I Don't Want to Have a Baby with You - Chapter 9

Miaotan was nestled among mountains on three sides, with a river bordering the fourth, like a concave ring setting missing a quarter of its circumference—a tiny village embedded within.

The car wound its way deeper along the twisting mountain road.

With rivers and forests, abundant moisture, lush greenery, clean air, and serene surroundings, it was the perfect place for relaxation and recuperation.

But Song Tai didn’t think so.

The overly damp, heavy air clung to her like a waterlogged cotton ball, smothering her nose and mouth. Her chest felt tight and heavy, as if she couldn’t breathe.

Every time she came here, an inexplicable resistance and irritation simmered inside her.

Frowning, Song Tai irritably picked up her water bottle again and took a sip. The cool liquid soothed her throat, slightly easing her restless mood.

Though Song Xuehe had been on the phone with a subordinate the entire time, her attention never left Song Tai.

At forty-seven, Song Xuehe looked after herself well, appearing no older than her mid-thirties, with only faint crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes hinting at her age.

Her eyes, shaped exactly like Song Tai’s, were gentle and capable. She glanced at her daughter with mild surprise.

Song Tai had never been one to drink much water growing up, yet today, unusually, she had nearly finished an entire bottle.

Song Xuehe immediately ended the call and stroked her head, voice soft. “Feeling unwell?”

Song Tai shook her head. “Didn’t sleep well last night. Just tired.”

It probably wasn’t just lack of sleep—there was that deep-seated resistance too.

Song Xuehe knew she disliked this place. She let Song Tai lean against her shoulder and spoke in a coaxing tone, “We’re only staying two days. We’ll go home soon, okay?”

Song Tai gave a sullen “Mm,” lowering her head, unwilling to speak.

But she didn’t voice any objections.

Song Xuehe smiled approvingly. “Our Caicai is such a good girl.”

Then she took a new bottle of mineral water, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to her.

Song Tai shook her head gloomily—she didn’t want any more.

She had already drunk enough to feel bloated.

But Song Xuehe seemed oblivious to her refusal, holding the bottle to her lips.

Song Tai took it, frowned, and forced down a sip. Song Xuehe patted her head approvingly. “Good girl,” before returning to her work.

Song Tai curved her lips slightly, gaze drifting to the window. If Song Xuehe saw the concealed hickey on her neck, she wouldn’t be saying that.

The road was smooth, the drive uninterrupted.

Song Tai watched the scenery through the window.

The horizon stretched long and narrow in the distance, an expanse of pristine blue rushing toward her—the kind of clear, untainted sky rarely seen in the city.

So blue it was almost dizzying.

Her chest tightened. Whether it was motion sickness from the long drive or just her mind playing tricks, she suddenly felt nauseous.

Luckily, they soon arrived.

Song Tai stepped out of the car, head heavy and feet unsteady, struggling to catch her breath.

The village was sparsely populated. Apart from the temple, there were hardly any notable buildings, the eerie silence sending chills down her spine.

Song Tai wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“This is the new temple keeper, Qu Chunjun—Teacher Qu,” Song Xuehe said suddenly, taking her hand.

Song Tai looked up.

A woman stood in the distance, waiting at the temple gate to greet them.

The woman’s long, sleek black hair was neatly pinned back with an ancient-looking peachwood hairpin, exuding an air of restrained austerity. Her gaze was calm and unreadable, dressed in a simple, pristine indigo robe.

Her slender figure stood tall and straight, like a reed by the riverbank—a stark contrast to Song Tai, who drooped like a wilted sprout.

Song Tai immediately averted her eyes, silently grumbling to herself.

She’s really putting on a show, huh.

Song Xuehe pressed a hand against her back, signaling her to straighten her posture. Seeing no sign of her speaking, she frowned slightly and softly prompted, “Cai Cai, say hello.”

Song Tai obediently complied, “Hello, Teacher Qu.”

Qu Chunjun glanced down at her, nodding in acknowledgment. Her voice was refined, carrying the cool clarity of jade striking jade. “Miss Song, a pleasure to meet you.”

The sound of her voice sent a faint tingle down Song Tai’s ears, making her lift her gaze involuntarily.

She met a pair of placid, unruffled eyes—like a still, empty lake, seemingly untouched by desire, where no ripple could be stirred by any stone.

Qu Chunjun gave her a slight nod before turning away indifferently to lead the way.

Throughout the entire exchange, Qu Chunjun had only spoken to her once, engaging almost exclusively with Song Xuehe, as if she had no interest in Song Tai whatsoever.

Song Tai trailed behind the two in silence, listening to their conversation.

