Chapter 23: Inverted V

Handing over the other small rice ball in her hand, she glanced at the tiny creature whose body was just about the same size as the rice ball and felt completely helpless. With one hand supporting the little one and the other holding the rice ball, she walked over to the grill, placed the rice ball there as well, and pretended not to notice the wary look in the small creature’s eyes. It was truly disheartening—her kindness went unrecognized.

But there was no reasoning with something so small. After setting down the rice ball, she placed the little one next to it, turned and went into the tent. Then she hesitated and came out again.

The moment she emerged, the small creature propped itself up uncertainly, as if puzzled by her return.

Li Mengze could only sigh. She wanted to go back to sleep—she was, after all, a good child who went to bed early and rose with the sun. Before she began her cultivation, she always turned in early.

Just as she entered the tent, a thought struck her: she didn’t know if this little creature was weaned yet. It had swallowed the meat whole earlier, without chewing. If it wasn’t weaned, it couldn’t possibly digest such food.

In her spatial storage, she still had some spirit cow’s milk left over from making nougat last time. Thanks to the preservation function, it was still fresh. She filled a drinking cup with milk and set it beside the little one without a word, then returned to her space. In the countless times she would later tend to this troublesome little ancestor, she often regretted this momentary act of kindness.

Staring at the figure as she entered the tent, the little creature hesitantly approached the cup with the comforting scent, pondering for a moment before tentatively extending its bluish-purple tongue for a lick. Its small, black, bead-like eyes instantly brightened, and its tiny head buried itself into the cup, licking again and again. Occasionally, it would glance toward Li Mengze’s tent. This was the taste of mother. The one who had given it that fragrant treat must be its mother. Whenever it was naughty, mother would look at it with that helpless gaze, then let it drink until its belly was full of this flavor.

As it drank, a mist formed in its small eyes, and fat tears fell into the cup.

"Woo, woo, woo." It wanted to find its mother and ask why she had ignored it for so long. If she didn’t explain, it would never pay her any attention again.

The little thing stopped eating and, wobbling on its short legs, chased after Li Mengze into the tent.

Where was mother? Its small head searched around and found her—Li Mengze was already lying on the bed, though she was neither resting nor cultivating. She was simply pondering what the little creature outside was, and how it had managed to slip through her formation. She hadn’t found any beast with such a form in the spirit or demon beast compendiums. Could it be some kind of mutation?

As she was searching her mind for answers, she felt her pillow shift slightly. Turning her head, she saw a pair of shining, teary black eyes gazing at her with a look full of accusation and pitiful longing.

What did this mean? Was it seeking comfort? She hadn’t done anything to it, so why did it look so grievously wronged?

Li Mengze couldn’t bring herself to pretend not to notice—especially since she was a sucker for anything fluffy. Ignoring it was simply beyond her.

Resigned, she sat up and held out her hand, inviting the little one to jump into her palm. She tapped its tiny head.

She misjudged her strength, and the little thing plopped into her hand. Its eyes, which had just cleared, welled up with tears again.

Li Mengze cleared her throat. That was definitely deliberate—she absolutely had no intention of retaliating for it stealing her dinner.

When she withdrew her hand, the little thing jumped up, chittering away, pointing at her, then at itself, brimming with indignation.

How did Li Mengze know it was angry rather than trying to communicate? It was obvious. Every time the creature chittered, it would put its hands on its hips, demanding justice. Anyone would understand.

Even knowing it was angry, Li Mengze had no idea why. But as an adult, it seemed petty to argue with a creature still so small and helpless. Despite all she’d learned in this world about ruthlessness, the values of respecting the old and cherishing the young from her previous life remained.

So she responded with hums and nods, indicating her understanding and acceptance of its criticism. To show her sincerity, she gently stroked the little one’s back with a finger—a habit from her previous life of raising dogs. Her Samoyed would often go wild, and only repeated back rubs would calm it. Unfortunately, it was stolen one day. Despite offering a reward, she never found it. She always hoped it hadn’t been eaten; the dog had lived a life of luxury and was quite chubby—prime meat, really.

