I Don't Want to Have Little Mushrooms with You - Chapter 24

Chapter 24 Snow-white mycelia.

Song Tai stared in bewildered disbelief at the tendrils coiling around her lower abdomen. A sharp, piercing buzz erupted in her mind, her throat went dry, her chest tightened, and the world spun around her.

Her body remained immersed in primal excitement and pleasure, the sensation so intense it clouded her mind. She struggled to focus, but she couldn’t stop herself from trembling in Qu Fengyue’s arms.

She tried to push Qu Fengyue away, her eyes fixed on the unknown organisms.

But in the next instant, the eager, snow-white mycelia vanished as if they had never existed.

Where were the mycelia? It was just Qu Fengyue’s warm fingers.

She stared blankly at her lower abdomen, closed her eyes, and opened them again.

How could they be gone? Impossible! I clearly saw them!

Qu Fengyue noticed her gaze, her eyes flickering as she leaned in to kiss Song Tai’s cheek. “What’s wrong, Elder Sister?”

Song Tai looked up at her, the piercing buzz still ringing in her ears. “Where are the mycelia?” she asked in disbelief.

“What are you talking about, Elder Sister?” Qu Fengyue lowered her gaze, her eyes innocent. “What mycelia?”

Song Tai’s mind went blank, her ears ringing incessantly like a drawn-out alarm, relentlessly assaulting her sanity. Her vision blurred as she struggled to recover from the shock of the previous scene.

Slowly, she lifted her head and stared at Qu Fengyue.

She was certain she had seen it.

Was she hallucinating again?

But could a hallucination feel so real? She had clearly felt the cold, damp tendrils of mycelium coiling around her lower abdomen, as if they were alive. Yet Qu Fengyue insisted they weren’t there.

But she had seen them!

Frantically, she looked around, desperate for confirmation.

Qu Fengyue pulled her into a hug, kissing her affectionately and stroking her back in soothing motions. “It’s okay. I was wrong earlier…”

Song Tai closed her eyes, her thoughts racing in confusion. Suppressing the urge to scream, she said, “Let go of me.”

Qu Fengyue seemed flustered but didn’t release her.

Her breath trembled. “Let go!”

Song Tai jerked her head up, her grip tightening on the chain in her hand. “You’re lying to me.”

“Those mycelium were yours, weren’t they?”

“Elder Sister, what are you saying…?” Qu Fengyue’s smile vanished as she stared at Song Tai, as if she didn’t understand what she was talking about.

Song Tai abruptly tightened the chain, instinctively seeking confirmation from her.

How could Qu Fengyue be unrelated?

What else could she have seen?!

Qu Fengyue must be lying!

Caught off guard by the sudden pull, Qu Fengyue crashed into Song Tai’s shoulder, forced to tilt her head back to meet her gaze, her face flushed with discomfort.

The collar tightened with the movement, cutting off her air supply. The oxygen in her lungs rapidly depleted, yet Qu Fengyue still managed to squeeze out syllables from her throat to deny the truth.

No.

Song Tai stared intently at her, her grip tightening with irrational force, desperate to make her confess.

But as Song Tai’s grip tightened, Qu Fengyue couldn’t even open her mouth to speak. She could only move her lips silently, her breathing growing rapid, erratic, and labored.

Suddenly, Qu Fengyue grasped Song Tai’s hand, her gaze soft as she looked at her. Elder Sister…

It wasn’t a plea for mercy or a struggle, but rather an act of helping Song Tai forcefully deprive her of her last breath.

Her lungs struggled to sustain her body, her chest heaving violently. Her breathing had devolved into a chilling, rasping gasp that pierced the air.

If she continued, if she tightened her grip even slightly, Qu Fengyue would stop breathing.

Song Tai jolted awake as if burned by the metal chain in her hand. She reflexively released her grip, dropping the chain.

Qu Fengyue’s eyes, stinging from the brief suffocation, welled with tears. She coughed violently, her voice hoarse.

Song Tai’s fingers trembled. She closed her eyes, chaotic fragments swirling through her mind. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Her voice shook as she hugged her knees, her gaze unfocused. “Just… let me calm down.”

What was she doing?

The boundary between dream and reality had blurred, the shock momentarily disorienting her, stripping her of reason. For that fleeting moment, she truly hadn’t known what she was doing.

It must have been a hallucination. It had to be.

There was no other explanation for those fungal hyphae.

But Qu Fengyue was a living, breathing person. No matter what, she couldn’t treat her like this.

How could she do this?

She hugged her knees, burying her face against them, her entire body trembling.

What was she doing? What on earth was she doing?

Qu Fengyue ignored the marks on her neck, pulling Song Tai into her arms and gently stroking her back. She murmured soothingly, “It’s okay now. Were you scared? I’m here.”

Song Tai lifted her head, her eyes unfocused.

Qu Fengyue repeated reassuringly, “I’m here.”

Song Tai threw herself into Qu Fengyue’s embrace, the warmth of her body seeping into her, like a comforting balm.

Clinging tightly to Qu Fengyue’s neck, Song Tai suddenly burst into uncontrollable, shuddering sobs.

What was she doing?

She didn’t know what she was doing either.

