The Lan Sect garden was a place of serenity by day. By night, under a pale moon, it was a different creature entirely—damp earth breathing quietly, leaves whispering in the wind, the air thick with the scent of green things growing.

And, on this particular night, there was also a faint, pulsating glow coming from one corner.

The cursed potato.

Its purple light was subtle at first, like fireflies beneath the soil. Then it grew brighter, a slow heartbeat pulsing through the dirt. A nearby worm decided, quite sensibly, to vacate the area.

By morning, Sizhui was the first to arrive. He carried his watering can and the sort of light, hopeful energy only early risers could summon. He was halfway to his carrot patch before he noticed the strange lump in the far plot.

The soil had… risen. Not just a little—several inches higher than yesterday. The potato’s corner looked like a miniature burial mound.

He crouched down. “That’s not right.”

A shadow fell over him.

“It’s definitely not right,” Jingyi said, peering down at the mound. “Did we get mole demons?”

“There’s no such thing as mole demons,” Sizhui said automatically. Then he added, “I think.”

“Don’t look at me,” Jingyi said quickly. “This is Wei Wuxian’s fault. We told him not to plant weird stuff.”

They were still staring when a familiar voice sang out from the path.

“Good morning, my little green-thumbed disciples!”

Wei Wuxian appeared, balancing a basket on one hip. His smile brightened when he saw the potato mound. “Ah! She’s coming along beautifully.”

Jingyi’s mouth dropped open. “She?!”

“You can’t just… gender a potato,” Sizhui said weakly.

“Of course I can,” Wei Wuxian replied, crouching beside them. “Look at her—already rising to greet the sun. So eager, so full of life. I think I’ll call her Madam Tuberine.”

Jingyi stared at him like he was insane. “That thing is cursed.”

Wei Wuxian tsked. “You people are so suspicious. It’s just… energetic. In a few days, we’ll be swimming in potatoes.”

“Or running from them,” Jingyi muttered.

By mid-morning, the rest of the juniors had arrived, and the potato mound had doubled in size. Its surface trembled faintly, as though something beneath was stretching.

Lan Wangji appeared at the garden’s edge, silent as always, his gaze sweeping over the scene. His eyes paused on the potato mound.

Wei Wuxian noticed immediately. “Lan Zhan, meet Madam Tuberine. She’s thriving.”

Lan Wangji stepped closer. “… Thriving.”

There was the tiniest pause before the word, just enough to suggest his definition of “thriving” might not match Wei Wuxian’s.

“You’re just jealous you didn’t plant her,” Wei Wuxian teased.

“Not jealous,” Lan Wangji said, and yet, later, when Wei Wuxian wasn’t looking, he brushed his fingers against the soil of his own plot as though considering something.

The carrot patch, meanwhile, had been quietly plotting its own rebellion.

Three days after planting Wei Wuxian’s “special” carrot seeds, Sizhui noticed something odd. The shoots were emerging—not in neat, straight rows like the rest of the garden, but at angles. Curves. Loops.

He frowned, kneeling down for a closer look. The green tops were… forming shapes. Rounded at the top, two smaller leaves sticking up like—

“Ears?” he whispered.

By the time Wei Wuxian bounced over, the shapes were undeniable. The sprouts were growing in the outline of small, crouching rabbits.

Wei Wuxian gasped. “Oh, they’re adorable! Look, Lan Zhan, look!”

Lan Wangji, summoned from his bean row, came to see. His eyes flickered—just once—over the sprouting shapes.

“They are… rabbits,” he agreed.

Wei Wuxian puffed up. “You see? My seeds have personality. None of this boring straight-line business. We’re making art here!”

“This is supposed to be farming,” Jingyi said, but his voice was softer now, betraying just the slightest fondness for the strange little sprouts.

By the end of the week, the garden no longer looked like the disciplined project it had been.

The cursed potato’s mound had grown high enough that it cast a shadow over the lettuce beds. The rabbit carrots were multiplying, each row sprouting new “ears” as though inspired by the others. Even Lan Wangji’s plot, normally a model of precision, had one small rabbit-shaped sprout tucked discreetly near the center.

The juniors were bewildered. Wei Wuxian was delighted.