To her surprise, the gesture seemed to work on all mammals. After a few strokes, the little creature calmed down. But just as Li Mengze thought all was well, the little one unleashed another round of tears, big droplets falling into her palm, tugging at her heart with a strange, sour ache that made her want to cry too.

She blamed it all on the fact that anyone would react this way if stared at by such an adorably pitiful, fox-like creature. With that thought, she felt vindicated. She patted her own head—no, it had nothing to do with her. Perhaps the creature’s parents had been snatched by other beasts while foraging. That happened—it was just fate. She would chalk this up as a good deed for the day.

With that, she felt at ease, ignoring the little one’s affectionate yet aggrieved gaze. “Little one, I’m not your parent, don’t mistake me for them.” Strangely, only newborns fresh from the egg would mistake others for their parents, and this creature was clearly a bit older—its fur was soft, a bit dirty but sleek, not the damp fluff of a newborn. Its legs were sturdy, so that possibility was ruled out.

It was a conversation between a chicken and a duck—nothing Li Mengze said made any difference. The little one just stared at her with its beady black eyes, leaving her at a loss.

Eventually, she considered tossing it into her spatial storage if it kept following her. That would be a good solution. Having made up her mind, she calmed down, cradled the little one, pulled out a small piece of beast skin from her storage pouch—soft and comfortable—and took a little basket from her space that she used for picking cherries. She placed it by her pillow, lined it with the soft skin, settled the little one inside, and covered it with a corner of the hide. Then she lay down beside it, waved her hand, and the tent fell into darkness.

Li Mengze closed her eyes, listening to the shallow breathing beside her, at first uneven, then gradually steady and light—proof the little one had fallen asleep. No wonder; anyone could tell by its malnourished appearance that it was exhausted and hungry. If not for its remarkable speed, it would have ended up as someone else’s snack by now.

That night, Li Mengze neither entered her space nor truly slept. She simply closed her eyes, circulating her energy and adjusting her spiritual power. After all, she was in an unfamiliar and not entirely safe place, with an unknown creature beside her. She couldn’t afford to be careless.

Sure enough, in the middle of the night, she heard the little one beside her startle awake, leaping from its nest. She quietly opened her eyes, not moving, watching as the tiny creature wriggled out from under the beast skin, clambered up the side of the basket, and struggled to get out. Its small face was anxious and frightened, with an expression Li Mengze couldn’t quite name.

She wanted to know what could provoke such a reaction in a creature so young. Sitting up, she was about to help it out when she saw confusion flicker across its furry little face. It took a few steps back, then, in a flash of white, landed by her pillow.

Now seeing her, the little one chittered anxiously, trying to tug her with one paw while pointing outside with the other, saying something urgent.

Li Mengze first thought there might be a demon beast or some other danger outside, but a sweep of her spiritual sense showed nothing amiss—the formation was untouched.

When Li Mengze didn’t move, the little one grew frantic, chittering and running to the edge of the tent, one paw constantly pointing in a certain direction.

She didn’t know why, but she understood it wanted her to follow. Li Mengze hesitated; wandering alone at night in a place like this was reckless. Yet curiosity gnawed at her—where did the little one want to take her?

Caught between caution and curiosity, the little one seemed to sense her indecision. Its bright eyes dimmed with disappointment as it dashed to its nest, where she’d left some food for it.

With a snap, the little one swallowed all the spiritual milk and roast meat. Li Mengze was astonished—it must have its own storage space! Among spirit beasts, that was the mark of a divine beast. Yet no matter how she looked at it, she couldn’t tell what rank it might be.

Having packed away the food, the little one didn’t care whether Li Mengze followed or not. Lifting a corner of the tent, it slipped out on its own.

Almost by reflex, Li Mengze followed. After the little one had run some distance, it seemed to notice her behind and slowed down, even pausing now and then to let her catch up. The night in the secret realm was illuminated by moonlight, yet still so dark that one could barely see a hand in front of the face. Fortunately, cultivators had keen senses, and Li Mengze could just make out the little one’s silhouette—a small ball of white weaving through the woods, vanishing in the blink of an eye.