Warm, wet tears stained Qu Fengyue’s neck. Her pupils contracted silently several times with inhuman intensity, yet her voice remained soothing. “Don’t cry,” she murmured. “It hurts me to see you cry.”

As the sobs gradually subsided, Song Tai struggled to regain her composure. Her eyes rimmed with red, she looked up at Qu Fengyue, her gaze distant. With a hint of self-reproach, she touched the marks on Qu Fengyue’s neck. “Does it hurt?”

Qu Fengyue took her hand and shook her head. These seemingly real wounds were merely illusions; how could they hurt?

But then she nodded, playfully feigning pain. “A little.”

“Elder Sister, give me a kiss, okay?”

Song Tai hesitated for a moment, then lowered her head and gently touched her lips to the alarming red mark on Qu Fengyue’s neck.

The soft lips barely brushed against her skin before pulling away, yet Qu Fengyue’s rare display of initiative made her grin widely.

Song Tai instinctively reached out to touch the wound. “Why didn’t you struggle just now?”

“I thought you wanted to play… that kind of game,” Qu Fengyue trailed off, glancing at Song Tai’s phone. She lowered her voice, “Like in that video.”

Song Tai was speechless.

“Aren’t you afraid something might actually happen? This is dangerous.” The memory of the scene made her head throb with pain. She pressed her fingertips against her temples. “What if I had accidentally…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Perhaps it was her own perception that was flawed, but Qu Fengyue hadn’t just refrained from struggling—she had actively guided Song Tai to tighten the chain further.

Song Tai vehemently rejected the thought. How could that be?

Qu Fengyue had no reason to do such a thing.

“Dangerous? How could it be? I trust you, Elder Sister.” Qu Fengyue paused, her unwavering gaze fixed on Song Tai. Then, her voice softened, “If something truly went wrong and I died by your hand, you would remember me, right?”

As she spoke, as if imagining the scene, the smile on her face grew uncontrollably wider, her pupils dilated and contracted rapidly, and her expression became intensely excited.

She phrased it as a question, but her tone was utterly certain.

Song Tai would remember her, just as she remembered Qu Fengling.

Song Tai froze, a profound sense of unease washing over her. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice incredulous.

After a few seconds, Qu Fengyue winked at her, her expression light and nonchalant.

As if what she had just said was nothing more than a casual joke. “Did I scare you, Elder Sister?”

“But I’m fine now, aren’t I? What are you worried about?”

“Looks like my joke fell flat. I guess I don’t have a sense of humor.” She leaned affectionately against Song Tai’s shoulder, the corners of her lips curving slightly.

Song Tai forced a smile, but her fingers still throbbed with a lingering numbness, like a red brand seared into her skin, a constant reminder of what she had just done.

She couldn’t dismiss this as a joke.

The marks on Qu Fengyue’s neck were now gradually turning purplish-blue, resembling a coiled snake encircling her throat. Bruising was already visible, a horrifying testament to the force Song Tai had used.

A sudden wave of fear washed over Song Tai. In that moment, if she had continued to exert force, Qu Fengyue might have truly died.

Just like Qu Fengling.

Song Tai blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she stammered, her mouth moving uselessly. She didn’t understand why things had escalated like this.

“Of course, I know,” Qu Fengyue smiled, showing no resentment. “It was my fault to begin with.”

Song Tai’s gaze drifted to the increasingly grotesque mark on Qu Fengyue’s neck, and she instinctively flinched away. “No, it wasn’t your fault.”

It was her fault. She had hallucinated, her emotions spiraling out of control.

Qu Fengyue chuckled softly. “Is Elder Sister scared? Does she not want to see my wound?”

Song Tai remained silent, her eyes involuntarily shifting away.

Qu Fengyue tugged up her collar, trying to conceal the mark. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

“If you wish it, it’ll be healed by tomorrow,” Qu Fengyue gently touched the tip of Song Tai’s ear, her voice soothing. “Don’t be sad, okay?”

This skin was merely a mimicry, and she could restore it to its original state at any moment if she chose. But doing so would likely frighten Song Tai.

“How could something this serious heal by tomorrow? It’s already bruised,” Song Tai thought, dismissing Qu Fengyue’s words as mere comfort.

“I’ll call in sick for you,” Song Tai offered.

“Thank you, Elder Sister,” Qu Fengyue replied, wrapping her arms around Song Tai from behind. She slowly pressed her cheek against Song Tai’s back, like a vine coiling around a tree, and said happily, “You’re the best, Elder Sister.”

The intimate gesture, their breaths mingling, made Song Tai instinctively stiffen. Her breath caught in her throat. The lingering shock from earlier still hadn’t left her body, causing her hairs to stand on end.

Qu Fengyue seemed oblivious, tightening her embrace. “Rest now. Get some sleep. Everything will be alright.”

Song Tai hummed in response, but sleep eluded her. Her gaze drifted to Qu Fengyue’s hand resting on her lower abdomen, and she cautiously reached out to touch it.

Sensing her touch, Qu Fengyue gently clasped her fingers and pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck.

Warm, slender fingers; supple skin; distinct knuckles… It was just an ordinary hand, one she had touched countless times before.

There was nothing there.

It must have been her imagination.

It could only have been her imagination.

Song Tai closed her eyes, forcing herself to stop overthinking.

