Hot water was boiling on the stove in the room.

The man walked in from outside, pulling out an oil paper package from his chest and opening it. The brown sugar cakes were freshly steamed, steaming hot, and their sweet fragrance immediately filled the entire room. He took one out, wrapped the bottom with oil paper, and handed it to the child: “Dongdong, your favorite brown sugar cake.”

Mendong looked at the brown sugar cake in his hand.

This was something he loved to eat. It seemed like he hadn’t eaten it for a long time.

“Why aren’t you eating?” The woman beside him, who was doing needlework, smiled at him: “Eat it while it’s hot. It won’t taste good when it gets cold.”

Mendong then indulged in this gentle care again. He took a big bite, then his expression changed.

Completely different from the sweet and soft appearance of this pastry, when it entered his mouth, it was as if he were eating a lump of mud mixed with water, sandy, reeking of earth’s fishy smell, and mixed with some coarse little stones and withered dry grass. This thing was simply impossible to swallow.

He spat out what was in his mouth with a “ptui.”

Seeing this, the woman was startled and hurried over to ask: “What’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell somewhere?” She reached out to touch Mendong’s forehead. When she got close, an unbearable earthy fishy smell also emanated from her sleeves.

Mendong couldn’t help but shrink back, accidentally bumping into something beside him. He looked down and saw a cloth tiger by his hand, with several whiskers torn off.

“Want this?” Seeing this, the woman stuffed the cloth tiger into his arms: “Take it and play with it.”

Mendong stared dead at this cloth tiger.

This tiger was made very beautifully. It should have been sewn stitch by stitch by a skillful woman. Its eyes were two round black buttons, its whiskers were white fishing line, and it had a fluffy tail that felt soft and warm to the touch—extremely exquisite. But for some reason, another cloth tiger appeared in his mind—one sewn crookedly, looking exactly like a fierce beast, with strangely shaped eyes and a tail as stiff as a wooden stick.

When had he ever had such an ugly tiger?

And who had given him that ugly tiger?

In his memory, a young man’s impatient voice seemed to ring in his ears: “Crying, crying, all you know is crying. Here’s this thing for you. Don’t cry anymore in the future, understand!”

He sniffled and took it, saw how ugly that tiger was, and cried even more sadly.

“Shut up for me. You still have the nerve to cry. I, the great Gu Baiying, stayed up late into the night just to sew this thing for you. Little brat, don’t be ungrateful.” The young man warned without much confidence.

Gu Baiying… who was that?

A face seemed to float before his eyes—handsome features with apparent impatience. He murmured: “Seventh martial uncle…”

“What?” The woman didn’t hear what he was saying and asked with a smile.

Mendong looked down at the cloth doll in his hand.

He indeed had such a beautiful cloth tiger, sewn stitch by stitch by his mother’s own hands. He loved it very much and had to hold it even when sleeping. But on that night, when the great fire spread and enveloped the entire house, everything was consumed by flames, including that cloth tiger.

Later, after many twists and turns, he was taken away and then rescued. He went to Gufeng Mountain and slept together with the young man who saved him. Having lost both parents and his childhood tiger, he often woke from nightmares at night, crying endlessly.

That young seventh martial uncle would sit up in his bed, look at himself sobbing in the darkness, and ask irritably: “Little brat, what will it take for you to sleep properly?”

He said tearfully and timidly: “Martial uncle, I… I want a cloth tiger, one with a tail and black eyes.”

The young man threw off his covers and left.

Later, Gu Baiying disappeared for several days. When he saw this little martial uncle again, the man was holding a cloth tiger in his hand and shoved it into his arms: “Take it.”

Mendong had never seen such an ugly tiger.

So ugly that if you didn’t say it was a tiger, really no one could tell what it was. This tiger was sewn crookedly. Its eyes did use fine black gold stone—the black gold stone was square and would even glow at night. Having this thing by the pillow, if you woke up at night and saw it, you’d probably think a demon beast had come to claim your life.

Mendong cried even more sadly: “Why is it so ugly…”

“Still think it’s ugly?” The young man angrily said, “I sewed this with my own hands!”

He hugged that cloth tiger to his chest and, in this unfamiliar sect, for the first time felt at peace as he burst into loud, heartfelt sobs.

The exquisite cloth tiger in his hand seemed somewhat cold.

Those vague images finally brought back all his memories, like waking from a strange dream. Mendong looked around and was surprised to notice that the sweet, warm smell in the air had somehow become fishy, bitter, and damp. Like water plants piled together and rotting. When he looked again at the woman and man beside him, their familiar faces had somehow become blurred.

This wasn’t his home. His home had disappeared in that great fire many years ago. His parents and the cloth tiger couldn’t possibly appear here.

A strong fear gripped him. Mendong pushed away the woman in front of him, jumped down from the bed, and ran toward the door, shouting: “Help—”

That sturdy wooden door, like an illusion, let him plunge right through it. Outside the door was a cold, pitch-black corridor. Torches hanging on the walls cast pale shadows on the ground. The cold wind cut his face like knives, brutally driving away that bit of warmth as he completely awakened from his dream.

This was… Wu Fan City’s corridor.

Yes, they were in Wu Fan City’s altar, being chased by sand tides. Gu Baiying and Yang Zanxing were blocked by fallen crossbeams, while he followed Meng Ying and the others rushing up the stairs. And then… and then he turned around to find himself chopping wood in the mountains with his deceased parents.

Mendong suddenly looked back. That wooden door had already vanished without a trace. There were corridors both front and back, with no warm room anywhere.

“An illusion?” He suddenly understood.

But where was Meng Ying? Where were Meng Ying and the others? Mendong had just lifted his foot to walk when he tripped over something, nearly falling. Looking down, he saw a leg extending from the darkness, slanted across his path.

It was so dark here that Mendong hadn’t noticed until that stumble. Startled, he followed the leg and saw half of someone’s body lying in the chamber, with two legs sprawled across the roadside—it was Tian Fangfang.

“Senior Brother Tian!” Finding a companion here so suddenly, Mendong was extremely excited. He ran to Tian Fangfang’s side and found that Tian Fangfang wasn’t moving at all. His heart sank, thinking he might be dead. Looking more carefully, he saw Tian Fangfang’s chest rising and falling with breathing—he should still be alive.

This place was strange. Since he had fallen into an illusion, Tian Fangfang had most likely also fallen victim to illusion techniques. Mendong pushed Tian Fangfang and shouted in his ear: “Senior Brother Tian!”