I Don't Want to Have Little Mushrooms with You - Chapter 40

After setting the dishes on the table, the group took their seats.

Qu Chunjun calmly sat down opposite Song Tai.

Song Tai glanced up and noticed Qu Chunjun’s face seemed unusually pale. “Are you alright? Why do you look so unwell?”

Qu Chunjun silently lowered her gaze.

The truth was, she hadn’t yet fully devoured Qu Lingyue.

Though Qu Lingyue’s power was weak, unlike Qu Fengyue, who had willingly surrendered to being consumed, she resisted with all her might.

Any misstep could allow Qu Lingyue’s will to influence her. Moreover, the prolonged process risked discovery by Song Tai.

However… beyond mimicry, the mycelium’s greatest strength lay in parasitism—silently draining its host to death.

It parasitized humans, animals, plants, and even… its own kind.

While Qu Lingyue’s consciousness hadn’t completely vanished, it was now entirely parasitized. Only time remained before its final dissolution.

Qu Chunjun raised her eyes, her expression unchanged. “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, Layman Song.”

Song Tai murmured an “oh,” about to ask, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Just then, Song Xuehe placed some vegetables on her plate. “Eat more greens.”

Song Tai instantly wilted, swallowing the unspoken question and nodding.

She took a bite of the vegetables, almost as if trying to avoid something. Glancing around, she felt something was missing. Her peripheral vision caught Qu Lingyue, and she suddenly realized Qu Lingyue hadn’t said a word since pulling out her chair and sitting down.

Song Tai shot her a surprised look.

Why is Qu Lingyue suddenly so quiet?

Without the usual chatter, Song Tai swallowed her mouthful of vegetables and found herself feeling strangely uncomfortable. The silence felt unnatural.

She couldn’t resist another glance.

Qu Lingyue seemed to notice her gaze and looked up.

Song Tai immediately averted her eyes, focusing on the vegetables in her bowl.

She didn’t want to talk to Qu Lingyue.

After the meal, Song Xuehe prepared to leave.

Song Tai was surprised. She had assumed Song Xuehe’s sudden visit meant she would stay for a couple of days before returning home.

But Song Xuehe was leaving after just one meal, proving her earlier words true: she had indeed come on a whim, worried about Song Tai.

Before leaving, Song Xuehe patted Song Tai’s head. “Are you unhappy?”

Song Tai paused for a few seconds.

She was indeed unhappy around Qu Lingyue.

She had hoped Song Xuehe’s arrival would provide an opportunity to take Qu Lingyue away and find her a quiet place to continue working on her song.

But she could tell Song Xuehe was in a hurry and likely had other urgent matters to attend to. In the end, she swallowed her words and shook her head.

Song Tai was scheduled to stay at Temple Beach for three days. On the second day, Qu Lingyue remained obediently in her room all day, working on her new song.

It was so unlike her that Song Tai found it unsettling.

Qu Lingyue now seemed possessed by something, her quietness almost frightening.

During dinner that evening, Song Tai couldn’t help but ask hesitantly, “Are you alright?”

Qu Lingyue looked up and smiled, a little stiffly at first, but the smile quickly became much more natural.

Song Tai wondered if she had imagined it all. Qu Lingyue seemed perfectly lively and energetic.

“Thank you for your concern,” Qu Lingyue said.

Song Tai’s confusion deepened. This was even more terrifying—Qu Lingyue had actually started being polite and proactively expressing gratitude.

Still, she replied, “You’re welcome.”

From their first meeting, Song Tai had felt a strong aversion to Qu Lingyue. The main reason was the persistent sense that Qu Lingyue was approaching her with a hidden agenda, which struck her as insincere and deeply unsettling.

On the other hand, Qu Lingyue was undeniably talented. Her songs were captivating, and as a drummer, she anchored the entire band with her skill and power.

If one could separate Qu Lingyue’s stage persona from her offstage self, the former was undeniably charismatic. Song Tai couldn’t deny that.

She even still had a live video of Qu Lingyue performing, recorded by a former colleague, saved on her phone.

It was precisely this stage presence that sometimes made Song Tai think Qu Lingyue wasn’t so bad after all.

But in an instant, Qu Lingyue could shatter that positive impression completely.

Now that Qu Lingyue was suddenly acting “normal,” Song Tai found it difficult to resist her.

On the day they were leaving Temple Beach, Qu Lingyue suddenly asked if she wanted to go up the mountain with her, saying she needed to collect samples for a new song.

Up the mountain?

Song Tai immediately shook her head in refusal.

She had only climbed that mountain once, with Qu Chunjun, and she was somewhat curious about it.

However, she wasn’t familiar with the terrain, and it was Qu Lingyue’s first time here. The mountain’s environment was complex, and venturing up alone seemed too risky.

Moreover, she didn’t want to go alone with Qu Lingyue.