She gathered two key pieces of information: first, the previous temple caretaker had been replaced by Qu Chunjun due to old age.

Second, this year’s mystical ritual would be conducted by Qu Chunjun in her stead.

Song Tai thought it wasn’t so bad. Compared to the wrinkled old woman from before, at least Qu Chunjun was pleasant to look at.

Qu Chunjun disappeared for a moment, only to reappear wearing a solemn, deep-red ceremonial robe—far more ornate than her previous plain attire. The wide sash draped gracefully, its fabric adorned with intricate golden patterns. She nodded slightly. “The altar is prepared. Miss Song may now undergo the ritual.”

Song Xuehe was still on the phone but promptly ended the call upon hearing this.

From the very beginning, Song Xuehe had been constantly taking and making calls, her workload evidently heavy.

Song Tai had even overheard her assistant mention that Song Xuehe still had two online meetings to attend later.

She tentatively whispered, “You don’t have to worry about me. Go take care of your work.”

If Song Xuehe left, no one would be watching her, and she could message Chen Ling to come pick her up.

She didn’t want to stay here.

Not for three days and two nights—she didn’t want to spend a single extra minute here.

Song Xuehe didn’t respond, silently studying her with a frown. Though she said nothing, her gaze had already seen right through her.

Song Tai’s heart tightened with sudden nervousness.

Song Xuehe sighed helplessly, her voice gentle. “Unhappy?”

Song Tai didn’t answer, turning her head away.

Of course I’m unhappy. How could I possibly be happy in this godforsaken place?

Song Xuehe smoothed the stray hairs by her cheek, bending slightly to meet her eyes. “How could Mom just leave you alone?”

Song Tai didn’t dare meet her gaze, lying through her teeth. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just saw how busy you were and wanted to show some concern.”

Song Xuehe didn’t call her out—this wasn’t the first time Song Tai had tried to play games with her. Softly, she said, “Mom appreciates your concern, but I can spare this much time.”

She kissed Song Tai’s forehead. “Alright, go on now.”

Her little scheme exposed, Song Tai sulked. “Fine.”

…

About ten or so minutes later.

Song Tai hadn’t slept well last night, her weary eyelids fixed on Qu Chunjun performing the shamanic ritual.

To be fair, calling it a “shamanic dance” was entirely Song Tai’s petty, irritable exaggeration.

Qu Chunjun moved with graceful precision, her motions light yet powerful. The blue robes she wore took on an almost ethereal, gauze-like quality as she moved, and paired with her calm, detached expression, she truly looked the part of an otherworldly ascetic—far more impressive than the elderly woman who had performed the ritual before her.

Her expression remained indifferent as she held a peachwood ritual ruler in her hand. One side was carved with the sun, moon, and the names of the twenty-eight lunar mansions, while the other bore the patterns of the Three Stars, the Big Dipper, and the Southern Dipper.

She tapped it lightly three times against Song Tai’s forehead, purifying and cleansing her.

Unlike the typical thick and rigid ritual rulers, Qu Chunjun’s was thinner and more flexible, slicing through the air with a sharp, whistling sound as she wielded it.

The sound was so close it nearly grazed Song Tai’s ears and hair, making her wonder—if it came just a fraction closer, would that ruler strike her?

Eyes closed, Song Tai’s thoughts ran wild. This doesn’t feel like a ritual tool at all. More like a disciplinary ruler, the kind used to smack palms and backsides.

Why is Qu Chunjun playing the shaman? She’d make a much better teacher.

With that face, that cold demeanor, and that pleasant voice, her classes would be packed. Students would fight to get in.

Some students love that kind of aloof, untouchable type—they’d probably be screaming inside, “Teacher, punish me!”

But Song Tai wasn’t one of those students. If she ever met Qu Chunjun in a classroom, she’d stay as far away as possible.

She hated teachers like that.

Song Tai seethed inwardly.

Qu Chunjun’s robes brushed close as she moved, and Song Tai caught a whiff of her scent—damp, faint, like some kind of plant, or maybe morning dew.

Frowning, Song Tai spitefully thought, This smell is awful too!

Finally, the so-called ritual ended, but the real ordeal was yet to come—the “Spirit Petition Ceremony,” which required Song Tai to kneel here for three days to prove her sincerity.

Yet, Song Tai only felt relief.

In the main hall stood a stone statue of a goddess, with two kneeling cushions placed before it. Song Tai obediently knelt on one, as she had done countless times before.

For as long as she could remember, she had been forced to come to this wretched place every year, kneeling at the feet of this wretched statue like she was being punished.