But her heart still pounded erratically, trapped in the bizarre scene she had just “imagined.”

An inexplicable fear gripped her.

It wasn’t just the incident itself, but also Qu Fengyue’s words and demeanor, which filled her with an eerie dread.

The scene before her blurred, her body trembling with excitement.

She still clutched the chain tightly in her hand, its metallic texture pressing sharply against her palm.

Qu Fengyue kissed her, carefully wrapping her arms around her waist. “Elder Sister, may I kiss you?”

Qu Fengyue’s demeanor and tone filled her with immense satisfaction, giving her a sense of absolute control.

“Of course,” she replied magnanimously.

A cluster of snow-white mycelia erupted from Qu Fengyue’s smooth skin, purposefully entwining around her.

Oblivious, she continued to revel in the physical pleasure Qu Fengyue was giving her.

She believed the chain gave her complete mastery, unaware that she had never held the reins in this affair.

Qu Fengyue smiled at her, her eyes shining with delight. “Elder Sister is so good.”

The mycelia intensified their advance, creeping up her abdomen as her consciousness dimmed, wrapping around her intimately. Their tendrils converged, gently encircling… until they had completely restrained her.

Mine…

You’re mine…

Song Tai’s eyes snapped open, her chest heaving violently. Cold sweat drenched her body as she frantically pressed her hands against her lower abdomen, as if confirming some undeniable truth.

The area was perfectly flat, showing no sign of the shameful bulge that had haunted her dream.

She closed her eyes, leaning weakly against the headboard.

This wasn’t the first time she’d had such a dream.

Ever since the hallucination she’d experienced days ago, similar nightmares had plagued her almost every night.

In these dreams, her abdomen swelled grotesquely, distended by fungal hyphae.

The scenes in her recent dream had felt disturbingly real—so real that she couldn’t shake the conviction that if she hadn’t accidentally glimpsed those hyphae coiling around her abdomen, things would have unfolded exactly as they did in the dream.

Hyphae would have sprouted from Qu Fengyue’s skin, wrapping around her without her knowledge, claiming her, and burrowing into her body.

These nightmares had been tormenting her for days, clinging to her thoughts and dominating her mind.

The moment she closed her eyes, these visions would relentlessly seek her out.

Staring blankly at the ceiling, Song Tai was struck by an unprecedented thought.

She… wanted to find Qu Chunjun.

Unlike her previous resistance, Song Tai practically went to Temple Beach willingly this time.

The weather was unusually poor for the journey. A light rain had fallen the previous day, making the air more humid than usual. Even her clothes seemed to absorb the dampness instantly, becoming slightly clammy.

Yet strangely, Song Tai felt better this time. Though her mouth and nose still had that suffocating, muffled sensation, it was less oppressive. She even sensed her body gradually adapting to the environment.

After a while, the humid air began to feel almost comforting. The moisture smoothed against her skin, inducing a languid relaxation. It was as if her earlier resistance had been a mere illusion; with enough visits, she might grow as accustomed to this place as anyone else.

Song Xuehe couldn’t spare the time, so she sent a driver to take Song Tai.

The moment Song Tai stepped out of the car, she saw Qu Chunjun standing before the temple gate to greet her.

A month had passed since their last meeting, but Qu Chunjun remained unchanged. She wore her usual simple, clean blue robe, her long black hair neatly coiled over her shoulder with a plain peachwood hairpin. Her expression was calm and cold as she nodded in greeting. “Layman Song.”

This time, however, she proactively took the bag from Song Tai’s hand.

Qu Chunjun, already significantly taller than Song Tai, gazed down at her with cold, detached eyes, leaving Song Tai feeling inexplicably irritated.

With Song Xuehe absent, no one was there to restrain her. Under normal circumstances, Song Tai would have refused to stay.

But this time, since she needed Qu Chunjun’s help, she reluctantly forced a pleasant expression. “Thank you,” she said.

Qu Chunjun maintained her usual composure, returning the look calmly. “Layman Song is too kind.”

Qu Chunjun had already prepared everything, setting up the ritual in advance and waiting for Song Tai’s arrival.

After a dozen minutes, Song Tai reluctantly went through the motions, her movements as perfunctory as possible.

At first, she worried Qu Chunjun might scold her or report her behavior to Song Xuehe.

But Qu Chunjun’s gaze swept over her several times, her expression remaining serene, as if she hadn’t noticed Song Tai’s halfhearted efforts.

Or perhaps she had noticed but chose not to point out Song Tai’s lack of sincerity.

This relieved Song Tai, making her even less inclined to cooperate.

Qu Chunjun’s fingers tightened around the thin, resilient ritual ruler as her gaze drifted over Song Tai again, still without a word.

Song Tai felt a flicker of satisfaction.

Perhaps their previous encounter had subconsciously convinced her that Qu Chunjun wasn’t the type to tattle.

This was the first time Song Tai had felt relatively comfortable at Temple Beach, even finding herself unconsciously viewing Qu Chunjun with a slightly more favorable eye.

But as night fell, Song Tai discovered what was making her uneasy.

No one had ever stayed here alone before; Song Xuehe had always accompanied her.

Temple Beach grew even quieter at night, the shadows of the trees frozen in place. A dim, slanted shadow pierced through the window lattice, casting an eerie glow into the room that sent chills down her spine.

