Zheng Qing lay on his back on the ground.
Having three sprites over three feet tall crash into him head-on, it was already a stroke of luck he didn't fracture anything or spit blood on the spot. Fortunately, the three sprites had the good sense to pull the boy back at the last moment, slowing his fall and preventing his head from smashing directly onto the floor.
But Zheng Qing would have rather his head hit the floor hard and knocked him out right then and there.
He stared blankly, his eyes unfocused, staring at a few moss green mold patches clinging to the corner of the ceiling. Next to him, the fat man's gasping laughter and the crisp, melodious cries of "Scum" echoed in his ears as he wore an expression of utter resignation.
Ah, turn me into a piece of mold.
He said this to himself inside.
Quietly rot away in the corner, deteriorate, and perish.
"Scum~"
"Scum~hug~"
"Hug hug~Scum~"
