Chapter 842: Clubbing

This shows that she—Tai Bu Si's top genius (self‑proclaimed), perennial champion of the idle‑fishing world, holder of the highest level of the Taixu Sword Heart (Schrödinger version)—successfully defeated the Abundance envoy Shuhuo, rescuing Luofu in the unseen.

Although no one knows.

Even she herself can't recall how she won.

"But winning is winning; the details don't matter."

Qingque chuckled, patted her chest, and put on a very convincing post‑apocalypse survivor pose.

Then she flopped back onto the bed, swung her two slender, evenly‑shaped calves at the foot of the bed, the teal layered skirt flipped up, revealing a corner of the white underskirt beneath.

That sleep was indeed long.

In the dream she fought Shuhuo for three hundred rounds (conservative estimate), got waist‑cut once, watched a two‑loop lantern show, and woke up still able to lie here with all limbs intact; this shows her physique is exceptionally tough, and she truly deserves to reward herself.

The way to reward herself, of course, is to sleep again.

"Anyway, it's too late to rush back now."

Qingque closed her eyes, contentedly pulling the blanket up to her chin again.

An extra minute of sleep earns an extra minute of idle‑fishing time.

"Not fishing when you should is intolerable to heaven."

That is Qingque's life maxim, a creed etched into her very bones.

She turned over, buried her face in the pillow, letting the scent of cotton cloth drown out the chaotic thoughts in her mind.

The bedding of the Dan Ding Si was a bit rough, not as fluffy and soft as the old cotton quilt from her own home, but it had a clean, simple aroma that was quite soporific.

Just as consciousness was about to slip into the gentle realm of a return‑to‑sleep, a bizarre thought suddenly surfaced without any warning.

"Come to think of it, General Jingyuan seems to be here as well?"

Qingque's eyelashes twitched, but she didn't open her eyes.

That's not right.

Why did she suddenly think of that?

What does the general's consciousness or lack thereof have to do with her?

Someone else is lying there, she sleeps in her own bed, Dan Ding Si isn't her establishment, so why would she have the leisure to worry about who lives next door?

"Forget it, forget it, probably just a dream in her head."

She muttered something and pulled the blanket over her head.

It fell silent for about three seconds.

A string of sounds pierced the wall, striking her ears with precision.

Dong— dong— dong— dongdongdong— dongdongdong—

That noise, how to put it, doesn't really sound like something a medical facility would have.

Qingque's brows twisted into tiny knots.

She initially stayed still, hoping the sound would quiet on its own.

A medical place can have odd noises; perhaps an injured patient is doing rehabilitation training.

Or maybe Lord Bai Lu is fiddling with some newly‑crafted medicine pestle.

Or perhaps a senior of the Cloud Cavalry is dreaming of driving piles.

But the rhythm of that sound was too regular, too passionate, too—

"Club­bing!"

Qingque lifted the blanket, eyes staring at the ceiling, and when those two words burst from her mouth, her tone was confused, her expression blank, her thoughts short‑circuiting.

Dan Ding Si.

Luofu Xianzhou's most proper medical institution.

The sounds coming from this place could be moans, or the gurgle of medicine jars, but they should never be clubbing beats!

Moreover, the beats grew denser, and the subwoofer's thump through the wall made wood chips fall.

Faintly one could hear someone humming—no, not humming, shouting, yelling at the top of their lungs!

Qingque sat up sharply.

She raised her hand without hesitation and slapped the left side of her own face with a crisp smack.

"Slap!"

Ouch!

She immediately followed with a slap to the right.

"Slap!"

It hurt even more.

Both cheeks burned, and two red marks rose on the pale skin at a visibly rapid pace.

But she couldn't mind the pain; the point wasn't whether it hurt, but that after the pain, the "dong dong dong" kept pounding.

"It truly exists."

She whispered, as if confirming some universal truth.

Then she let out a sudden giggle, a laugh that was a bit cheeky, a bit foolish, and a bit of post‑apocalypse exhilaration.

The pain feels great!

Pain proves she's awake.

Pain shows she is truly standing on real ground, breathing real air, listening to the inexplicable clubbing sounds next door.

"Alright then."

Qingque touched her chin.

Running her fingertip over it, she could feel the lingering heat from the two slaps, and the swollen spots were already warming.

But it doesn't matter; after all she doesn't rely on her looks to make a living. Wait, that sounds a bit unfair to Tai Bu Si's image. Never mind, Tai Bu Si's image wasn't that great to begin with.

"Go out and take a look."

She slid down from the bed.

The teal water‑ripple pattern on the hem of her skirt formed folds of varying depth in the sunlight, swaying gently as she moved; the edge of the white underskirt occasionally peeked out, brushing the pale thigh above the knee.

After walking two steps, she paused, lowered her head to glance at her bare feet, then surveyed the surroundings and noticed a neatly placed pair of slippers by the bedside.

"The service is quite thorough,"

Qingque slipped her feet into the slippers and clack clack walked to the door.

The door was a plain wooden lattice sliding door, covered with beige oil‑paper, with average translucency.

She didn't rush to open the door; first she pulled it open just enough to create a slit, wide enough for an almond‑shaped eye to peek through.

Look left.

The corridor was empty; sunlight slanted in from the window at the far end, casting long rectangular patches on the floor, within which tiny specks of dust swirled.

Look right.

A row of identical wooden lattice doors, some closed, some ajar, through which the outlines of beds could be faintly seen, but no silhouettes.

No one.

Only then did Qingque push the door open just enough to slip sideways out; she moved like a slick loach, silently slipping through the gap, then pulled the door back, leaving only a narrow slit.

The source of the sound was clear—it was the second room next door.

Qingque brushed along the wall, her ponytail at the nape of her head grazing the rough wooden panel; a few stray strands snagged on the grain, but she had no time to worry about it.

She reached the target room's doorway, turned sideways, and pressed her ear against it.

"Dong— dong dong— dong dong dong— pa! pa! pa!"

The drumbeats hammered her eardrum, making her temples throb.

She could vaguely hear someone's footsteps stamping wildly on the floor, shaking the entire room.

There was also a human voice, hoarse and rugged, almost a howl, shouting along with the beat—not lyrical at all, but more like an ancient battle cry.

Qingque squinted.

To see inside clearly, she needed a hole first.

She extended her right index finger, pinching the tip with her thumb, and gestured the thickness of the oil‑paper on the doorframe.

Then, like a thief, she poked a tiny hole in the oil‑paper.

She was familiar with this trick.

Over the years Tai Bu Si had been peeking to see if Fu Xuan was in the office; she had often punctured Tai Bu Si's window paper.

The technique has only two key points: first, the pressure must be light—the smaller the hole, the better, and the less likely it will be noticed; second, the motion must be slow, slow enough that the oil‑paper fibers are gradually pried apart rather than torn, so no crisp cracking sound is produced.

Three seconds.