Illusion, Inner Demon!

After saying these words, Chen Mo fell into a coma, feeling as if he were sinking.

Surrounded by endless darkness, it was cold and viscous, like being submerged in deep water. He wanted to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt as heavy as lead. He wanted to move, but his limbs refused to obey.

Only his consciousness remained clear.

He could clearly feel the excruciating pain coming from his chest—the bones there were broken, perhaps piercing his lungs, making every breath feel like a knife cut. His left arm also throbbed; the angle was distorted, likely a dislocation combined with a fracture.

But strangely, these pains felt distant, as if separated by a layer of something.

What was truly close was that voice.

"Chen Mo... Chen Mo, wake up..."

It was the voice of Ning Rongrong.

It carried a sobbing tone, trembling and hoarse.

He wanted to respond again, but his lips could not move.

Then, the darkness suddenly cracked open.

A beam of light pierced through, stinging his eyes painfully. He instinctively closed them, and when he opened them again—

He found himself standing in a strange place.

Surrounded by mountains, endless mountains shrouded in mist. Beneath his feet was a stone path covered in fallen leaves. In the distance, the outlines of buildings were vaguely visible, with upturned eaves and corners, like ancient palaces.

Where was this?

He looked down at himself—there were no more injuries on his body, his chest didn't hurt, and his left arm could move. His clothes had changed too; no longer the blood-stained casual shirt, but a long, cyan robe.

He was stunned, then suddenly heard someone calling him from behind:

"Your Highness."

Your Highness?

Chen Mo turned around and saw a young man in armor kneeling on one knee, cupping his hands in a salute.

"His Majesty summons you to the palace to discuss urgent matters."

Chen Mo stared at the man, not recognizing him. Yet, he felt he had seen this face somewhere before.

"His Majesty?" he asked. "Which Majesty?"

The man looked up, a flash of confusion in his eyes, but he immediately lowered his head: "Your Highness, what... what is wrong with you? His Majesty is your Imperial Father."

Imperial Father?

Chen Mo's mind was in chaos. He thought of his own father—the man who had passed away when he was seven, taciturn and always busy working away from home. He had nothing to do with the words "Imperial Father."

But at that moment, a strange memory flooded into his mind.

He was the Crown Prince of the Great Zhou Dynasty. Intelligent since childhood, he had joined military campaigns at fifteen and achieved great merit. At twenty, he acted as regent, managing state affairs with perfect order. His Imperial Father was aged and in poor health, and there were those in the court harboring restless intentions...

No.

These were not his memories.

Chen Mo shook his head violently, trying to shake these things out. But the memories became clearer, as if they had been rooted in his brain all along.

He suddenly recalled what Ning Rongrong had said—

"He makes you see what you fear most. The people you fear most, the things you fear most, the ending you fear most."

An illusion.

This was an illusion.

He bit the tip of his tongue, the taste of blood spreading in his mouth—it hurt.

But the surrounding mountains remained, the messenger soldier remained, and the outline of the palace in the distance remained.

It was useless.

He took a deep breath and said to the soldier, "Lead the way."

The soldier led him forward.

They walked along the long stone path, passed through one palace gate after another, and finally stopped before a grand hall.

The hall doors were wide open, and inside, a figure could vaguely be seen sitting on a high dragon throne.

Chen Mo walked in.

A middle-aged man sat on the dragon throne, wearing a bright yellow dragon robe and a beaded crown. His face was majestic, yet his brow revealed exhaustion and a sickly pallor.

He watched Chen Mo walk in, his gaze complex.

"Mo'er," he spoke, his voice hoarse, "you have come."

Chen Mo stood in the center of the hall, looking at the man who claimed to be his "Imperial Father," and said nothing.

The middle-aged man sighed and waved his hand. A eunuch beside him walked down holding a tray, on which sat a cup of wine.

"This is bestowed upon you by your Imperial Father," the eunuch said in a shrill voice.

Chen Mo looked at the cup of wine and suddenly understood.

"Do you suspect me of treason?" he asked.

The middle-aged man's eyes flickered, then turned resolute.

"Not suspect," he said. "Certain."

Chen Mo was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed.

"Even a tiger does not devour its own cubs," he said. "You are worse than a beast."

The middle-aged man's expression shifted. He stood up abruptly and pointed at Chen Mo: "You--!"

But before he could finish, a commotion erupted outside the hall.

"Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Something terrible has happened--the Crown Prince's forces have surrounded the Imperial Palace!"

The middle-aged man turned deathly pale and collapsed back into the Dragon Throne.

Chen Mo was stunned.

It wasn't his doing.

But the illusion didn't care about that.

The hall doors were kicked open, and a group of armored soldiers rushed in, led by a young general--the very same man who had delivered the order to Chen Mo just moments ago.

He looked at Chen Mo and knelt on one knee: "Your Highness, this subordinate has fulfilled the mission. The rebels in the palace have all been captured. Please, Your Highness, issue your judgment."

Chen Mo looked at him, then at the ashen-faced middle-aged man on the Dragon Throne, and finally at the cup of wine on the tray.

Was he expected to kill his own father with his own hands?

Even if this "father" was fake, even if all of this was an illusion--

He could not bring himself to do it.

Just then, a voice came from behind him:

"Chen Mo!"

It was the voice of Ning Rongrong.

Chen Mo whipped his head around and saw Ning Rongrong standing at the entrance of the hall.

But she was not alone. She held an infant in her arms, and standing beside her was a woman whose face could not be seen. He felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity with that woman's figure.

Ning Rongrong looked at him, her eyes filled with terror and pleading.

"Chen Mo, you cannot kill him. If you kill him, we are finished."

Chen Mo was stunned.

Kill whom?

He followed her gaze--she was looking at the middle-aged man.

But what did that man have to do with him?

At that moment, the woman with the obscured face spoke, her voice as gentle as water:

"Mo'er, he is your father. You cannot do this."

Chen Mo shuddered.

That voice--

He remembered it.

It was his mother's voice.

The last time he had heard it was at the funeral home when he was seven years old.

He stared fixedly at the woman's face, trying to see what she looked like. But that face remained blurred, as if separated by a layer of mist.

He took a step forward.

The woman took a step back.

He took another step.

She retreated again.

They maintained a constant distance, and her face remained impossible to see.

Chen Mo stopped in his tracks, looked at the blurred figure, and suddenly said:

"You are not her."

The figure paused.

"My mother," he said, "died when I was seven. When she died, she held my hand and said one thing."

He looked at the figure.

"She said, 'Mo'er, live well.'"

"You would never say something like that. You are not her."

The figure suddenly laughed.

The laughter was shrill, sounding nothing like his mother's voice.

Then, the blurred face began to distort, transforming into someone he had never seen before--an old man in gray-white robes, his face withered like a dried corpse.

It was Shi Nian.