Song Tai knelt properly, eyes closed, expression devout—but her ears were perked high, listening as Qu Chunjun circled her once, the faint chime of ritual bells accompanying her steps. Then came an incantation in some incomprehensible tongue, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. A heavy thud echoed as the door behind her shut firmly.

Silence fell instantly.

Song Tai immediately cracked one eye open, scanning the room to confirm—no one was left.

Qu Chunjun was really gone.

Without hesitation, she stood up, rubbing her knees. Even that short time kneeling had left them sore.

Then, from the wide sleeves of her robe, she pulled out a handheld game console—smuggled in secretly.

Expect me to kneel here all morning? Not a chance.

She turned it on and settled onto the cushion, playing a pre-downloaded game to kill time.

She wasn’t worried about Qu Chunjun barging in unexpectedly.

According to the ceremony’s schedule, she was supposed to be kneeling here all morning.

It was a newly released 3D platformer, perfect for whiling away the boredom of these three days.

The game started off simple enough, with smooth gameplay, but as the maps expanded, the later levels demanded real skill and precision.

Song Tai had just started playing and was clearly not yet proficient. She died several times on a small checkpoint, unable to jump past it no matter what.

The death sound effect echoed once more in the empty room. Song Tai completely lost patience, irritably turning off the gaming console and tossing it onto the cushion.

With nothing to do, she began surveying her surroundings.

Though Song Tai couldn’t recall how many times she had been here, she had always harbored an instinctive aversion and resistance to the place, never bothering to look closely.

Not that there was much to see anyway.

Although Song Xuehe had funded a complete renovation of the entire temple and donated a hefty sum every year, the space contained only an aged, dilapidated statue of a goddess, an altar table with offerings and incense burners, and the two kneeling cushions she had just been sitting on.

Bored, Song Tai let her gaze settle on the most eye-catching feature of the room—the goddess statue—and studied it carefully to pass the time.

The statue of the goddess was not finely crafted, its age evident in the eroded details of the carving. Yet, its divine aura remained—

The goddess’s eyes were lowered, her expression gentle and forgiving, her smile serene, her robes flowing lightly, exuding a compassionate divinity.

Song Tai stood up and circled the statue once, suddenly noticing a small stone tablet standing at its base, inscribed with a few lines of text.

Time-worn and eroded, the tablet’s surface was chipped, the characters blurred and difficult to decipher.

Song Tai stared intently for a while before barely making out a few words.

The general meaning was a tribute to the deeds of the tablet’s owner, the reason for its erection, the time, and so on.

The owner of this goddess statue—her clan unknown—left only a name: Chun Jun.

Chun Jun?

Why did it share the same name as Qu Chun Jun?

Curious, Song Tai was about to continue reading when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a strand of snow-white mycelium seeping out from the base of the statue like a pool of bl00d.

Her gaze fixed, thinking she might be seeing things, she leaned in for a closer look.

Then, abruptly—

A sprawling network of white fungal threads began spreading from the hem of the stone statue, creeping upward, interlacing like a dense, snowy carpet, surging like waves at her feet.

Like an invasion, it covered half the statue’s face, weaving into hollow eyes, filling them with crimson flesh and organs, skin swelling into fullness.

Almost instantly, the statue’s appearance was completely transformed.

The statue’s eyes snapped open, its head lifting. The once compassionate divinity in its lowered gaze twisted into something sinister—pupils pitch-black, so dark they verged on blue, lips curled in a faint smile as it stared straight at her.

Song Tai stumbled back with a sharp cry.

Terrified, she stared into those pitch-black eyes, her spine tingling. They looked like Qu Fengling’s eyes—no, they were Qu Fengling’s eyes!

Instinctively, she turned to flee.

But then she felt a damp, itching sensation at her ankle. A chill ran down her spine as a sinister premonition rose within her. She looked down.

White mycelium, like swarming insects, extended densely, tendril-like, creeping toward her feet like a crawling shadow, spreading…

Without mercy, it coiled around her ankle, swiftly climbing upward, immobilizing her.

The cold, slimy touch sent shivers through her body, freezing her in place. It felt as though countless tiny scaled snakes were slithering over her, crawling into her clothes, swarming everywhere.

Wrapping around her calves, her thighs, silently slithering deeper!

“Ah!” Song Tai’s mind went blank, and she let out an instinctive scream of panic.

“What’s wrong?” The heavy door was pushed open, and a cool, pleasant voice cut in at just the right moment.

The owner of the voice hurriedly grasped her wrist, steadying her.

The spreading mycelium beneath her feet paused, quickly retracting and silently slithering back.

In the blink of an eye, it had all vanished without a trace.

Still trembling, Song Tai turned her head and met a pair of calm, unreadable eyes.