In the year 20045 of the Dao calendar, the 12th year of the Great Wild’s New Calendar, and the 4th autumn of Shenzhu, famine gripped the land, bringing desolation.

Amidst the mournful shamanic winds, the Shenzhu army, intent on unifying the wilderness, and the powerful Wujiu Alliance engaged in nearly a thousand desperate battles along the border of the Great Shamanic Wind Mountain’s core territory, staining the earth with blood.

The sound of copper bells, though fading, never ceased. Like threads, it entwined among the mountains and rivers of Jiuzhou, traversed villages and cities, quietly seeping into every inch of land and every crack in people’s hearts. In the Simu Forest outside Jinyu City, the copper bell beneath the ancient tree no longer rang alone; its sound intertwined with countless distant bells, as if an invisible hand in heaven and earth was plucking an ancient, unheard melody with memories as its strings.

The young man still knelt before the Guanyi Altar, the notebook in his arms slightly open from the morning breeze, its damp pages bearing blurred yet stubbornly persistent handwriting. He gazed down at the last page, at the unfinished sentence: “Mom, I don’t blame him anymore.” Now, he finally picked up the pen and wrote it, his fingers trembling, the ink bleeding, like a tear long overdue finally falling after ten years.

The moment the pen lifted from the paper, ripples suddenly appeared on the surface of the Jihu Lake. Waves spread from the center, yet they converged inward rather than outward, as if something was slowly rising from the lakebed. The young man held his breath, watching as the reflection in the water began to distort. What had originally reflected the sky and the ancient tree now showed a low, earthen hut on the lake’s surface, a faint fire in the stove, and a woman sitting by the bed, sewing, her temples graying, her eyes gentle.

It was his mother from five years ago.

She looked up, gazing beyond the lake’s surface, as if she could see the young man on the shore. “You’ve grown up,” she said, her voice as soft as wind brushing grass tips. “I know you hated, and you hid it for a long time. But now that you’ve said it, I’ve come back.”

“Mom…” the young man choked, reaching out to touch the lake, then withdrawing his hand. “Can I really… not hate anymore?”

“Yes,” her image smiled faintly. “Because remembering isn’t about carrying a burden; it’s about moving forward. If you keep carrying me, you won’t go far. Letting go of resentment isn’t forgetting me; it’s letting me walk further with you.”

As her words faded, the lake returned to calm, leaving only faint ripples. But the young man’s heart was no longer heavy. He slowly stood up, gently placed the notebook under the copper bell, and took out a faded cloth button from his pocket—the one his mother had sewn onto his collar the night before she died. He tied it to the bell rope, and it swayed gently in the wind, emitting a delicate jingle.

“I will tell your story,” he said. “Not just for you to hear, but for all those who are afraid to speak.”

Meanwhile, deep within the underground palace of a solitary island in the East Sea, fragments of a bronze mirror floated in mid-air, reflecting thousands of scenes: a mother pacing all night holding her feverish child, carefully picking through stale rice at the market to save a few coins, kneeling before the ancestral shrine pleading with the elders to spare her husband… Each image was suffocatingly real. The man in black robes collapsed to the ground, weeping no longer with suppressed sobs but with heart-wrenchwrenching wails, as if expelling all the fragmented pieces of his soul accumulated over ten years.

A girl in a plain white dress stood quietly behind him, her bare feet touching rocks that now sprouted tiny moss and tender green shoots, which wound their way into the cracks of the mirror wall. She whispered, “Everyone has a wall in their heart. You think it’s for blocking pain, but actually, it blocks love. Now, the wall has cracked, and light has come in.”

The man looked up, his face streaked with tears, but his eyes held a long-lost clarity. “I want to go home,” he murmured. “Even if only ruins remain there, I want to go back and see it.”

The girl nodded: “Then go. True return to the source isn’t in the mirror, but beneath your feet.”

Before her words finished, the entire underground palace trembled violently. The cracks on the mirror wall rapidly spread, golden light pulsed like veins, and then it collapsed with a crash! Amidst the flying rubble, a massive stone stele was revealed, inscribed with ancient writings:

“Where memory resides, the soul finds its anchor; where remembrance endures, people can ultimately return.”