“This place has character now,” he said one afternoon, dusting his hands after patting the potato mound. “You’ll thank me when harvest time comes.”

Sizhui exchanged a look with Jingyi. “Or regret it.”

The first truly strange event happened the next morning.

Jingyi was the first to notice: the cursed potato had… moved. Not by much—just a few inches sideways—but enough to leave a trail in the soil.

He stood there for a full minute, staring. “Nope. Nope. Not dealing with this.”

He went to find Sizhui, who was by the carrot patch, gently straightening a sprout. “The potato moved.”

Sizhui blinked. “Moved?”

“Moved.” Jingyi made a vague, horrified gesture. “Like, on its own. In the night.”

Wei Wuxian, overhearing, brightened. “Oh, she’s just stretching her roots. Perfectly natural.”

“Plants don’t migrate,” Jingyi snapped.

“Some do,” Wei Wuxian said cheerfully. “Just… slowly.”

Sizhui’s expression was caught between concern and resignation. “We should… probably keep an eye on it.”

They didn’t have to wait long for more surprises. That evening, when they returned to water the garden, they found the cursed potato mound split open.

From the crack emerged a thick, purple-green shoot, curling upward toward the setting sun.

Wei Wuxian clapped his hands. “She’s blooming! Well, sprouting, but same idea.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze lingered on the shoot. “… This is unusual.”

Wei Wuxian grinned at him. “Unusual is just another word for interesting.”

The carrot sprouts, meanwhile, had begun to lean toward the potato mound, as though drawn to it. The rabbit shapes were more distinct now, and in the soft breeze, they seemed almost to twitch.

Sizhui watched them with a furrowed brow. “Senior Wei… did you do something to these seeds?”

Wei Wuxian spread his hands innocently. “I merely encouraged their natural talents.”

Jingyi muttered, “Nature doesn’t grow rabbits out of dirt.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head. “Doesn’t it? Have you asked?”

Two weeks in, the garden was the talk of the juniors—not because they were sharing the secret, but because keeping it had become nearly impossible.

The potato mound now sported three massive shoots, each tipped with curling leaves that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. The rabbit carrots were sprouting tiny flowers shaped like—of course—more rabbits.

Lan Qiren had passed by once, paused, stared for a long moment, and then walked away muttering something about “strange weather.”

Wei Wuxian took this as a sign of success.

One sunny afternoon, the juniors gathered to weed the beds. Wei Wuxian knelt among them, humming, when Jingyi suddenly froze.

“… Did that carrot just move?”

Everyone turned.

One of the rabbit-shaped carrots had… shifted. Just slightly. Enough for a puff of dirt to rise at its base.

Wei Wuxian leaned in. “Ah, they’re getting restless. That’s a good sign.”

“A good sign?” Jingyi sputtered.

“Means they’re ready to be harvested,” Wei Wuxian said.

Sizhui hesitated. “They’re not… fully grown yet.”

“Maybe not in size,” Wei Wuxian said, “but in spirit—”

He was interrupted by a small, sudden pop as the carrot lifted itself an inch out of the soil.

There was a stunned silence.

“… Nope,” Jingyi said again, standing up. “I’m not harvesting anything that harvests itself.”

Wei Wuxian, on the other hand, looked like the happiest man alive.

That evening, when most of the juniors had gone, Wei Wuxian lingered in the garden. The setting sun painted everything gold, and the strange crops glowed faintly in the fading light.

Lan Wangji was there too, quietly tying back a row of bean vines.

Wei Wuxian wandered over to him. “Admit it, Lan Zhan. This is more fun than boring, orderly vegetables.”

Lan Wangji didn’t answer right away. He glanced toward his own plot, where the single rabbit sprout had grown taller, its ears more defined. “… Perhaps.”

Wei Wuxian’s grin softened into something warmer. “See? You do like it.”

Lan Wangji’s hand paused over a leaf, then resumed its careful work. “… It is… yours.”

Wei Wuxian blinked at him. “Ours, Lan Zhan. It’s ours now.”

For a moment, neither spoke, the only sound the rustle of leaves and the faint, strange hum from the potato mound.

By the time they left, the garden felt… different. Not just lively—watchful.

And somewhere, deep in the soil, Madam Tuberine pulsed with slow, contented light.