Host, Do You Want to Go Home?
Song Weishi began to back away. The aunts stared at the little girl in surprise, but from her figure alone, there was nothing unusual. If not for Song Weishi's warning, they would never have been on guard against such a pitiful child.
Could there be someone else inside?
The door slammed shut with a heavy thud, all happening within two seconds. The moment Song Weishi finished speaking, the change occurred.
The group was briefly startled, then quickly regained composure, huddling together and scanning their surroundings warily. Sister Chen pulled at the door, only to find it seemed entangled by something, refusing to budge.
The little girl kept crying. She rushed into the bedroom, and when the door wouldn't open, the others could only follow at a distance to see what was happening inside.
She crouched on the ground, turning to look back at them.
The umbrella shade covered most of her face, revealing only crystalline teardrops sliding down her cheeks.
The girl pushed at the thing lying on the floor—a corpse already half-rotten, its sparse hair plastered to her scalp, soaked through with bodily fluids. Clothing covered the decaying flesh, but clusters of maggots writhed densely over the body, leaping and bouncing with faint clicking sounds.
Her face had sunken inward like a pile of mud sprawled on the ground. Even in this heat, the body had clearly been dead for a long time.
It was hard to imagine a normal child living in such conditions—let alone surviving here for so long. Of course, this child was anything but normal, so she couldn't be judged by ordinary standards.
She crouched there, looking at Xie Huiying with a pitiful expression.
"Grandma... why won't she wake up?" she sobbed.
"Can you drop the act? Don't you know what happened to her? Can't you tell the living from the dead?" Song Weishi had run out of patience. At this point, couldn't they just speak plainly?
The little girl looked bewildered, clutching her umbrella as if she didn't understand.
But the room held more than just one corpse. As they stepped inside, they noticed the old house's high ceiling, beneath which hung several enormous, pale, cocoon-like objects. Anyone who looked up would see them immediately.
When the little girl saw Song Weishi pointing at the ceiling, she stopped crying. The emotion drained from her face like it had been yanked away, replaced by pure confusion.
She stared blankly at her, lowering her umbrella. "Big sister, I'm hungry."
The childish voice seemed laced with magic. Song Weishi felt a strange hunger gnaw at her, and even the stench in the air began to smell sweet. She desperately wanted to eat. Images surfaced from her memory—the snowy hotel, sitting around a fire with her first companions, roasting food.
The orange glow lit Wang Jie's face as she handed over a skewered vegetable. Song Weishi couldn't remember the taste; it seemed like an ordinary meal. But that warm smile lingered in her mind, spinning and pulling her back to that night.
Back then, they had just escaped mortal danger. It was a happy day.
But this wasn't. Song Weishi snapped back to reality, and the little girl who had been crouching by the corpse was now right in front of them. What had been hidden beneath the umbrella—her back—now sprouted several pairs of furry walking legs, like enlarged spider limbs. They had lain flat against her back, invisible in daylight under the umbrella's shade.
This child was a monster—far more terrifying than what they'd faced at the hotel!
Beside her, Xie Huiying and Sister Chen wore dazed expressions, as if enchanted. Song Weishi slapped them hard on the back, snapping them out of it.
Aunt Huang shrieked in terror, nearly jumping out of her skin. "My god, this kid's a monster!"
The girl had already spat out a strand of webbing, which stuck fast to her foot. Aunt Huang felt a burning sensation where the silk touched her, tried to shake it off, but found it glued tight.
Aunt Huang wanted to cry but had no tears. She thought of this whole journey—first maggots in her face, then a mouthful of cockroach, and now the first one to get caught. When luck goes bad, even drinking water gets stuck in your teeth.
The little girl tugged at the webbing, trying to pull Aunt Huang closer. Sister Chen and Guo Li grabbed her from either side, keeping her from flying off.
Song Weishi and Xie Huiying charged at the girl. Song Weishi slashed at the webbing on the ground, but the tough strand merely bounced, refusing to cut, like a blob of slime that compressed and sprang back.
The group yelped. Two held Aunt Huang while the remaining three rushed at the little girl. Her small frame dodged nimbly, slipping between them, her spider legs retracting and re-extending as she repositioned herself. They twitched a couple times, slowly unfolding as if mocking their helplessness.
