The Flower of Forgetfulness in Lotus Tower

Ten years of life and death are so vast that I cannot forget them without thinking about them. Thousands of miles of lonely tomb, no place to speak of desolation. The wind from the East China Sea has not stopped for three years. Fang Duobing stood on the cliff, his clothes rustling in the sea breeze, and the oily paper bag containing sugar in his hand had long been soaked by moisture. The sweet breath mixed with the salty sea breeze turned into a wisp of bitterness between his lips and teeth. Three years ago, he waited here for seven days and seven nights. Waiting for the ebb and flow of the tide, waiting for the moon to wax and wane, waiting for the initial anxiety to turn into a bone-chilling cold, and waiting for the spies from Tianji Hall to report back thirty-seven times with no results. This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.