The morning pressed warm and golden over Stone Village, and the willow's leaves hung with dew like tiny lanterns. Bai'e padded ahead, silent and dignified, while Qingmu sat perched on the wolf's back with kittenish confidence—legs too short to wrap all the way around. Shi Hao walked beside them with a half-smile and a wooden staff slung across his shoulder, the kind of smile that meant teaching had started and trouble was imminent.
"Today's lesson is simple: balance, breathing, and not eating whatever the ground looks like it's trying to convince you to be." Shi Hao lowered his voice into the kind of serious tone reserved for telling a child not to stick knives where they don't belong.
Qingmu's golden-green eyes glittered. He cocked his head, then promptly shoved a bright blue mushroom into his mouth. Everyone's faces froze.
Huo Ling'er, who had been leaning against a fence and watching the display like it was a play she had front-row tickets to, barked out a laugh. "He's going to explode," she said, delighted.
Shi Yi's scowl deepened into something more like admiration. "If he survives, he'll have a story to tell," he muttered.
The system's polite chime echoed inside Qingmu's head as if to moderate the household panic.
[Warning: Unknown fungus. Effects uncertain. Chance of temporary affinity increase: 18%. Chance of uncomfortable stomach noises: 82%.]
Shi Hao lunged, but Bai'e's soft, silver muzzle came first and nudged the mushroom from Qingmu's small hand. The mushroom rolled into the grass, where a tiny shoot sprang up at once and unfurled a miniature leaf crown. The village held its breath; no explosion came. Instead, a small, fragrant sweetness expanded through the air.
"Lucky," Granny Cheng said breathlessly, clapping once like a woman whose life had been threaded with many dangerous births and fewer happy outcomes. "Lucky he likes plants."
Shi Hao exhaled. "Lucky and stubborn," he said, but his smile was warmer now. He sat down and began a gentle sequence of moves designed for a toddler: measured breathing, small foot placements, the art of not tipping over. For the adults it was rote; for Qingmu it was a game. He fell more times than he managed to stay upright. Each time his palm brushed the earth, seedlings would perk up like children raising hands to answer a teacher.
Training shifted into small lessons of caution: which leaf to sniff, which gust to avoid, when to trust Bai'e's low rumble. Liu Shen dangled a leaf and let it tickle Qingmu's foot. "Listen," she murmured. "Plants have voices if you let them teach."
Qingmu pressed his ear to the soil, and the ground indeed felt like it offered up a low, sleepy murmur. He giggled — a sound that became a small ritual for the villagers. They began to gather, some to learn, some to watch the miracle in slow motion.
The day ended with the grown folks sharing their own lessons. Shi Yi taught a small group clever tricks to avoid getting swindled in markets. Huo Ling'er, in a rare mood for softness, showed the children how to roast tiny seeds until they popped like kernels. Shi Hao stayed late, polishing his old blade in the moonlight and casting a protective eye toward the willow.
That night, as the village settled and night insects hummed like distant wind chimes, Qingmu slept with his head on Bai'e's flank. Beneath the surface of his dreams the system whispered little tutorials—how to feel a root's anger, the rhythm of a blade buried in dirt—lessons that would take years to unpack into wisdom. For now it sufficed that his small world had rules, teachers, and hands to steady him when he stumbled.
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