Qu Lingyue seemed “normal” for now, but who knew if her old self might resurface?

Yet, as she watched Qu Lingyue turn to grab her equipment, as if preparing to climb alone, Song Tai hesitated before calling out, frowning, “Are you really going?”

She glanced at Qu Chunjun, who was standing nearby.

About half an hour later, while it was still early, the three of them began their ascent up the mountain.

This was Song Tai’s second time climbing the mountain, but she was still unfamiliar with the terrain.

Following behind the other two, she lost her footing on a steep slope and stumbled.

Almost simultaneously, Qu Lingyue and Qu Chunjun turned and reached out to steady her.

Qu Lingyue, despite carrying a bag filled with a radio microphone, tripod, recorder, and other equipment, still managed to extend a hand to help.

Faced with two outstretched hands, Song Tai regained her balance on her own. After a moment of silence, she remarked, “You two are quite in sync today.”

But she pushed both hands away. “No, I can manage on my own today.”

She had specifically changed into comfortable sneakers, unlike the heeled leather shoes she’d worn last time.

However… when their fingers brushed, Song Tai frowned and immediately withdrew her hand, instinctively saying, “Why are your hands so cold?”

They were practically as icy as Qu Chunjun’s.

Two ice blocks.

They wouldn’t even need air conditioning in the summer—human-powered refrigeration.

“Really?” Qu Lingyue quickly retracted her hand.

Song Tai didn’t dwell on this detail.

Because they were busy with Qu Lingyue’s affairs, Song Tai and Qu Chunjun followed her.

Qu Lingyue scanned the surroundings, finding the ambient noise still too intrusive. Her gaze fixed on a particular direction, and she stated concisely, “Let’s go that way.”

Song Tai glanced in that direction. The trees formed a dense canopy, their dark branches pressing down like a heavy shroud. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the gloom, dimming the entire area. She immediately protested, “Don’t go that way! It’s too dark over there.”

Qu Lingyue turned to her, her tone surprisingly gentle. “Are you afraid? You can hold onto me.”

“But… aren’t you afraid of the dark?” Song Tai asked skeptically, studying her. “Isn’t it all pretty much the same around here? Why not just find a brighter spot to take samples?”

Song Tai still remembered the time they were trapped in the elevator together. Qu Lingyue had been so terrified she’d clung to her, physically reacting to the darkness. How could she now show no reaction at all?

Had Qu Lingyue been faking it before?

No way.

Those physiological responses couldn’t be faked.

Qu Lingyue suddenly stiffened for a few seconds.

Song Tai frowned. “What’s wrong? Are you really okay?”

Qu Lingyue’s eyelids drooped, her gaze flickering with a hint of disorientation, as if she were recovering from a struggle. Her expression quickly settled into composure, though her demeanor grew noticeably colder. She forced a smile and said, “It’s fine. We need to focus on the task at hand. I can manage to overcome it.”

Can she really?

Is she just putting on a brave face?

Song Tai felt a pang of doubt and silently scoffed to herself, but she nodded and reluctantly accepted Qu Lingyue’s explanation. The three of them continued forward for a while until Qu Lingyue abruptly stopped. This must be the ambient sound environment she was looking for.

Song Tai asked, “Should we stand aside? Do we both need to go over there?”

Qu Lingyue shook her head.

Song Tai stared at Qu Lingyue’s pale face, realizing she was still reacting to the environment.

She had always wondered about something: the stage wasn’t always brightly lit.

During band performances, Qu Lingyue sat at the side of the stage. Only when the spotlight shone on her was the environment fully illuminated. At other times, before the stage lights came on, she had to wait in the darkness.

Even the passageway connecting the stage to the backstage area seemed to be shrouded in darkness.

Why has Qu Lingyue never shown any fear of the dark at times like this?

Thinking this, Song Tai voiced her question aloud.

Qu Lingyue’s tone was slightly unnatural as she forced a smile. “Probably because I love sitting at the drums so much that I can temporarily force myself to overcome it.”

Song Tai hummed in acknowledgment.

She had never experienced such a feeling. She had never loved anything so deeply that she could overcome her own physical aversion or even disgust.

She had loved people, though.

She had loved each of her exes, albeit to varying degrees.

She still remembered the anticipation she felt when she had loved Qu Fengling and her first love senior, the way her hormones surged with excitement.

But once the novelty wore off, she found it difficult to recall them unless she made a conscious effort.

Ultimately, she seemed to crave the feeling of being in love and being loved by others more than the individuals themselves.

People who could persist in their passions were truly remarkable.

She, on the other hand, couldn’t do it. She craved novelty, making sustained commitment too difficult.

Qu Lingyue had actually impressed her today.

Song Tai muttered, “You’re pretty amazing, then.”

Qu Lingyue winked at her and laughed, “Oh my god—this is rare! It’s the first time you’ve ever complimented me.”