Her phone, lying beside her, buzzed incessantly with notifications.

Without a doubt, they were from Qu Fengyue.

Since that night, Song Tai had deliberately ignored Qu Fengyue’s messages, except for a brief inquiry about the wound on her neck, to which she offered no further response.

She had also refused Qu Fengyue’s request to stay overnight.

She knew this wasn’t right, that her actions were irresponsible.

But lately, she had been tormented by strange and unsettling dreams, and seeing Qu Fengyue only brought back the vivid memories of that night.

Fear gripped her heart—fear that those hallucinations would return, invading her normal life.

She didn’t want to see Qu Fengyue, even though she knew Qu Fengyue hadn’t done anything wrong.

Outside the window, the night was still and silent. Lush vegetation surrounded the cabin, yet there was not a single chirp of insects or song of birds.

Song Tai buried her face in the quilt, enduring the silence for a few minutes before finally climbing out of bed.

Just as Qu Chunjun was about to retire for the night, she heard a knock at the door.

The knocking paused and resumed, tinged with hesitation.

Qu Chunjun rose and opened the door without a moment’s hesitation.

Song Tai, startled by the sudden opening, jumped back in surprise.

Qu Chunjun lowered her gaze to meet Song Tai’s. “Layman Song, is there something you need?”

Song Tai hadn’t thought this through. She didn’t know how to begin. She awkwardly withdrew her hand. “I’d like to come in and talk to you.”

Qu Chunjun stared at her for a few seconds before stepping aside to let her enter.

Still unnerved by Qu Chunjun’s gaze, Song Tai entered the room and nervously clenched her sleeve. Gathering her courage, she asked, “What was that thing you used on me last time? You know, after I got scared, the thing you chanted?”

“The Mind-Calming Mantra?” Qu Chunjun replied.

Song Tai frowned. “I think so.”

She wasn’t a shaman; how would she know what it was? All she wanted was to escape that persistent, haunting feeling.

“C-could you use it on me again?”

A rare hint of a smile flickered across Qu Chunjun’s usually impassive face, but it vanished too quickly for Song Tai to notice.

“Why?” Qu Chunjun asked.

“Huh?” Song Tai stammered.

“I need a reason,” Qu Chunjun insisted.

The tone of her voice was strikingly similar to that of a teacher, carrying an air of command.

Yet this tone suddenly calmed Song Tai.

Her thoughts unconsciously followed Qu Chunjun’s lead. “I’m hallucinating again. I keep seeing those mycelia. I’ve been having nightmares lately.”

Qu Chunjun nodded. “Describe it in detail. Time, location.”

Song Tai mumbled, “The last time I saw them was a few days ago, at home, while I was with my girlfriend…” She paused, finding it difficult to continue, and tried to gloss over the details.

“Doing what?” Qu Chunjun interrupted. “Be specific.”

Song Tai immediately looked up at her.

She instinctively sensed that this question was crossing a line, but Qu Chunjun’s composure was so unwavering, as if she were merely asking routine questions about Song Tai’s problem, not actually interested in the content of her answers.

After a few seconds of hesitation, Song Tai whispered, “When she was kissing me.”

Qu Chunjun’s expression remained cold. “Position?”

Song Tai hummed in confusion, wondering if she had misheard.

Even that?

She eyed Qu Chunjun suspiciously.

Qu Chunjun returned her gaze with an impassive stare.

Qu Chunjun’s demeanor was so matter-of-fact, as if this were an ordinary question, nothing to be ashamed of.

But the question felt too intimate. Song Tai didn’t want to answer.

Qu Fengling immediately adopted a dismissive expression, signaling that it was time for Song Tai to leave.

Song Tai hesitated for a few seconds, bit her lip hard, and finally spoke, “She just… held me like this.”

She made a quick, awkward gesture, her entire body flushed with shame, tears welling in her eyes.

“I was sitting on her lap.”

Qu Chunjun: “Anything else?”

Song Tai: “What else could there be?”

Qu Chunjun’s gaze fell silently on Song Tai’s lower abdomen before shifting away. “Never mind. Close your eyes.”

Song Tai immediately obeyed, closing her eyes obediently.

Qu Chunjun’s voice was soft and gentle, its tone as cool as flowing water, carrying a strange, rhythmic cadence that resonated in Song Tai’s ears.

After a moment, Qu Chunjun said, “Open your eyes.”

Song Tai opened her eyes obediently.

Whether it was psychological or not, she immediately felt much more comfortable.

“Thank you.”

Qu Chunjun hummed in acknowledgment and opened the door for her. “Layman Song, please rest early.”

Song Tai panicked slightly, blurting out before Qu Chunjun could speak, “I want to stay in this room tonight.”

This place was too terrifying; she didn’t want to be alone.

Qu Chunjun lowered her gaze to look at her.

Song Tai suddenly realized her tone had been too presumptuous, almost demanding. Fearing Qu Chunjun would refuse, she hesitated, then gently tugged on her sleeve, softening her voice. “I want to sleep with you. May I?”

Qu Chunjun’s gaze fell on the fingers clutching her sleeve. She nodded. “Layman Song, as you wish.”

This was her agreement.

Song Tai breathed a sigh of relief.

Having woken up early and gone through such a long series of rituals, she was already exhausted.