At the bottom of the stele, there was another line of small characters, the handwriting childish, as if written by a child:

“Mom, I remember the song you told me.”

The man froze, suddenly remembering it was a nursery rhyme his mother had taught him when he was seven. He had thought he had long forgotten it, but now, the melody automatically played in his mind, clear as a spring.

He stumbled to his feet, picking up a shard of the broken mirror, only to find that the surface was no longer dim, but reflected his own face—no longer cold and grim, but that of a gentle young man with light in his eyes and a smile on his lips. It was the person he was meant to be.

“Ayan,” the girl suddenly called out.

He shuddered. “How do you know that name?”

“Because you are the first person to fully walk through the ‘False Self Mirror Wall’ without going mad,” she said. “You didn’t escape memory, nor did you drown in it. You chose to face it and forgive. So, the Mirror Wall acknowledged you.”

She raised her hand, pointing to the cave entrance: “Go. The outside world needs such memories.”

At the same moment, in an ice cave in the far north, the old woman closed her picture book. Her withered hand caressed the cover, and the once-cold parchment emanated a faint warmth. Outside the window, the aurora had not dissipated; instead, it grew brighter, like a river of stars pouring down upon the white snow. She slowly rose, leaning on her staff, and walked deeper into the cave wall, pushing open a seemingly ordinary ice brick. Behind it was hidden a sandalwood box.

Inside the box was a scroll.

With trembling hands, she unrolled it. The painting showed two young girls sitting side by side under a peach tree, one with a red hair tie, the other with a blue cloth headscarf, their smiles radiant. The inscription read:

“Sister, you said you’d take me to see the sea when the peach blossoms bloom. This year, the flowers have bloomed, and I have come.”

Tears streamed down the old woman’s face, splattering onto the painting and blurring a patch of ink. “Xiao Man…” she whispered, “I’ve been looking for you for sixty years. It turns out you’ve always been in the place I remember.”

She pressed the scroll to her chest, closed her eyes for a long time, and when she opened them again, her gaze was as firm as iron. She took out a copper bell she carried with her, of the same origin and make as the one in Jinyu City, and gently shook it.

The sound of the bell pierced the wind and snow, reaching the sky.

Almost at the same instant, inside the Xintang Hall of Huanhu Academy, the bamboo slips of “Zhenshi Jiuzhang” vibrated again. New characters appearing in the ninth chapter began to extend, ink writing itself:

Memory is not still water, but a spark.
Fire does not arise from wind, but from friction; memory does not begin with hearing, but with telling.
One person speaks, their voice is faint; ten thousand people speak, their momentum becomes a prairie fire.
Thus, those who forbid memory fear the bell, for the bell’s sound opens the heart; those who control history fear the lamp, for the lamp’s light exposes falsehood.
Yet fire can burn forests, but also warm winter; memory can corrode bones, but also bring rebirth.
Only those who wield fire must know moderation; those who guard memory must harbor compassion.

Lu Chen stood in the courtyard, the tattered slips in his hand subtly warm. He read these never-before-recorded words, silent for a long time. A moment later, he turned and walked into a secret room, lighting a special incense stick—this incense was called “Yinsi” (Guide Thought), only to be used during times of major change. A wisp of green smoke curled upward, coalescing in the air into three figures: an old man leaning on a staff, a woman holding a brush and recording, and another young man with a sword on his back, eyes closed.

“Master… Senior Sister… Senior Brother…” Lu Chen knelt and kowtowed. “The array you left behind has finally awakened.”

The smoky figures were silent, yet seemed to respond. The incense suddenly flared, turning into a speck of starlight that fell into his palm. It was a crystalline grain of sand, warm to the touch, as if containing a heartbeat.

“So that’s it,” Lu Chen murmured. “‘Duanyi Huo’ (Memory Severing Fire) wasn’t meant to destroy memories; it was the fuse to awaken the seeds.”