The old woman's body was kicked against the wall by the girl. The rotted head rolled away, its hollow eye sockets staring blankly at the child. Maggots scattered everywhere, jumping onto their feet, disgusting them all.
The stench in the room grew thicker. Song Weishi braced herself. Together, they were decent fighters; there was no way they couldn't beat this girl. But she was a monster—that changed everything.
Soon, Song Weishi launched another attack. She charged with her blade, but the girl merely ducked, dodging the strike. Without hesitation, Song Weishi swung again, severing one of her spider legs.
The little girl shrieked, her once expressionless face now glaring at Song Weishi with venom. She repeated the same phrase: "Big sister, I'm hungry."
In an instant, all of them felt a fire burning in their stomachs. Song Weishi's acid nearly rose into her throat; she was sick to the point of vomiting, but her eyes stayed locked on the girl.
Aunt Huang, still wrapped in webbing, suddenly collapsed. It seemed her mind-influencing ability worked even more strongly on those in direct contact.
The three of them gritted their teeth, enduring the burning in their stomachs, slowly closing in on the little girl.
Clearly, her offensive power was lacking—she was fragile. The people she'd trapped earlier probably fell victim by surprise. But this time, with so many of them, the girl was clearly struggling. Picking them off one by one was proving difficult.
Every step forward made Song Weishi's discomfort worse. The girl stood her ground, locked in a stalemate with them.
The two older women couldn't advance any further after a few steps, their heads spinning, reduced to heavy panting.
Light streamed in from outside. Standing there, only the girl's head was clearly visible, her body below the neck hidden in shadow, making her look like a floating skull, utterly terrifying.
Song Weishi endured the nausea and reached her. She kept stabbing her own hand to stay conscious—she absolutely couldn't fall now.
The girl's calm expression shifted to shock as Song Weishi approached, but she didn't retreat. Perhaps something kept her rooted in place.
Song Weishi didn't care why. She kicked the girl square in the chest. "If you're hungry, go eat! What's the use of telling me? Am I your mother or your grandma?"
The girl lost her balance and flew backward. Just then, the unconscious Aunt Huang woke up, and the foul discomfort in everyone's stomachs eased. Without hesitation, Song Weishi raised her blade and charged.
The girl had lost all trace of her numb demeanor. Knocked against the table, her head thudding on the corner, she burst into tears.
"Big sister, don't hit me! Don't hit me... I'm sorry, I don't know what I did wrong. Please don't hit me!"
Song Weishi showed no mercy. She drove the knife into the girl's neck. The crying cut off instantly, and any pity they'd felt evaporated in that moment.
Even in death, those pitiful eyes stared back at her, tears streaming endlessly from the corners.
Green pus gushed from her neck, bubbling out like the innards of a squashed spider.
The monster was dead. Her plump, rounded walking legs shriveled, her body like a withered branch losing all life, rolling from the table. The pus seeped slowly toward where the corpse had lain, like a tiny green hand reaching for the traces of decay.
There was no little girl here, no grandmother—only a corpse.
Aunt Huang was fully awake now, but the webbing on her foot wouldn't come off. Song Weishi figured the best option was to burn it off. After that, Aunt Huang could walk again.
The stench inside was overwhelming. When they confirmed the girl truly couldn't revive, they left the house. The front door opened easily. It was already midday; the sun blazed down, and the town was quiet, only the chirping of insects breaking the silence. It seemed like an ordinary afternoon, with no one curious about what had happened here.
Aunt Huang still felt unwell and was helped back by the others. Song Weishi lingered, glancing back at the courtyard. She called out to Xie Huiying and went back inside.
There was a jujube tree in the yard, huge and sprawling, its branches reaching over the wall. Beneath it sat a simple swing set with the girl's toys on it, covered in a thick spider web.
Song Weishi dug a small pit beneath the tree when the System announced her kill reward—a full 500 energy points. The higher the monster's tier, the more energy she got.
The System happily explained, clearly pleased with her performance over the past few days. It chattered on and on, but Song Weishi didn't respond, focusing instead on digging. When she finished, she went back inside.
The room reeked—a smell that once inhaled, you'd never forget. Song Weishi grabbed a farming shovel, carefully lifted the old woman's remains, and placed them in the pit. The corpse had mostly crumbled, making it difficult to arrange, but she was patient. Once done, she returned for the girl.