With Qu Chunjun by her side, she instantly felt much more at ease. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

The bed in Qu Chunjun’s room was large and austere, with a hint of asceticism. Covered with only a thin mattress, it could easily accommodate five or six people, let alone two.

This was why Song Tai had dared to suggest sharing the bed with Qu Chunjun.

Qu Chunjun lay down fully clothed, maintaining a distance between them. She listened to Song Tai’s breathing gradually become steady and even.

But soon, she noticed Song Tai frowning, tossing and turning uncomfortably, and burying her face in the pillow.

The bed in this room was too hard.

Although Song Tai’s usual room looked identical to the others from the outside, Song Xuehe had specially furnished it with furniture she was accustomed to using.

Song Tai tossed and turned again, her discomfort persisting even in her sleep. Instinctively, she sought a softer place to rest.

But the entire bed was configured the same way. Where could she find a softer spot?

Except…

A few minutes later, Qu Chunjun lowered her gaze to calmly observe Song Tai, who had stumbled into her arms.

Song Tai leaned against Qu Chunjun’s chest, finally finding a measure of comfort as her breathing gradually evened out.

Qu Chunjun’s expression remained serene, unmoved.

Song Tai pressed closer, seeking an even softer spot.

Only then did Qu Chunjun raise her hand, gently stroking Song Tai’s cheek.

Her fingers were icy cold.

Song Tai flinched at the touch, turning her head slightly but showing no intention of pulling away. Instead, she nuzzled her cheek against Qu Chunjun’s neck, her breathing settling into a steady rhythm once more, oblivious to the impending events.

A hint of amusement flickered in Qu Chunjun’s eyes. “Such a good girl.”

Under the dim light, the slender fingers that had been stroking Song Tai froze mid-motion. Like a complex crystalline structure rapidly disintegrating, the fingers seemed to unravel, splitting into countless strands to reveal their true nature beneath the skin: not flesh and bl00d, but a dense network of fungal hyphae.

If Song Tai were to awaken at that moment, she would witness a truly horrifying sight:

Qu Chunjun’s arm, from the wrist up, retained its human form, while below the wrist, it had completely transformed, expanding into countless clusters of snow-white mycelia.

These mycelia, as if possessing their own consciousness, eagerly reached out to touch Song Tai’s skin, wrapping around her with palpable delight.

They desperately wanted to burrow into her body, to merge with her completely.

But they couldn’t.

Song Tai was merely asleep, not dead.

Any trace left behind would be discovered.

The mycelia that had been urgently climbing toward her lower abdomen froze, reluctantly retreating.

However, they had already found another path.

Song Tai remained blissfully unaware, her eyes closed, her face pressed against Qu Chunjun’s chest, her breathing quiet.

In an instant, the mycelia spread like a delicate spiderweb, silently extending tendrils that rapidly climbed her cheeks, enveloping her mouth and nose.

Their tips brushed affectionately against her soft lips, urgently forcing her mouth open.

The mycelia pressed into her lips, probing deeper and deeper, as if trying to reach the depths of her throat.

Song Tai squeezed her eyes shut, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her mouth was blocked, stuffed full, and stretched to its limit, stifling any sound. A strand of clear saliva escaped uncontrollably from the corner of her lips.

She swallowed weakly, tilting her head back in a futile attempt to escape the suffocating embrace. Tears welled in her eyes, wetting her lashes.

Desperate to break free, yet paralyzed by panic, she instinctively leaned toward Qu Chunjun, her fingers clenching the woman’s collar in a silent plea for help.

Qu Chunjun gazed at her calmly, a faint smile playing on her lips.

The mycelia meticulously scraped away every trace of the glistening liquid from Song Tai’s lips before reluctantly withdrawing.

The sensation of oxygen deprivation was unbearable. Song Tai let out a soft, pained groan, her lashes trembling as she gasped for air through parted lips.

“Don’t cry,” Qu Chunjun said, reaching out to stroke Song Tai’s hair. Her fingers, now restored to their normal form, gently wiped away the tears clinging to her lashes.

When Song Tai woke the next day, the room was empty.

She sat up groggily, gazing at the unfamiliar furnishings.

Perhaps it was her imagination, but her throat felt dry. She unconsciously licked her lips, which felt numb and slightly sore, as if someone had bitten her in her dream.

A glass of water sat on the wooden square table. She instinctively picked it up; the water was still warm, just right for drinking.

It was as if Qu Chunjun had anticipated her waking at this time and prepared it in advance.

Before she could swallow her first sip, the door opened from outside.

Qu Chunjun entered, her clothes damp and cool. “Did Layman Song sleep well?” she asked.

Hearing this, Song Tai swallowed the water and momentarily lost her composure.

She seemed to have dreamed last night as well, as if someone had forced her to drink water.

The liquid filled her mouth, desperately urging her to swallow. She could only gulp urgently, struggling to keep up.

But there was too much water. It overflowed from the corners of her lips, covering her mouth and nose, making it impossible to breathe. She felt like she was drowning.

After that, she couldn’t remember anything else.

The dream wasn’t pleasant, but at least it wasn’t as chaotic as the previous ones.

Song Tai nodded. “It’s… okay.”

Qu Chunjun nodded in response, asked no further questions, and turned to leave the room.

