Chapter 35
Chapter 35: Never Trust Qian Qi’s Mouth
“Looks like as long as the boss hasn’t respawned, humans can enter and exit freely,” Qian Qi said, rubbing her chin.
She’d heard that in an E-rank dungeon, dead magic creatures respawned every forty-eight hours. Not the same individual, of course—just a new monster of the same type.
“Too bad,” she sighed theatrically. “If the boss that respawns is that lion-head boss from earlier, it might develop trauma the second it sees me and surrender by killing itself.”
Then she wouldn’t have to work her ass off.
What a shame.
The System flashed a silent, deeply judgmental ellipsis.
Qian Qi stared at the dungeon entrance, which was stuck in the ground with only a small tip exposed.
“Can a dungeon really be buried like this?”
The System replied, “Of course. Dungeons can exist inside volcanoes, at the bottom of the sea, in desert quicksand, or buried in swamp mud deep in dense forests.”
Those sleeping dungeons were incredibly valuable for human and contract beast evolution.
Too bad humans had no idea.
Qian Qi opened her lightbrain and searched around. A grin crept across her face.
“So cleared dungeons can be farmed repeatedly,” she murmured. “If I farm this one enough times, can my Strength rank reach C-rank?”
The System answered smoothly, “C-rank is a stretch, but D-plus rank is no problem.”
Qian Qi’s grin turned downright sinister. “Perfect.”
Dungeons were public resources. People lined up to enter cleared ones and kill bosses for rewards.
But this one…
This one was stuck under the orphanage.
She could monopolize it.
Suddenly solemn, Qian Qi stood, scanned the ground, and locked onto a small rock nearby.
She squatted, raised a hand, and bowed like she was worshipping an ancient god.
“Thank you, Rock Big Shot, for tripping me into a dungeon. This kindness and grace—someday I will repay it!”
Then, with full sincerity, she picked the little rock up and decided she would bring it home and set it on an altar.
The actual culprit, the blue panel, hovered nearby in silence.
It had never felt more tired in its entire existence.
Qian Qi, oblivious to the System’s simmering rage, scratched her Bird’s Nest Hair 2.0 and eyed her shredded, scorched clothes.
“Okay. First priority: clothes.”
Before leaving, she dragged over a big rock and pressed it down on the dungeon’s exposed tip so the orphanage’s little friends wouldn’t accidentally enter.
Then she frowned.
“Still not safe enough.”
She rubbed her hands on her soot-stained clothes and used the black powder to draw a fierce little stick figure with bared teeth on the rock.
Then she wrote underneath it, very clearly:
Qian Qi Only. Do Not Touch!
She leaned back, satisfied. “Now it’s safe.”
The System stared at the rock.
Yeah.
It was safe.
It didn’t want to touch it either.
On her way back, Qian Qi passed the director’s office window. She was about to ask for spare clothes when she saw Xiang Wen Yun inside, clutching a photograph and wiping tears with her sleeve.
“Mom,” Xiang Wen Yun whispered to the photo, voice trembling, “your daughter is useless. I can’t keep the orphanage running anymore.”
In the photo, an elderly woman smiled warmly.
Xiang Wen Yun had inherited this orphanage from her mother—and inherited her will, too.
When she was young, she never understood why her mother, even while wealthy, kept pouring money into the orphanage. Her mother told her she was carrying on their ancestors’ will. One day, she’d understand.
And then she grew up.
She began managing the orphanage herself.
Her mother didn’t have to explain anything. Xiang Wen Yun understood everything.
This world was cruel to orphans.
Awakened skills appeared randomly. Some people awakened as children. Others didn’t awaken until middle age.
And in a world where awakened meant superior, orphans who awakened early were prey. Trafficking, brainwashing, exploitation—dark things that never really went away.
Then there were the children born under “great expectations,” only to awaken nothing at all—and get abandoned by their parents. Even if they ended up in an ordinary orphanage, they often went hungry and cold, and listened every day to adults urging them to hurry up and awaken.
Some children lost loving parents in magic beast surges.
Others were born into love that turned out to be fake from the start.
Which was worse? No one could say.
And between an orphan who grew up poor and ordinary, and an awakened orphan praised like a hero but raised with no personal will… which was more tragic?
Xiang Wen Yun pressed a hand to the photo, eyes shining with stubborn grief.
Like her ancestors, she wanted to protect them.
At the very least, she wanted them fed. Warm. Raised with kindness. Taught a skill. Able to survive on their own.
“If only I were awakened,” she murmured, fingers curling tight. “If I were, I could enter dungeons, hunt magic creatures, and earn money…”
Most of the women in her maternal line had awakened.
But in her generation… she was an ordinary person. Watching savings disappear, powerless to stop it.
She let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “I even thought about having a child to inherit the orphanage, but I’ve been too busy to even find someone.”
Her gaze drifted to the fruit on her desk. Her expression softened.
“Oh,” she whispered to the photo, “and Qian Qi came back today. She even brought fruit.”
“I knew that child was kind inside,” Xiang Wen Yun said softly. “When she first arrived, she smiled so sweetly in her lightbrain photos… it’s just a shame about her parents…”
She sighed, then forced a fragile hope into her voice. “Maybe going to Magic Plant Academy is helping her untie some of those knots.”
“I hope,” she whispered, “things will get better.”
Outside the window, Qian Qi’s chest tightened.
She couldn’t remember anything. Maybe those were the original owner’s deepest memories—locked away because she didn’t want them seen.
After a long moment, Qian Qi turned away.
Better not ask the director for clothes. If Xiang Wen Yun saw her like this, she’d start asking questions, and Qian Qi didn’t have answers.
So… clothes.
Qian Qi crept through the yard like a thief, eyes landing on the rows of drying racks out front.
Her lips curled into a pleased little smile.
The System flashed, already suspicious. “You’re not thinking—”
“So what if I am?” Qian Qi snapped, righteous as ever. “Is it illegal?”
The yard was empty. She slipped up to the racks and tugged down two pieces of clothing.
Luckily, the orphanage had older kids. The clothes were a little small, but she could squeeze into them.
She turned, ready to find an empty room to change—
And met a child’s eyes.
Qian Qi froze.
The child froze.
They stared at each other for one long, awful second.
Then the kid said flatly, “Do you have no shame? Stealing children’s clothes?”
Qian Qi’s face flared hot. “Oh, shut up. Can’t you see my clothes are destroyed?”
The kid glanced at her scorched, shredded outfit, sighed like a tiny old man, and turned away.
“The ones you grabbed aren’t even dry,” he said. “Come with me.”
He paused, then added, “I’m only doing this for the candy.”
Qian Qi’s heart softened on the spot.
She hurriedly put the clothes back. Then she trotted after him, practically glowing with gratitude.
“Don’t worry,” she promised. “I won’t take them for free. In a few days, I’ll have Director Mom buy you all new clothes.”
The kid shot her a look full of pure, exhausted disbelief.
He didn’t trust a word women said.
Especially not what came out of Qian Qi’s mouth.
He’d known for a long time that Director Mom was out of money, and the orphanage was about to close. Every kid around his age knew, too. They just pretended they didn’t.
They were too young to awaken skills. Too young to help.
And then there was Qian Qi—the oldest.
He glared at her with quiet fury.
Nineteen years old and still not awakened.
Useless.
Qian Qi blinked, completely lost.
“O_O?”