Chapter 690: What the heck!

The second "li" character hadn't been uttered yet when the old lady suddenly tossed the dog leash.

The square‑shaped dog traced a parabola through the air, slammed into a hovering car by the roadside, and shattered into countless pixel fragments that exploded outward.

The old lady clapped both hands over her head and let out a high, long laugh, shaking her whole body, her shoulders twitching with each laugh.

Then she crouched down, arched her back, and a small lump swelled at the back of her neck near the collar.

The lump grew at a visibly rapid pace, expanding from a grain of rice to the size of a fingernail, then from a fingernail to a coin, and then it burst open violently.

The pod blossomed, unfurling layer by layer, each layer's edge a dark, blackened crimson.

The flower's shape was quite regular—five petals, a cluster of fine threads in the center—but growing on a human, it made one's scalp tingle no matter how you looked at it.

Qingque stepped back two paces.

The ground beneath her feet had changed at some point; the once smooth gray pavement now bore a fine pixelated texture, and the dashed lines were no longer dashed, becoming glowing white grids that stretched in all directions.

Her shoe soles on the grid felt a faint vibration, as if something was writhing beneath the road surface.

The old lady rose from the ground.

She stood up slowly, first straightening her knees, then her waist, then her neck—when her neck snapped upright, her head tipped back briefly before springing forward, as if her cervical vertebrae were no longer accustomed to a normal human posture.

Dark crimson buds also sprouted on her face: one on the left cheek, one at the right temple, and another emerging from the collar, crawling up her neck to rest beside her earlobe.

Her features began to blur, her lips turning the same dark, blackish crimson as the buds, like coagulated blood.

The old lady tilted her head.

Qingque took another step back.

"Happiness—" the old lady's voice squeezed out of her throat, the tone drawn out, "Happiness is back— Happiness—"

Qingque turned and fled.

What "Happiness"!

What the heck!

She doesn't want to hear a single word!

She almost tripped over her own shoes when she ran into the alley; the asymmetrical boots were indeed unsuitable for vigorous movement, the left foot high‑ankled, the right low‑ankled, making her limp as she ran.

She propped one hand against the mottled blue‑brick wall, the other hand pressed to her chest, her jade‑green eyes wide and round, gasping for breath in large gulps.

Her heart pounded—bam bam bam bam bam.

Then she heard more sounds, coming from outside the alley, from the street, from the gaps between the colorful buildings, from beneath distant skyscrapers, from the unreal‑blue sky overhead.

Someone was laughing, a sharp, loud laugh.

But it sounded more like a howl forced out of someone's throat by something.

Qingque pressed her back against the alley wall, cautiously sticking out half her head.

The street had completely changed its appearance.

The dog‑walking old lady from earlier now stood in the middle of the street, arms spread wide, her body covered with dark crimson buds.

Next to her lay a young girl curled on the ground, buds sprouting from her shoulders and arms enveloping half her body.

The distant crowd resembled a deck of cards scattered by wind—some sprinting wildly, some convulsing, some already transforming, arms twisted into unnatural angles, the neck buds spreading layer by layer down, covering their chests.

A scent permeated the air.

It was sweet, as if someone dumped an entire bag of candy into a bucket of industrial fragrance, mixed it, and splashed it over the whole street.

So sweet it made one feel nauseous.

Dark crimson buds blossomed everywhere, spilling from the cracks in the colorful buildings' walls.

Something drifted in the sky, like pollen, yet like pixelated dust, distinct particles whirling in the air.

The surfaces of those distant pixel‑block skyscrapers shifted colors several times faster than before, from pink to purple to blue and back to pink, dazzlingly fast—so fast it was hard to tell whether it was a lighting effect or some kind of Warning.

Qingque pulled her head back, pressing her back against the alley wall again.

Her jade‑green eyes, under the bizarre lighting of this dream, reflected a color with an indescribable, muted darkness.

She lowered her head to glance at her hand.

Her fingers still trembled slightly, but no buds had grown.

That's a relief.

At least for now it's okay.

But the problem remains unsolved.

Qingque raised her hand and pinched her own face.

It didn't hurt.

She twisted her ear hard—still no pain.

Dream.

Still in the dream.

In this damned dream, whose creation is unknown, outside a crowd of pedestrians were turning into bud monsters.

The image in her mind stubbornly flashed up: Fu Xuan's face drew nearer, each eyelash countable, the soft feel of his lips, then she snapped her head back; her ash‑gray long hair swung wildly around her shoulders, the tips snapping against the alley wall.

"Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking!"

She lowered her voice to chant a mantra to herself, the tips of her ears still involuntarily reddening a bit, "That was an accident! An accident! That's not the point now!"

She inhaled deeply and again stuck half her head out from the alley's edge.

She needed to clarify two things—first, exactly where this place is.

Second, what those things outside actually are.

Qingque stuck out half her head, squinting her jade‑green almond eyes, carefully observing the street's blossoming, budding creatures.

Dark crimson buds unfurled from people's bodies, a cluster of fine threads writhing faintly in the air, one after another, layer upon layer, wrapping them like they had just crawled out of a flowerbed.

Limbs twisted into grotesque shapes, elongated and bent, multi‑segmented and knobby, flesh forcibly contorted into plant‑like forms.

This twisted vigor, this proliferating, unstoppable madness, suddenly plucked a string in Qingque's mind.

Sss—

Why does it feel a bit like Abundance?

She's been goofing off at Tai Bu Si for so many years; although she hasn't flipped through many files, she still knows about the Abundance Offspring.

The limbs of the Step-Departed after they go berserk, the winged ones' bones jutting outward when they ascend, and the passersby blooming with Happiness before their eyes—if not identical, at least they share the same aesthetic series.

But the problem is, how could a Abundance Offspring grow in a dream?

And it's on a street whose color saturation is cranked up to the max?

No way.

It can't really be an Offspring, can it?

Qingque's brows knit together, mouth slightly open, yet said nothing.

If it really is Abundance, then what does the incident in her previous dream—Fu Xuan pinching her face and kissing her little mouth—have to do with Abundance?

Does the Abundance Star God even meddle with matchmaking failures?

Just as she stood dumbfounded at the alley entrance, buzzing!

In the distance, the tallest building—a sleek tower piercing the sky—its signal transmitter at the apex glinting cold, hard metal in the dim light, suddenly burst open a ring of red ripples.

From the tip outward, ring after ring spread, like someone throwing a stone into water, except the stone struck the entire sky.

Where the red ripples passed, the sky darkened instantly.

The unreal blue sky above seemed crushed by a hand, its fragments flipping to reveal the reverse side, a heavy, gloomy cloud layer.