, enjoying the freedom for a few days before realizing that this subtle, insidious form of punishment was the most unbearable.

The house was empty. The housekeeper had been instructed by Song Xuehe not to speak to her.

No matter how much she wheedled, Song Xuehe ignored her, and her phone was confiscated.

Song Tai wasn’t the type to endure solitude. Days on end in complete social isolation, with no one to interact with, the house so quiet it sent chills down her spine—

She grew restless, then gradually unraveled, smashing things in frustration.

Song Xuehe turned a blind eye to it all.

Song Tai remembered it clearly—that time, Song Xuehe made her stay home for nearly a month.

Until she broke down in tears, apologizing and swearing she’d never do it again.

After that, she truly didn’t date anyone else—because soon after, she married Qu Fengling.

Take today’s incident, for example. If Qu Chunjun told Song Xuehe, Song Xuehe would probably make her reflect for half a month.

Song Tai tensed instinctively, holding her breath, fingers clutching the hem of her clothes.

Qu Chunjun remained calm, her tone indifferent. “It’s nothing. The statue was just dusty. Benefactor Song has a kind heart and offered to help.”

Song Xuehe gave a noncommittal hum, her gaze flickering over Song Tai’s reddened eyes. She seemed to believe Qu Chunjun’s explanation and didn’t press further.

Song Tai exhaled in relief, picking up her chopsticks to eat. Just as she thought the matter was finally behind her—

Qu Chunjun suddenly spoke again. “Benefactor Song’s fate is light to begin with, making her prone to attracting malevolent forces. Now that she’s lost the protection of her spiritual destiny, the flames of life at her shoulders grow ever weaker. The annual purification rites are no longer sufficient—she’ll likely need them monthly from now on.”

This long-winded explanation, translated into plain language, means: the once-a-year exorcism ritual isn’t cutting it anymore. Starting today, Song Tai has to come here every month.

Song Tai: “……?”

Her gratitude towards Qu Chunjun for covering for her earlier instantly vanished.

Unable to hold back, Song Tai shot her a glare.