I gain ten years' worth of cultivation every day, and even geniuses will only see my doorstep!

She smiled.

Lin Qing'er looked at Qin Yuan in the mirror image. "She smiled."

"Um."

Lin Qing'er said, "I didn't laugh. But I think what I just did counts as laughing."

Her lips didn't curve into a smile, her eyes weren't wet, and her breathing remained unchanged. But Qin Yuan felt she was right. What she did could be considered a smile. She abandoned her only weapon—loneliness—to protect someone who didn't belong to her world. That wasn't a rule; that was a choice.

The crack closed. The mirror world vanished. Qin Yuan still held the empty cube in his hand. Transparent, without light, without memory, like a glass that had been emptied.

He returned to the back mountain of the Xuan Yuan Sect. Lin Qing'er stood under the old plum tree, watching him. The old plum tree was still bare, but a few green dots had sprouted on its branches. Buds.

"You're back," she said.

"I'm back."

The Forgotten Cult did not disappear because of one defeat. They roamed throughout the myriad realms, like weeds, ever-growing after being cut down. In markets, in taverns, in places where monks gathered, at crossroads where mortals went to market. They did not proselytize, nor did they recruit; they simply sat down and chatted with people. Their tone was soft, as if asking for directions.

What's the most painful thing you remember?

Are you willing to forget it?

More and more people are starting to wear blank masks. Not out of coercion, but voluntarily. Those who suffer too much prefer to forget everything, including happiness. Because happiness and pain grow on the same vine. You can't uproot the pain, you can only uproot the whole vine. Without happiness, there is no pain. But there is nothing else either. There is no expectation, no waiting, no "Will she come?", no "When will he come back?"

Qin Yuan investigated the origins of the Forgotten Cult. The Old Man of Time gave him a clue—the daughter of the Memory Collector. Not adopted, but biological. As a child, the Memory Collector's daughter was corrupted by chaotic energy, her brain like wood eaten away by worms, riddled with holes. Her memories leaked out through these holes, little by little, like sand in an hourglass. She didn't remember her name, her father's face, where she lived, whether she had eaten, or what she had just said. To save her, the Memory Collector filled her blank mind with the memories of countless powerful beings. He stitched other people's memories onto her memory like patches, piece by piece, layer by layer. She lived. But she didn't remember herself. She possessed countless memories, none of them her own. When she spoke, she used other people's voices. When she laughed, she used other people's joy. When she cried, she used other people's sorrow. She didn't recognize herself.

She founded the Cult of Oblivion, hoping everyone would be like her, devoid of their own memories. She believed that would eliminate suffering. Because her suffering didn't stem from memories, but from "not having memories of her own." She didn't know what that suffering was called, so she called it "memory." She thought that by eliminating memories, she could eliminate suffering.

Qin Yuan found her dwelling. Not in the depths of chaos, not in any corner of the map of myriad worlds. But a space pieced together from fragments of memories. The rooftop was a golden battle scene, two people exchanging blows in mid-air, the light from the collision of spiritual energy exploding like fireworks. The walls were a silver farewell scene, one person standing at the bow of a ship, the other on the shore, the ship moving, the shore receding, their hands still outstretched, but unable to reach each other. The ground was filled with countless tiny fragments of daily life—some eating, some walking, some sleeping, some growing old, some coughing, some sneezing, some tying their shoelaces. The fragments collided with each other, making soft, rustling sounds, like rain hitting sheet metal.

She sat in the center of the space. Her face constantly changed. An old person's face, a child's face, a man's face, a woman's face. Every second, she was a different person. Her body also changed. Tall or short, fat or thin, black or white, yellow or brown. She was not fixed, because she did not have a fixed self.

Qin Yuan stood before her. Her face transformed into that of a young woman, with a round face, a broad forehead, and a slightly flat nose. Then it became that of an old woman, her face full of wrinkles, her mouth drooping, and her eyes cloudy.

"Are you here to kill me?"

"No. I have a question for you."

"ask."

"Who are you?"

Her face froze. Not becoming a person, but becoming blank. Not the blankness of a mask, but the blankness of the face itself. No features, only skin. The skin was flesh-colored, smooth, like a freshly peeled egg.

"I don't know. I'm nobody."

Qin Yuan stared at that blank face. No expression, no wrinkles, no pores. Like a sheet of paper, unwritten upon.

"You are not someone else. You are yourself. You consumed someone else's memories, so you think you are someone else. But what you consumed is not you. You digested it, expelled it, and what remains is you."

She asked, "What's left?"

Qin Yuan said, "What remains is—you want others to suffer like you. This is your own wish. Not someone else's. It's your own."

Her features slowly emerged. First, her eyebrows, thin and slightly upturned. Then her eyes, small but bright. Her nose was a little flat, with a low bridge. Her lips were thin, the lower lip slightly thicker than the upper. These weren't anyone else's features, but her own original features. An ordinary girl. Round face, broad forehead, flat nose, thin lips. Not beautiful, but real.

"who I am?"

Qin Yuan said, "Only you can answer who you are."

Silence. A long silence. Fragments of memory within the palace faded one by one. The golden battle scenes turned black and white, then transparent, and finally vanished. The silver farewell scenes dimmed, the ships, the shore, and the fingers disappeared. The fragments of everyday life on the ground went out like lamps, dimming one by one. Not destroyed, but laid down. She no longer needed others' memories to prove her existence.

Qin Yuan turned and left. She didn't follow. He didn't need her to. She would find her own path. Maybe soon, maybe a long time. Maybe tomorrow, maybe ten thousand years. But the path was there. As long as she took the first step, even if it was slow, she was still moving forward.

Back at the back mountain of Xuan Yuan Sect, it was almost dark. Lin Qing'er sat on a blue stone, a book open on her lap. No lamp was lit; she read by the last rays of daylight. The pages were yellowed, the words black, and her fingers moved slowly between the lines. Qin Yuan walked over and sat beside her. She moved closer to him, leaning on his shoulder. The book closed, the light dimmed, but their silhouettes were still clearly visible.

There are more green spots on the old plum tree than yesterday. Some have already opened up, becoming two tender leaves with clear veins and fine serrations along the edges. In a few more days, the branches will be covered with leaves. In another month, flower buds will emerge. And after a while, the flowers will bloom. White, pink—I wonder what color they will be this year.

Qin Yuan closed his eyes. Lin Qing'er closed her eyes too. The stream flowed on, its sound unchanged. The old plum tree grew, so slowly as to be invisible. The sky grew dark, but darkness would eventually give way to light. They didn't need to see, hear, or remember. They only needed to be here. Together. That was enough.