Song Tai immediately looked up. “Where are you going?”

“To gather fresh ingredients for the midday vegetarian meal.”

Song Tai gazed blankly out the window, suddenly realizing it was almost noon. She had slept far longer than she thought.

As Qu Chunjun turned to leave, Song Tai called out, “I want to come with you.”

She didn’t want to be alone here; she was a little afraid.

Realizing her tone might have sounded presumptuous, she looked at Qu Chunjun with pleading eyes, her voice softening into a hint of coaxing: “Can I?”

Behind the temple rose a majestic mountain, its slopes densely covered in lush vegetation that burst with vibrant green hues in spring.

From childhood, Song Tai had visited this place countless times, yet she had never ventured into the mountains. This was her first time exploring the temple’s surroundings.

Qu Chunjun led the way, a small bamboo basket slung over her arm. Song Tai followed cautiously behind, her hands empty.

At first, they passed many dilapidated and abandoned houses on the outskirts of the village. But as they ventured deeper, the vegetation grew denser, the shadows deepened, and towering trees stretched their branches skyward, blotting out the sun. Human traces gradually vanished, leaving only the towering, thriving plants.

Song Tai hadn’t imagined the mountain would be like this. She gazed around with curiosity. This was a place brimming with raw vitality, both alluring and subtly dangerous.

She remembered a rainforest hiking summer camp during middle school. Nearly all her classmates had signed up, and Song Tai had wanted to go too. But in the end, she didn’t. Song Xuehe, her strict guardian, deemed such places too risky and unnecessary.

Throughout her school years, Song Tai had remained largely detached from her peers, rarely participating in group activities.

Not participating in group activities led to her being unconsciously excluded by others.

Perhaps it wasn’t malicious, but the feeling of being abandoned by the group was deeply painful.

From childhood, Chen Ling had been her best and nearly only friend.

But Chen Ling was two years older and often unavailable. Song Tai felt lost and didn’t know what to do.

As she grew older, Song Tai shed her baby fat, her figure elongated, and her peers’ innate judgment of beauty and ugliness began to awaken.

Some started paying special attention to her, even trying to please her.

She discovered a new way to reintegrate into the group, and the sense of loss gradually faded.

Thus, Song Tai unwittingly developed a bad habit: she grew accustomed to enjoying the attention and flattery, instinctively never refusing them.

Yet she never reciprocated anyone’s feelings.

Firstly, she was still underage, and her mother would be furious if she found out about any early relationships.

Secondly, none of these suitors met her standards.

She simply enjoyed being the center of attention, which didn’t mean she could fall for just anyone.

That changed during a school spring outing when she met her first love, a senior sister.

There wasn’t any particular reason why Song Tai liked her first love senior. The senior was outstanding and beautiful, standing out like a crane among chickens, radiating brilliance.

And during a school spring outing where students were tasked with gathering ingredients and cooking their own meals, she… was remarkably skilled at mushroom foraging.

Song Tai had never seen such a skill before and was deeply impressed, admiring her from the bottom of her heart.

Song Tai harbored this crush for a long time, roughly two years. As soon as she turned eighteen, she eagerly confessed her feelings to the senior.

Though she had been deeply earnest during her secret admiration, her affection waned rapidly after they started dating.

This was because she discovered that the senior was exactly as she had imagined—gentle, considerate, and never angry.

While consistency between one’s inner self and outward demeanor isn’t a flaw, it didn’t seem to be a virtue in a romantic relationship.

Once someone is completely understood by another, they lose their novelty in that person’s eyes.

Less than four months into their relationship, Song Tai broke up with her, boldly declaring that she wanted a new girlfriend.

The senior’s expression was pained as she asked why.

Song Tai couldn’t articulate the reason herself. Truthfully, she hadn’t completely lost her feelings for her first love senior.

If she had continued the relationship, it likely would have persisted, but she didn’t want to. The relationship had become too dull; she wanted to try being with other people.

At the time, she was still naive about romance, but her detached nature was already evident.

Song Tai looked at her innocently and told her the truth.

But this reason was clearly too absurd for anyone to accept.

Even now, she had long forgotten what her senior sister looked like, but she still remembered the expression on her face during the breakup:

Dark, uncontrolled, incredulous. The forced smile crumbled instantly, her features twisting as if she could barely maintain the facade of being human.

To be honest, seeing that expression flicker across her senior sister’s face, Song Tai suddenly had a strange thought: she almost didn’t want to break up anymore.

She had never seen her senior sister—always so gentle and considerate—reveal such a dark and ugly expression, like an abandoned puppy, her eyes so pitiful and heartbreaking.

But in the end, they still broke up.

Because she knew that if they got back together, her senior sister would simply revert to being the same gentle and considerate person, with nothing changed.

Song Tai thought innocently.

Just like Qu Fengling.

Qu Chunjun suddenly spoke, “That one’s no good.”

Song Tai snapped out of her daze, realizing her fingertip was about to touch a small mushroom.

The mountain air was damp and heavy with dew after yesterday’s rain, creating perfect conditions for mushrooms to sprout.

She had been following Qu Chunjun all morning, watching her gather a handful of mushrooms into a small bamboo basket.

