Feng Yiying was woken up by the sound of metal friction.
He was huddled in the haystack in the corner of the ruined temple, with half a piece of moldy corn pillow under his head, and saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth. He was dreaming of lying on a rocking chair covered with cotton wool, gnawing on soy sauce elbow in the sun.
"Tsk... It's so noisy." He turned over impatiently and waved his hand as if to shoo away flies, "Which house's scrap metal is broken and can't it be repaired somewhere else?"