He stood up, walked out of the secret room, and summoned all the key members of the Xinyi Division, issuing an unprecedented order: “Initiate the ‘Gongyi Huilang’ (Shared Memory Corridor) project. Open all closed Jihu Lakes, allowing people to freely tell their stories. Regardless of good or evil, shame or taboo, as long as it comes from the heart, it will not be judged.”

Someone asked in alarm: “What if someone uses this to incite hatred or falsify history?”

Lu Chen looked at the distant aurora, his voice calm yet undeniable: “Then let more memories counterbalance it. Truth is not in a single narrative, but where thousands of echoes converge. We are not afraid of lies; we are afraid of silence.”

The order was passed down, and Jihu Lakes across Jiuzhou began to open. In a northwestern post station, the character “Tao” on a charred wooden plaque, after being consumed by fire, suddenly transformed into a stream of light, flying deep into the desert to an abandoned military camp. There, a group of old soldiers sat around a bonfire, drinking and reminiscing. The stream of light fell into the fire, and the flames suddenly turned blue, reflecting a battlefield scene: banners fluttering, war drums shaking the heavens, a young general raising his spear high, roaring, “Better to die than surrender! Beneath the National Guardian Stele, all are my brothers!”

“That’s… General Tao!” an old soldier suddenly stood up, tears streaming down his face. “We haven’t forgotten! Three hundred thousand soldiers fought bloody battles for three days just to defend the border, but the court called it a rebellion and erased all records… But we all remember!”

Everyone echoed in agreement, pulling out their personal belongings: rusty swords, broken armor, family letters, relics… one by one, they threw them into the fire. The flames grew fiercer, forming an illusory stone stele in the air, covered with names, each faintly glowing.

In a southern fishing village, the Yiling bell inside the iron box continued to vibrate, and the hoarse singing grew clearer. The village elders gathered, humming along. Children asked curiously, and the elders began to tell the buried history: a century ago, foreign enemies invaded, and fishermen spontaneously formed a fleet to block the enemy at the sea mouth, sacrificing thousands of lives to secure peace inland. But after the war, the court, citing “private armed assembly,” forbade any mention of the event, even leveling the tombstones.

“But we remember,” the old fisherman gripped his grandson’s hand. “Today, I want you to remember this song, and also to remember that heroes may not have names, but someone will always remember them.”

The child nodded vigorously, turned and ran home, found an old fishing net left by his father, and embroidered a line of small characters on it: “My mother and I could not return, but I wish future generations to know of this battle.”

In the western desert, three days after the archaeologists left, the broken stele inscribed with “Now Known” suddenly burst forth with a strong light. Yellow sand churned, and an entire ancient city ruin emerged from underground—buildings, streets, and market outlines clearly defined, as if they had just undergone a sudden solidification. Even stranger, every time night fell, human voices, footsteps, hawkers’ cries, and children’s laughter echoed through the city, as if time had flowed backward.

Passing merchants stopped to listen, all deeply shaken. Some tried to record it, but found that words could not describe the feeling; some took photos, but the camera remained blank. Only those who listened attentively could vaguely see an old scholar standing at a street corner, holding bamboo slips, repeatedly saying one sentence:

“History is not on the stele, but in the eyes of those who read it.”

This saying gradually became a proverb among travelers, spreading far and wide.

And in that small village with continuous spring rain, the child, after climbing onto the roof and shouting out his dream, did not stop there. He returned to his house, found all his old textbooks, diaries, and photos, and drew a long “Memory Corridor” on the wall with crayons. Next to each drawing, he wrote an explanation: Grandpa’s enlistment days, Grandma’s escape experience, the truth behind the neighbor uncle’s disappearance…

The villagers initially didn’t understand, some even called him “crazy.” But when they accidentally saw their long-forgotten past events depicted in such detail, many silently wept and voluntarily came to share their stories with him. Soon after, the village built its first “Folk Memory Hall,” where children took turns on duty, collecting oral histories.