The moment those words left her lips, Song Tai felt a familiar feeling return.

This was the Qu Lingyue she knew.

Before, Qu Lingyue had seemed almost possessed.

But Song Tai immediately cut her off. “Alright, that’s enough. Let’s drop the subject. No more.”

She was genuinely afraid Qu Lingyue would say something irritating again.

Just when Song Tai was starting to think she wasn’t so annoying after all, Qu Lingyue would say something that made her sigh.

“Go on, hurry up,” Song Tai urged.

Qu Lingyue smiled at her, picked up her equipment bag, and walked a short distance away.

Qu Chunjun and Song Tai remained behind to wait.

Song Tai glanced at Qu Lingyue, who was bending over to set up her equipment, then looked away, tilting her head back to gaze at the sky, feeling a bit bored. She then turned to Qu Chunjun beside her.

She noticed that Qu Chunjun hadn’t said much during the entire hike. Though Qu Chunjun had always been reserved, she seemed even more taciturn now, as if every word were precious.

However, upon closer observation, Song Tai noticed that Qu Chunjun’s complexion, though still pale, seemed slightly better than before.

Qu Lingyue returned quickly.

Qu Lingyue handed Song Tai the headphones, letting her listen to the recording she had just made.

It was pure wind—nothing but the sound of the wind. This mountain seemed devoid of animal life; Song Tai hadn’t even seen a single insect. The audio she had captured was thus a pristine silence filled only with the wind’s whisper.

Yet, remarkably, this subtle breeze, when isolated and amplified, sounded like a raging storm in her ears.

This was Song Tai’s first time experiencing such a phenomenon, and she was intrigued.

She was about to remove the headphones and pass them to Qu Chunjun when Qu Lingyue suddenly said, “Don’t take them off. Listen—what’s that sound?”

Qu Lingyue played a short, wordless musical clip.

It resembled the style of music Song Tai had produced before.

After listening, Song Tai still couldn’t discern what Qu Lingyue wanted her to hear.

“Listen to the spaces between the drumbeats,” Qu Lingyue instructed. “That’s a sample I recorded earlier.”

Focusing intently, Song Tai listened again.

A faint hissing sound, like wind rustling leaves or someone exhaling, subtly offset each drumbeat. It was easy to miss, but once noticed, it revealed the composer’s ingenious touch, hidden within the music’s fabric.

The overall feel of the piece wasn’t particularly upbeat, with its constantly shifting rhythms. This subtle sound, though easily overlooked, instantly transformed the entire composition.

“Can you tell what sound was sampled?” Qu Lingyue asked.

Song Tai was completely clueless and guessed wildly, “Wind?”

“It’s a moisturizing spray,” Qu Lingyue revealed.

Song Tai’s eyes widened in disbelief.

It was strange. Before Qu Lingyue revealed the answer, no images had formed in her mind. But now, the sound immediately conjured a vivid scene: the spray nozzle pressed, releasing a burst of crystalline droplets that rapidly dispersed into the air before quickly falling to the ground.

“Yes! That’s exactly the sound of the spray!”

Qu Lingyue opened another sampled audio file and played it. “Now listen to this one.”

Another audio clip filled Song Tai’s ears: a series of deep, thudding sounds.

“It sounds a bit like thunder, but also like something heavy crashing to the ground. It feels like it would perfectly accompany scenes of a world collapsing,” Song Tai said uncertainly, still feeling lost and unable to visualize anything clearly.

“But it also sounds a bit like an amplified heartbeat.”

Qu Lingyue shook her head. “It’s the sound of mushroom spores falling from the gills as the cap opens, colliding with the fallen leaves.”

Song Tai recalled the last time she went mushroom hunting with Qu Chunjun. The spores had clung to her hands like dust, so subtle and silent she hadn’t even noticed them.

Could such a thing be recorded?

Or, more accurately, does it even make a sound?

As if sensing her thoughts, Qu Lingyue continued, “To you, this sound is faint and silent. But to me, it’s like thunder, causing violent tremors in my world.”

She gazed at Song Tai, her words carrying a deeper meaning.

She wasn’t just talking about mushroom spores; it was as if she were suddenly casually revealing how Song Tai felt to her.

Song Tai froze.

Artists like Qu Lingyue often evoke the stereotype of being sensitive and emotionally nuanced. Her earlier words perfectly fit the cliché of the so-called “artist.”

If Song Tai had heard Qu Lingyue’s music first and then met her, she would likely have formed the same preconceived notions about her.

But…

She had met Qu Lingyue first.

And Qu Lingyue wasn’t that kind of person.

Song Tai fell silent for a few seconds, desperately wanting to touch Lingyue’s forehead to check if she had a fever that had fried her brain. “Are you really okay?” she asked. “Why are you talking so strangely again?”