The Holy Grail’s Mold and Dorm Room Tales

Qin Zixin watched in astonishment, the lingering ache in her backside momentarily forgotten.

She attempted to rise, only for a sharp pang to make her wince, forcing her to grimace as she clambered from the bed and switched on her computer.

She had only just mentioned the “Holy Grail” last night; how had Wang Tianzhuo already produced a finished product in less than a day?

What in the world was this terrifying efficiency?

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Holy hell!]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Holy hell!]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Holy hell!]

Following three rapid-fire messages in the work group chat, Qin Zixin, true to form, began her usual antics.

[Grand Master Hunyuan: How could it be so fast?]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: I only mentioned it yesterday, and it’s already finished in half a day?]

[Mr. Pickles: It’s readily available. Just inject the material, cool it down, and press it out. The molds were already prepared. Even using the most expensive material from the Guibao factory, each unit only costs a little over twenty yuan.]

After delivering his explanation in the group chat, Wang Tianzhuo uploaded a video.

It showcased greasy machines molding and cooling, with the video’s owner, a chubby hand, reaching in to retrieve a piece, shaking it with an undeniably arrogant flourish.

[Old Fang: What’s the situation inside? What’s the point of just looking at the finished product? Cut it open and show us!]

[Muzigu: It seems those from Biyang haven’t used it much. Heresy! Pure heresy! How can one rely on external objects for such a thing? Use your hands! Your hands! You must feel that body temperature, you scoundrel!]

[Han Heng: This contraption feels rather odd. If the weather’s cold, wouldn’t it become instantly unpleasant once you put it on? Does this mean it can only be used in the southern regions?]

Han Heng had joined the group chat using his real name, his avatar a clear photo of himself, utterly devoid of any privacy concerns, much like an oblivious fool.

[Grand Master Hunyuan: What’s there to fear? Just add an electric heating wire inside, and you can set it to whatever temperature you desire.]

[Han Heng: What if it burns out?]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Burn the bird! It’ll be perfectly rare, just as Japanese cuisine dictates!]

[Mr. Pickles: I’ve ordered three hundred to test the waters.]

[Mr. Pickles: I can’t order too many of these, either; if they pile up in the warehouse, they’ll surely grow mold.]

[Muzigu: What on earth? It gets moldy, and you’re still using it? Are you certain this thing will even sell?]

[Mr. Pickles: Indeed, they do get moldy. My last few cups developed mold inside that I couldn’t scrub clean, which is why I eventually had to discard them.]

To substantiate his claim, Wang Tianzhuo even uploaded several photographs of the mold-ridden cups, causing Qin Zixin to grimace in disgust.

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Isn’t that utterly repulsive? Holy hell, do you simply not bother to wash it after use?]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Silicone is an inorganic substance; how could it possibly grow mold? The mold must be growing on your… ‘descendants’!]

[Mr. Pickles: Utter nonsense.]

[Mr. Pickles: Do you even know where I am? I’m in Guangdong Province, and the ‘Return to the South’ weather here is no laughing matter!]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Don’t bother explaining. Ugh, I see right through you.]

[Mr. Pickles: See through a market, my foot! I’m serious!]

[Mr. Pickles: Even my silicone figurines here get moldy. They’re kept in cabinets, and despite having a dehumidifier inside, it’s utterly useless.]

[Old Fang: Can the figurines’ clothes be removed?]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Good heavens, ‘Return to the South’ again! I recall seeing a post claiming K-pop has its own exclusive terminology, like ‘crash’ and ‘Return to the South’.]

[Han Heng: Speak like a normal person! If it means ‘collapse,’ then just say ‘collapse.’ Why use ‘crash’? Do you really need English for such a simple word?]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: You utter simpleton! ‘Return to the South’ simply means humid, and the ‘Return to the South’ down there means… well, *that*. ‘Crash’ means a wet crotch, so they both imply the same thing!]

[Han Heng: You’re insane.]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Grass-fed mud!]

[Han Heng: I wasn’t cursing *you*! What even are these words? They’re utterly polluting the language itself!]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: It’s what ‘toilet girls’ use; you wouldn’t understand.]

[Han Heng: What exactly are ‘toilet girls’?]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: They’re ‘meal ticket girls’.]

[Han Master: Speak in plain language, damn it!]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Oh, you don’t understand, do you? Call me ‘Daddy,’ and ‘Daddy’ will enlighten you.]