News spread, and surrounding villages followed suit. In less than half a year, thousands of similar “Memory Halls” appeared across Jiuzhou. They had no uniform regulations; some were in ancestral halls, some under trees, some just a table and chair by the roadside. But what they had in common was that anyone could come to tell their story, and anyone could sit down and listen.

Su Mian heard about this and stood on a high platform at the academy, removing the blindfold she had worn for twenty years. Though blind, she faced the wind, as if she could see countless lights illuminating across thousands of miles of mountains and rivers.

“Disciple,” she called to the young man beside her, “Do you know why ancient people hung copper bells at the village entrance?”

The disciple shook his head.

“Because the wind carries away words, but the sound of bells can preserve them,” she smiled. “Now, every breeze across Jiuzhou carries the sound of memories. This is not an end, but a beginning.”

She paused, then softly said:

“Next, it’s time for the darkest memories.”

As if to fulfill her words, a few days later, a “Well of Forgetting” buried deep underground was accidentally exposed. It was a forbidden area from the previous dynasty used to seal sensitive memories, its walls covered with talismans, suppressing centuries of forcibly erased injustices, massacres, and truths of coups. When the first ray of sunlight shone into the bottom of the well, the talismans cracked, and countless black mists rose, turning into mournful cries.

The frightened people tried to flee but were stopped by the arriving Xinyi Division personnel. “Don’t be afraid,” Mo Zhiwei personally arrived, holding a jade bell. “These are not evil spirits; they are souls imprisoned for too long. Let us listen to their voices.”

She was the first to walk into the mist, allowing those memories to flood her mind: innocents beheaded in public, women and children perishing in flames, loyal officials dying unjustly… Her face was pale, but she stood unmoving. Then, more Xunyi Envoys joined, forming a human chain around the well, chanting in unison:

“We have heard. We have remembered. You are not nothingness.”

With this declaration, the black mist gradually turned into a faint golden color, finally transforming into specks of light dust that drifted into the sky. One wisp flew to Huanhu Academy, settling at the end of the ninth chapter of “Zhenshi Jiuzhang,” adding the last sentence:

Thus it is said: Memory is not merely the past restored, but the future shaped.

That night, Jiuzhou was sleepless.

People gathered around bonfires, sat in courtyards, or alone by windows, opening dusty drawers, turning yellowed letters, touching old objects, and beginning to tell stories that were once considered “not to be mentioned.” Some were sad, some were shameful, some were even sinful. But each time they spoke, it was like striking a match, creating a patch of light in the darkness.

At dawn, all the Jihu Lakes simultaneously glowed golden. Beneath the surface, the roots of the “Yisheng Tree” (Memory-Life Tree) pulsed violently, as if connected to the earth’s meridians, drawing upon the memory power of all Jiuzhou. At the highest point of the tree’s canopy, the large characters subtly trembled, then divided into countless tiny branches, each hanging a name, a story, a vow.

The copper bells chimed in unison again.

This time, the sound no longer dispersed but converged into a torrent, piercing through the clouds and reaching the starlit river.

In the deep, distant universe, a meteor suddenly changed its trajectory, falling towards Jiuzhou. But it did not bring destruction; instead, it disintegrated high in the sky, turning into a shower of meteors. Where each meteor landed, a seedling sprouted—varied in form, yet all sharing the same origin as the “Yisheng Tree.”

Ten years later, these trees spread throughout cities and villages, becoming known as “Gongming Lin” (Resonance Forests). Whenever the moon was full, the copper bells in the forests would ring on their own, and people would know that someone’s memory had truly been heard.

Lu Chen spent his later years in seclusion in one of these Resonance Forests, listening to the wind chimes daily. Before his death, he left a will:

“There is no need to erect a stele for me. If anyone remembers what I said, that will be my immortality.”

Many years later, a girl entered the Yiguan Museum in Jinyu City and read the young man’s story in a yellowed notebook. She closed the book, walked outside, and gently shook the copper bell hanging from the eaves.

The bell’s clear sound carried far on the wind.

In the distant mountains and forests, another bell gently responded.

Those who believe are not alone; those who remember live forever.