Song Tai felt a surge of excitement, itching to try picking some herself. When she spotted this particular mushroom out of the corner of her eye, she quickly moved to pluck it before Qu Chunjun noticed.

“Why not?” Song Tai’s hand froze mid-reach. She glanced at the mushroom, then back at Qu Chunjun.

Though inexperienced, she knew enough to avoid brightly colored mushrooms, which were often highly poisonous.

But this mushroom had a pristine white cap and stem, small and even endearingly clumsy.

Why couldn’t it be eaten?

Skeptical, Song Tai ignored Qu Chunjun’s warning and stubbornly reached out, attempting to pinch the mushroom’s stem to pluck it.

But the moment her fingertip brushed the stem, before she could even apply pressure, a cloud of dust-like particles suddenly exploded from the dense folds beneath the mushroom’s cap.

These were mature spores nestled beneath the mushroom’s folds. The slightest touch or even a gentle breeze could dislodge and scatter them.

The spores were minuscule, like invisible dust, clinging to the skin like fine powder.

Caught off guard, Song Tai swiftly withdrew her hand, but not before the dust had settled all over it.

Frowning, she rubbed her fingertips together, surprised by the encounter and wanting to brush the spores off.

To her dismay, the pale brown spores proved remarkably adhesive. Instead of brushing off, they clung even more stubbornly, spreading across her entire hand.

No wonder Qu Chunjun had warned her not to pick it—this thing was practically a miniature bomb.

Qu Chunjun promptly offered her a handkerchief.

Feeling a little guilty for disobeying her, Song Tai mumbled, “Thank you.”

She hastily wiped her fingers clean and was about to return the handkerchief when Qu Chunjun suddenly spoke, her expression inexplicably darkening. “Not clean enough.”

“I think it’s clean enough,” Song Tai muttered, a little puzzled, but she complied and wiped again.

Qu Chunjun stared intently at her fingers. “Still there. Wipe again.”

Reluctantly, Song Tai wiped a third time.

Qu Chunjun coldly commanded, “Wipe again.” She even reached out to take the handkerchief and wipe Song Tai’s fingers herself.

Song Tai: “……” Is she crazy?

Song Tai tossed the handkerchief back at her and stormed off, leaving Qu Chunjun behind.

Her fingers were already red from scrubbing—how could they possibly be cleaner?

After a few steps, Song Tai gradually slowed her pace, taking in the surrounding scenery.

This mountain remained largely untouched by development, its slopes overgrown with tall grasses and ancient trees.

Before her stood a colossal tree, its trunk requiring at least ten people to encircle. Its canopy blotted out the sun, casting a dense shadow over the forest floor. Brown vines twisted and intertwined around its gnarled branches, while dark moss carpeted its rugged bark.

The sheer scale of the tree almost induced megalophobia.

Yet, upon circling to the other side, one would discover that this seemingly robust and majestic tree was hollow inside, gradually decaying. Dense clusters of parasitic plants clung to its trunk, siphoning nutrients and spiraling upward in a desperate competition for sunlight and oxygen.

One half of the tree remained vibrant green, while the other had already lost its vitality.

Though it still radiated an aura of strength and vitality, it would soon be consumed by these parasitic plants, doomed to wither and die.

The gnarled branches stretched skyward like silent cries for help, reaching toward the distant horizon.

Unable to escape, it could only be parasitized and devoured.

Song Tai knew this was a natural phenomenon; even the mightiest tree would eventually perish.

Yet witnessing such a colossal being wither before her eyes still sent an inexplicable chill down her spine.

Lost in her observation, she failed to notice the moss beneath her feet.

The mountain air was thick with mist, and the previous day’s rain had left the moss slick and unbroken across the ground.

Her foot slipped, and before she could react, Song Tai nearly fell.

A hand reached out at the perfect moment, offering a steadying grip.

The hand was shockingly cold, almost inhumanly so.

Song Tai nearly recoiled from the icy touch. Once she regained her balance, she immediately shook off the grip.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Qu Chunjun offered a curt “hm” and continued walking.

Song Tai followed cautiously, carefully choosing her steps. She thought Qu Chunjun seemed cold, but she was actually quite attentive.

She decided to let go of her annoyance at Qu Chunjun’s obsessive insistence on wiping her fingers.

Still, Song Tai felt uneasy whenever she met Qu Chunjun’s gaze. Her eyes were unnervingly calm, like the surface of a lake that never rippled, devoid of any desire.

The fog in the forest was so thick that Song Tai dared not stray too far from Qu Chunjun, fearing she would lose her. She had no choice but to follow closely, step by step. The problem was that Qu Chunjun was intimately familiar with the mountain terrain, while Song Tai knew nothing of it.

Qu Chunjun showed no intention of adjusting her pace to accommodate Song Tai.

Before long, Song Tai could barely move.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to continue, but she physically couldn’t.

Her legs ached fiercely, and her feet throbbed.

She hadn’t anticipated Qu Chunjun would lead her so far. She had assumed they would only go to the foot of the mountain. Wearing low-heeled leather shoes, walking this distance was already a struggle.

She could feel her feet were already blistered.

Song Tai silently grumbled, mentally drawing a crying face. If only I’d known, I wouldn’t have come with her.

