Chapter 811: Little Baby

Since she boarded the Starry Dome Train, the trash cans she has handled are conservatively estimated to start in the triple digits; she has perused countless, being a genuine old trash, and the models she has appraised are innumerable: Beloberg's iron straight‑cylinder type, Black Tower Space Station's alloy flip‑cover type, Xianzhou Luofu's ceramic painted type.

But the one before her eyes, this one, is completely different.

This trash can exudes an indescribable aura—simple yet not plain, unadorned yet not mediocre—standing quietly at the street corner, yet radiating a presence that cannot be ignored.

The last time Xing felt such palpitations was just moments ago when Qingque force‑kissed Fu Xuan at Shen Ce Fu.

But that was a visual shock; this is a soul resonance.

Xing cautiously slowed her steps.

She had seen it too many times: some trash cans vanish the instant you approach.

Although, after thinking it over, the disappearing‑trash‑can incident seemed to have happened only once in Beloberg, and she still cannot tell whether that was a dream or reality.

Nevertheless, caution is necessary.

She slightly bowed her body, softened her footfalls, and approached the trash can with a gait reminiscent of a feline.

The closer she got, the more perfect the trash can seemed.

The iron surface reflected sunlight at an angle that could be called the golden ratio, and the bucket's curve was so smooth one wanted to rub one's face against it.

Xing's gaze glued to the trash can, from lid to body to base, her golden pupils almost seemed ready to burst with stars.

She swallowed a mouthful of saliva, feeling her throat roll.

Without exaggeration, this trash can is the most charming she has ever seen.

It was like a connoisseur who had appraised countless blessings suddenly encountering a flawless masterpiece; the shock and thrill were beyond any words.

True masters never care about the gazes of those around them.

Those people don't even glance at the trash can.

Pitiful, lamentable, they have eyes but no pearls.

Xing deeply knows this principle.

So when a few tea patrons at the street‑side teahouse gave her strange looks as she bowed and slowly approached a trash can, she paid no attention.

When the passersby beside her began whispering, she also didn't notice.

In her world, only she and that trash can remained.

One person, one bucket, souls attracting each other.

Xing finally stood beside the trash can.

She looked down at the iron round bucket, barely shorter than herself, her gaze burning as if she were seeing a long‑lost lover.

Her throat rolled again, then, with the devotion of a pilgrim approaching a shrine, she extended her hand.

The pad of her finger lightly pressed against the black sealing rubber ring around the lid's edge.

A tingling numbness shot from her fingertip up her arm, along the spine, and burst into a tiny spray of sparks at the back of her head.

Xing's knees softened slightly.

A faint blush spread across her cheek as she felt the wildly beating heart in her chest, the light in her golden pupils flickering.

She slightly opened her lips, exhaling a breath she didn't know how long she had held; the air brushed the metal surface of the trash can, rebounded at close range, and warmly struck her own face.

"Woo…"

From deep in her throat she let out a very light sigh, her voice trembling from the impact of an ultimate tactile sensation, "This feeling, too stimulating…"

The cold iron and the supple sealing rubber formed a perfect tactile contrast at her fingertips.

The metal was icy, the rubber soft; the two starkly different materials achieved harmonious unity on the same trash‑can lid.

Xing's fingers lightly caressed the lid's edge, the pads tracing the sealing rubber, feeling every subtle undulation of the rubber's texture.

She could sense a faint vibration beneath the iron, probably the resonance of pedestrians' footsteps, but to Xing at that moment it felt like a low hum emanating from the trash can itself, a silent invitation.

Her breathing quickened.

The light in her golden pupils grew brighter.

"Little baby,"

She lowered her voice, speaking to the trash can in a husky tone she herself had never heard, her breath steaming onto the cold iron surface and condensing into a thin mist, "Let me see your depth."

She clasped the lid's edge with both hands, all ten fingers exerting force as she lifted upward.

The lid did not budge a hair.

Xing's movement froze at that instant, hands gripping the lid's edge, knees slightly bent, waist and back engaged, her whole body assuming an impeccably standard dead‑lift stance.

But the lid would not open even a sliver.

The whole trash can stood motionless, as if its base had fused with Changletian's stone pavement, as if it were not a roadside iron container but a steel monument that had sprouted directly from the earth's crust.

Xing tilted her head.

She readjusted her stance, planted her feet shoulder‑width apart, fingers tightly gripping the lid's edge, inhaled deeply, then thrust upward forcefully; her shoulders tensed, the muscle lines on her arms hinted through her sleeves, and her heels even rose slightly to increase upward force.

The lid still did not move a hair.

Xing released her grip and stepped back half a pace.

She stared at the stubborn iron round bucket, her gaze shifting from initial infatuation to appreciation, then from appreciation to something deeper.

She raised her hand, spreading thumb and forefinger to rest on her chin, and with an appraising look examined the trash can from top to bottom again.

The shallow dents on the iron surface flickered in the sunlight, as if offering her a cool, teasing smile.

"Roar—"

Xing's mouth corner lifted slowly, a low, playful hissing sound emanating from deep in her throat.

She withdrew her hands, clasping them to her chest, tilting her head a few degrees more than before, her gaze shifting from appreciation to the focused stare of a hunter on prey, "Still a tough nut."

The street wind lifted her gray hair, a few stray strands fluttering before her eyes, which she calmly brushed aside.

She continued speaking, with a lofty certainty and a nonchalant control.

"I've seen many buckets. Some lids open by themselves. Some I touch and they give way. But you, you're different. You seal yourself tightly, letting no one touch. You think that can keep me out?"

"Hmph! Tsundere!"

She lifts her right hand and gently draws a circle on the trash‑can lid with her fingertips; the metal under her fingertip emits a faint hissing sound, like a large cat testing a prey's defenses with its paw.

"But I just happen to like you that way. A hard‑to‑open can, it's only after opening that it's most flavorful. Don't worry, I won't treat you like those ordinary goods. I'll take it slow. Bit by bit. Inch by inch."