Qin Zixin tilted her head slightly, her gaze fixed on the screen.

Despite the insults being hurled her way, she felt an inexplicable sense of superiority over Han Heng, as though possessing knowledge of certain internet subcultures was a truly remarkable accomplishment.

[Old Fang: Don’t pay him any mind. Why bother caring about an old dog having a fit?]

Just as Qin Zixin was about to dispatch the internet definition of ‘meal ticket girls,’ she noticed several messages from Yang Qichao, all pleading for “comfort.”

Instantly, her blood pressure surged, and the little rascal’s name sprang to mind.

[Yang Qichao: Old Qin, let me show you my grades.]

[Yang Qichao: Photo.JPG]

[Yang Qichao: Sigh, I didn’t manage to get first place. The top scorer was just too formidable, outscoring me by a full twenty points.]

[Yang Qichao: Oh, dear.]

[Yang Qichao: Such a worry.]

[Qin Zixin: Worry about your bull-demon, you might as well just drop dead already!]

[Qin Zixin: Grass-fed mud!]

[Qin Zixin: Damn it, you’re finished! I’m telling you, you are absolutely finished!]

‘Your old granny just got a beating, you bastard, how much did you even score? And you’re asking for your mother’s comfort?!’

Qin Zixin ground her teeth, a silent fury simmering within her.

Despite knowing full well that Yang Qichao’s actions were deliberate, she couldn’t help but stew in a fit of pique.

The work group continued to chat about the “Holy Grail,” but Qin Zixin, her almond eyes glinting mischievously, was already concocting another scheme.

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Send me one, to Xinxiyue Retail Wholesale Supermarket, XX Road, XX Number, Lianhu District, Nanling City, Jiangsu Province. The phone number is 180XXXXXXXX. @Mr. Pickles]

[Grand Master Hunyuan: Hurry! I need to test how comfortable it is. Remember to include a few bottles of lubricant!]

Qin Zixin didn’t possess the necessary anatomy and thus couldn’t possibly use the “Holy Grail” herself, yet this did not deter her desire to own one.

Even if she couldn’t use it, she could always gift it to someone! The contact number she had provided, after all, belonged to Yang Qichao.

She imagined the gift she had personally selected, sent directly to Yang Qichao.

Given his inherent cluelessness and foolishness, he would undoubtedly be at a complete loss.

Upon receiving it, would he dare to discard it, or would he keep it?

Should he choose to keep it, she would automatically assume Yang Qichao would secretly use it.

However, Qin Zixin had no intention of allowing him the opportunity for clandestine use.

Once she confirmed he hadn’t discarded it, she would promptly message his mother, Ye Xiaosu, informing her that Yang Qichao had requested Qin Zixin send him a “Holy Grail.”

Envisioning Yang Qichao’s clumsy attempts to prove his innocence, a foolish grin spread across Qin Zixin’s face, making her appear utterly simple-minded.

****

Friday evening, in men’s dormitory room 313.

After completing two classes tomorrow afternoon, the first weekend holiday of the semester would finally arrive.

Moreover, with only four days of classes next week, the Mid-Autumn Festival would already be upon them.

Fang Bixian and the others, having previously attended remedial classes at school, had grown accustomed to dormitory life, so they weren’t overly thrilled.

Nevertheless, the prospect of returning home to unwind was undeniably more appealing than toiling over assignments at school.

Unlike day students, boarders found that the dormitory lights would uniformly extinguish at precisely ten-forty every night.

Once the lights went out in the high school boys’ dormitory, their conversations invariably revolved around either the physical appearance of the opposite s*x, or boisterous bragging and storytelling.

These topics shared a commonality: they were invariably stimulating to the senses.

At this very moment, Zhou Dahong, in the shroud of darkness, was vividly recounting a ghost story.

“I’ll tell a ghost story, then.”

“Everyone of a certain age knows about Hualin Mountain in Lanzhou. Back then, even the taxi drivers there were so terrified they wouldn’t pick up passengers at night. The incident took place in Lanzhou City in the 1990s, a time when surveillance technology wasn’t as advanced as it is today.”

“That’s too classic; the setup is always the same. If it’s supernatural, there must be no surveillance.”

Qiao Hua interjected.

Zhou Dahong was the type who loved telling ghost stories despite not being particularly good at it.

His tales were so trite, they’d likely be rejected by street tabloids for wasting space; anyone who heard them a few times could easily predict the plot.