Qu Chunjun suddenly turned her head, her gaze landing on Song Tai’s mud-splattered shoes. She handed Song Tai the small bamboo basket she was carrying and said, “Get in.”

Her voice was so cold and calm that Song Tai didn’t immediately grasp the meaning. She numbly accepted the basket.

It wasn’t until she saw Qu Chunjun standing before her, slightly bending her knees, that the realization dawned.

Qu Chunjun was going to carry her on her back.

Song Tai hesitated, scrutinizing Qu Chunjun’s movements without moving.

“What’s wrong?” Qu Chunjun asked.

Song Tai wanted to speak but stopped herself.

She was a little embarrassed to admit it.

Her foot hurt, but… she glanced doubtfully at Qu Chunjun’s slender frame.

She doubted whether Qu Chunjun could even carry her. The mountain path was rugged and steep. If Qu Chunjun stumbled and dropped her, it wouldn’t just be her foot that would hurt.

No, if she really fell, she probably wouldn’t feel any pain at all. The mountain was so high; she might die instantly.

Yet, a few seconds later, she cautiously gripped the small basket and, with the resolve of someone facing certain death, leaned onto Qu Chunjun’s back. She added anxiously, “If you can’t manage, tell me right away. I’ll get down and walk myself. If we both fall…”

Before she could finish, Qu Chunjun had already lifted her by the knees and hoisted her onto her back.

Song Tai instantly fell silent.

She hadn’t expected Qu Chunjun, who looked so slender, to be so strong. Her arms held Song Tai steadily, carrying her with apparent ease.

Qu Chunjun said calmly, “Hold on tight.”

Song Tai immediately wrapped her arms tightly around Qu Chunjun’s neck, pressing her chin against her shoulder for extra security.

Qu Chunjun’s skin was cool, much colder than a normal person’s.

It felt smooth and slightly damp, like the mushroom cap Song Tai had touched earlier. Perhaps from her frequent contact with natural plants, Qu Chunjun carried a faint, earthy scent reminiscent of dew-kissed foliage.

Unable to resist her curiosity, Song Tai leaned closer and sniffed, her nose brushing against Qu Chunjun’s neck.

It smells quite nice.

Qu Chunjun paused briefly, but quickly resumed her pace. Surprisingly, carrying Song Tai actually made her move faster than when they were walking together.

Song Tai soon realized she was nothing but a burden.

If she hadn’t been with Qu Chunjun, the latter would likely have already returned to the temple by now.

As they descended the mountain, the path leveled out, becoming much easier to walk.

Feeling guilty about being carried, Song Tai murmured, “You can put me down now. I can walk the rest of the way myself.”

Qu Chunjun ignored her.

Thinking she hadn’t heard, Song Tai leaned closer to Qu Chunjun’s ear and repeated her request.

This time, Qu Chunjun finally responded, “Doesn’t your foot hurt?”

It did hurt.

But not enough to stop her from walking. Her foot was just chafed, not broken.

Qu Chunjun fell silent again, but Song Tai understood her meaning. Qu Chunjun could carry her back.

“Oh,” Song Tai said. Truthfully, she didn’t want to walk either. Her foot throbbed, and since Qu Chunjun insisted, she felt perfectly justified in enjoying the ride.

Qu Chunjun is really helpful, Song Tai thought. Not just helpful, but strong too. She’s been carrying me for so long without even breaking a sweat.

The only awkward part was Qu Chunjun’s silence.

Resting her chin on Qu Chunjun’s shoulder, Song Tai gazed at her expectantly, trying to strike up conversation. “What should we have for lunch?” she asked.

She was starting to feel hungry.

“Anything,” Qu Chunjun replied tersely.

“Then how about mushroom soup? Is that okay?” Song Tai glanced at the fresh ingredients in the small bamboo basket. There seemed to be some wild greens, but she didn’t recognize any of them except the mushrooms.

“Do you know how to make it?”

“Mm-hmm,” Qu Chunjun hummed.

Mm-hmm? Song Tai thought. Would it kill you to say a few more words?

Song Tai silently grumbled to herself.

“My calf is a bit itchy,” Song Tai suddenly frowned, looking uncomfortable.

Qu Chunjun replied coldly, “Probably a bug.”

Song Tai froze instantly, her spine tingling with dread. She could vividly feel something cold and insect-like clinging to her calf, even attempting to crawl up her knee and thigh.

She was terrified, but Qu Chunjun was carrying her on her back, and she couldn’t move.

Suppressing the urge to scream, she pleaded, “Qu Chunjun, put me down first.”

The Goddess Temple was now within sight.

Qu Chunjun didn’t answer, but suddenly glanced sideways at her.

The more Song Tai thought about it, the more her bl00d ran cold. Yet Qu Chunjun continued to ignore her. Frantically, she leaned close to Qu Chunjun’s ear and urged her, “Hurry, hurry, hurry…”

Qu Chunjun suddenly called out her name, “Song Tai.”

Song Tai paused, confused, and followed Qu Chunjun’s gaze forward.

A familiar figure stood before the temple courtyard.

Qu Fengyue’s enigmatic gaze fell upon the two of them, her long, gray shadow stretching behind her across the ground. She smiled faintly at Song Tai. “Elder Sister.”

Song Tai felt the icy sensation on her calf not only persist but momentarily tighten, burrowing deeper.