Her body was featherlight, as if all her weight had drained away with that green pus.
Song Weishi cut off the walking legs from her back and closed her eyes. Only now did she look like a real person.
She buried the girl, then left the courtyard, umbrella in hand. Outside, Aunt Chen and Xie Huiying waited in the shade. She smiled, dusted off her hands, and without a word, they headed back together. Behind them, the courtyard returned to silence.
The spider web on the swing trembled, and time rewound.
The little girl sat by the phone, staring intently, waiting for the screen to light up. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, confused why the phone hadn't rung. Her mother usually called in the afternoon, but since the heat started and the power went out, she hadn't received a single call.
Her grandmother's voice drifted from the kitchen: "Tangtang, come have the mung bean soup I made for you! I added sugar. It's cooled down now. Come on, quick!"
The girl hopped off the swing and ran into the kitchen. The weather was sweltering; she couldn't go out during the day, and the village kids couldn't play with her. No power meant no TV. It was the most boring summer vacation ever, but the child was sensible and never complained.
The old woman fanned her with a palm-leaf fan, wiping the sweat from her head, feeling sorry for the child. With the power and internet down, her daughter had told her to keep the girl safe and stay indoors—the outside world was dangerous.
The small mountain village had been untouched, still living quiet lives.
Supplies were running low, so the old woman planned to head to town that evening to buy something to improve their meals. No matter how hard things got, you couldn't let the child suffer.
Tangtang had no idea of her grandmother's plans, happily sharing the mung bean soup, one sip for herself, one for the old woman. Together, they finished the last bowl.
By evening, the girl sat under the swing, her favorite spot, reading the encyclopedias and books her grandmother had bought her.
She reached the section on arthropods. A small jumping spider crawling on her head paused to meet her gaze. The girl reached out, and the spider hopped onto her hand, raising two of its legs as if in greeting.
The girl was absorbed in reading when she heard a loud thud inside—something heavy hitting the floor.
She dashed into the room, shouting, "Grandma, what happened?"
No one answered. A bad feeling gripped her heart. She sprinted into her grandmother's room and found the old woman lying on her back, a small stool kicked far away, blood pooling beneath her head.
The girl panicked, pushing at her grandmother, but she didn't move. Frantic, she grabbed the phone to call for help—but it wouldn't turn on, the screen black as a brick. Then she realized why her mother hadn't called these past days.
Fear gripped her like never before. She pressed her hands to her grandmother's bleeding wound, sobbing uncontrollably.
She screamed for help, but the neighbors next door seemed cut off by some invisible barrier, no sound coming back.
She never noticed the jumping spider on her hand, soaked in blood, slowly crawling free.
It crawled to the girl's ear. A familiar, kindly voice whispered, "Tangtang, do you want to save Grandma?"
"Who... who's speaking?"
The girl cried and cried, tears blurring her vision. She wiped her eyes, blood smearing across her face.
The voice grew clearer: "Tangtang, do you want to save Grandma?"
A faint trail of blood ran along her ear canal, reaching deep inside. This time, the voice seemed to come from within her skull. The tiny furry spider swelled and crawled into her ear. She could clearly hear the scraping of its legs against her ear canal.
A memory surfaced in her mind, seemingly from nowhere, about spider webs being used to stop bleeding. The girl naively wondered if the little spider could help too.
"I do!" she declared firmly.
The spider pierced her eardrum in an instant. When she woke, she was lying on the floor, clutching her grandmother's stiff hand, wailing as if the voice she'd heard yesterday was just a hallucination.
She screamed, begging the old woman to wake up, but it was futile. Her neck itched, and she scratched as she cried—until she touched something hard. She screamed in fright, seeing spider legs wrapped around her head, lifting it entirely.
Later, the girl knocked on the neighbor's door, her voice small and tearful, asking them to check on her grandmother. After that, she discovered fresh outsiders. A hunger for new life drove her to expose herself just to drag them back and devour them.
Once she consumed enough, she could produce enough webbing to revive her grandmother. Tangtang's face took on a dazed, obsessed look. The black umbrella behind her spread like a small web, covering her completely.
The dense webs inside the room had taken effect the moment they entered. But she'd forgotten one spot—or perhaps refused to think of it—to weave a web by the corpse. Her craving for flesh and blood had torn a hole in the web, and with it, the whole trap fell apart.