“Hua Zi, don’t interrupt. Let Dahong continue.”

Fang Bixian, the dorm leader, was far from a disciplinarian; he was, in essence, purely permissive.

The overall atmosphere of a dorm room largely depended on the leader’s social acumen.

“Ahem, ahem.”

Zhou Dahong cleared his throat and resumed his narrative.

“One night, a certain taxi driver—let’s call him Old Wang—was picking up passengers as usual.

Late at night, just before he was about to finish his shift, he encountered a woman in a red dress by the roadside.

After she got into the car, the woman stated she wished to go to Hualin Mountain.

Old Wang, concerned for a girl’s safety late at night, decided to take her to her destination before clocking off, and so he allowed her into his vehicle.

However, after driving only a short distance, a sense of unease began to creep into the driver’s heart.

Can you guess why?”

“It’s either a crematorium or a morgue; your stories have made me all too familiar with the tropes.”

Qiao Hua’s tone was listless.

He wasn’t particularly interested in gods or ghosts, but if someone was telling a story, he’d listen.

“Hua Zi, stop interrupting! You’ve interrupted twice already! If you do it again, I’m coming to your bed. I was just being polite with that question; you were supposed to ask me what it was, and then I’d explain. There’s absolutely no chemistry, you don’t even know how to be a proper audience member!”

Zhou Dahong’s composure was slightly rattled by the interruptions.

“Hualin Mountain is Lanzhou’s crematorium.

Although Old Wang found it strange, he had already set off and couldn’t easily turn back, so he gritted his teeth and drove the woman in red to Hualin Mountain.

When she got out, the woman handed the driver a hundred yuan.

Think about when this was—the 1990s! Few people could readily produce a hundred yuan back then.

To ensure the money was real, Old Wang scrutinized it several times, confirming its authenticity before allowing the girl to exit the car.

After she descended, the girl walked into a courtyard by the roadside, and only then did Old Wang drive home.

Later, upon arriving home, he began to tally his earnings.

As he examined the money he had collected that day, he discovered that the hundred yuan he had just received was, in fact, ghost money.

Old Wang was absolutely certain the woman in red had given it to him, as he had only received one hundred-yuan bill that entire day.

Consequently, the driver reported it to the police station the next morning.

Initially, people thought the driver was joking, but the subsequent investigation astonished everyone.

They rushed to the courtyard where the woman in red had last vanished, only to find it filled entirely with funeral wreaths.

Yet, when Old Wang had driven the girl there, these wreaths had been conspicuously absent.

Upon entering the house, people were even more stunned by the sight before them: a body lay in the center of the room.

After examining it closely, they discovered that the deceased was none other than the woman in red he had driven the previous night.”

“That’s terrible, that story. It sounds like something concocted by someone without an ounce of sense.

You’re a boring storyteller; you should let the Grand Immortal tell one instead.”

Ma Lisheng, who had been listening silently, couldn’t help but interject toward the end.

The story was so utterly generic, devoid of any distinguishing features; aside from a half-hearted attempt to add local names and dates, it possessed virtually no logic.

They would be better off discussing something else.

This dreadful story was, for Zhou Dahong, merely a consistent output, utterly uninspired.

“How about we talk about Qin Zixin? Have you guys noticed Xin Xin’s feet? They’re genuinely tiny.”

Qiao Hua, whenever someone told a ghost story, would shrink into his blanket, unwilling for the topic to continue, especially if it was the Grand Immortal, whose tales were far too terrifying.

Fearing that if Fang Bixian finished his story, he’d suffer another night of insomnia, Qiao Hua deliberately steered the conversation.

However, his inherently lecherous nature made it difficult to guide the discussion to anything profound.

“‘Xin Xin,’ you say? It’s been days, yet have you even dared to chat with Qin Zixin? It seems the Grand Immortal is still the one talking to Qin Zixin.

And as for her feet, however small they may be, could they possibly be smaller than your courage?”

Zhou Dahong, his pride stung by his poorly received story, retorted sharply.

“No, you guys don’t understand. Hua Zi is like Xiang Zhuang performing a sword dance with intentions for Pei Gong. He wants to talk about Qin Zixin, but what he really wants to discuss is Zhang Wanbai.”

Ma Lisheng’s voice, tinged with sarcasm, drifted down from the upper bunk.

“Hua Zi, is Zhang Wanbai’s snot sweet? Have you been so enthralled you can’t bear to leave?”