Tan Wenbin fished a cigarette out, clamped it in his mouth, pulled out a lighter and flicked it.
The flame wavered, seeming sometimes near, sometimes far, fluttering in his eyes.
Finally, when his gaze steadied, the cigarette caught.
The cigarette flared up like a matchstick — it turned out he’d been holding it backwards and had lit the filter end.
He spat it out, stomped it with his shoe, took another cigarette, inspected it carefully and bit down.
“Bin-ge, let me help you.”
Lin Shuyou took the lighter.
With a click the little flame shot up a good meter with a buzzing sound.
Luckily Tan Wenbin had ducked his neck in time, or his eyebrows and hair might have been singed clean off.
“Bin-ge, I—”
“Forget it. I’m done.”
He put the pack away and sat down on the coffin.
The crash course had begun again.
Everyone felt that awkwardness they’d had last time, only this time the intensity had increased and the discomfort was stronger.
For Tan Wenbin the issue wasn’t just that his senses were sensitive.
Under Little Yuan’s illusion formation he had started to instinctively doubt everything around him; even the simplest things needed several rounds of reorientation.
His sensory perceptions felt off now.
Lin Shuyou behaved like a man of habit.