Massacre: Every One of My Deaths Bears Witness

I’m a little reporter in Jinling City named Li Mubai, and my life is miserable. Nobody reads my articles, no publisher will sign my novels, and I’m barely scraping by. It’s like the run-down alleyways in the rainy season: damp, stifling, and seemingly endless.

Then I found my grandfather’s dusty bronze mirror in the old house.

The moment I touched it, everything went black. When I opened my eyes again, it was December 1937 in Jinling City, and the gates of hell had opened.

The mirror was like a merciless roulette wheel. Every time I transmigrated, it threw me into a deadly situation and forced a heart-rending memory into my mind:

This time, I was a corpse carrier. The cold body beneath my feet belonged to no one else but the little girl next door, who had still been laughing and calling me “sir” yesterday…

This time, I was a father, using the last of my strength to stuff my crying baby into a woodpile while Japanese soldiers’ boots thudded outside the door…

This time, I even became a child, hiding in my mother’s growing-cold embrace as the glint of a bayonet drew closer and closer…

Every transmigration was a slow execution. Every death was only a temporary end to the pain. I returned to the modern world carrying the memories and screams of countless people, as if that lingering stench of blood and charred flesh still clung to me.

I used to write just to make a living.

Now, whenever I pick up my pen, I feel countless vengeful spirits watching me from behind.

I used to fear being poor and looked down on.

Now, I only fear that I won’t write truthfully enough, harshly enough, and that I’ll fail those versions of “me” who died before my eyes again and again!

This mirror isn’t a blessing. It’s a curse, and a blood-soaked testament.

I don’t want to be a hero. I just want to speak for those who can never speak again,

and ask:

“Do you dare remember?!”