The fresh flesh didn't satisfy her as she'd hoped. Overwhelmed with fear, she fell at last into the arms of the old woman who had loved her.
Song Weishi lay back down, exhausted, wanting only to sleep. She told the System to stop talking and soon drifted off.
The aunts, however, couldn't sleep. They had just summoned the courage to do a good deed, only to have the rug pulled out from under them, nearly falling prey to a child. Though they'd seen plenty on this journey, encountering such a monster still sent chills down their spines.
After discussing it, they resolved never to help anyone so readily again.
But it struck them as odd—they weren't usually so warm-hearted. Why had they been so desperate to help that little girl?
The unconscious Aunt Huang was utterly confused, puzzling over it endlessly.
But the ones who had been enchanted sensed something wrong—it must have been the girl's doing. Otherwise, they wouldn't have rushed out without a second thought.
These townsfolk had real composure, not noticing anything strange for this long.
The women murmured among themselves, keeping their voices low so as not to disturb Song Weishi's rest. After a while, they settled down to sleep as well.
A gentle breeze stirred. When they woke again, it was nearly dusk.
The sleep hadn't been restful, like crawling out of a bathtub full of water—damp and heavy, sapping all their strength.
Song Weishi sat up. The aunts were still sleeping, the afternoon sun warm outside. It felt like a long nap with the sky still blue, pleasantly warm, a hint of coolness on the breeze.
The System spoke up on its own, its voice almost timid. "Host, are you all right?"
"Why do you ask?" Song Weishi replied.
"I detected low emotional state and reduced survival instinct."
Song Weishi forced a smile. "That works out well. If I die, you can get a new host. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
The System rushed to explain. "No, Host, that's not what I want. Please hold on. Didn't we agree to fight side by side?"
It squeezed out another 750 energy points, trying to soothe her sinking heart.
Song Weishi fell silent for a long moment, then asked, "What do you think—did that girl have her own will at the end?"
The moment she'd woken, those eyes—pitiful, struggling, helpless—flashed in her mind, refusing to leave. She didn't know if it was lingering hallucination or genuine guilt.
The System's alarm grew. "Host, what's wrong? I'm detecting self-destructive tendencies. What happened?"
Song Weishi remained silent. Her thoughts seemed covered by a strange white film, circling endlessly in her mind. The words she wanted to say were buried under emotion, and when she opened her mouth, nothing came. She lay there quietly, staring at the sky.
"Do you think I can ever go back to my original world? Is this really a one-way ticket?" she finally asked.
The System's voice grew more frantic. "Host! Host, please don't. Host, I'm detecting self-destructive tendencies. Host!"
Song Weishi didn't hear it. The breeze felt pleasant, but it was still too hot. If she could go home, she'd have air conditioning, a fridge full of the durian mille crepe cake she'd bought, and she could binge-watch shows while eating dessert in the cool. It was an ordinary person's happiness. She wanted to go back so badly. Never before had she missed home this much.
This world was a one-way ticket. Only death ended it. Jumping back and forth wouldn't bring her back. Nothing here was the same as her world.
Song Weishi just wanted to leave. She hated this place, didn't want to stay forever, had killed so many people—so why not end it now?
Her thoughts deepened. She spotted the backpack by the recliner, holding her usual weapon.
At that moment, she heard the System's voice again, calm like when she'd first arrived: "Host, do you want to go home?"
Song Weishi froze. The world fell silent, everyone around her asleep, only the System speaking with her. She didn't need to open her mouth—she could hear the System, and it could hear her.
She stared at the knife that had killed so many, unable to look away.
A question surfaced in her heart: why was the System's voice coming from her ear this time?
And more than that, she heard a strange scraping sound, burrowing into her ear.
Without thinking, she pulled the knife from her backpack and studied it closely.
As her finger touched the blade, she heard the System's voice again, this time from inside her head: "Host, do you want to go home?"
[System message: Error. Error. Consciousness link unstable. Rebooting...]
[System: --
The message cut off abruptly, leaving only static.
Song Weishi's pupils contracted. The knife trembled in her hand. That voice—it felt familiar and alien all at once. It wasn't the System she knew; it was deeper, more... maternal.
And then she finally understood. The "System" in her head wasn't the only thing living there.
Something else had been whispering to her all along.