I, watchman Chen Yan, keep vigil for the entire civilization every night.
The world is sick - the words on the account books will crawl away on their own, the ancestral teachings in the ancestral hall will be distorted overnight, and even the names of children will be stolen by "they". But I, a clapper knocker from Chang'an West City, can see the ashes left behind by the words.
Before my adoptive father died, he used the blood he coughed up to write the word "Shou Mo" on my palm. At that moment, I heard the sound of the chains breaking - the terror and power imprisoned in the deepest part of Chinese writing were waking up along my bloodline.
There is a price to pay for using words, they say:
Write the word "fire" and you may forget a warm memory;
Writing the word "cut" may cost you ten years of life.
But tonight, when the "ultimate forgetfulness" that swallows up the history of the dynasty comes, I will spread thousands of miles of rivers and mountains as paper, use the rise and fall of the dynasty as ink, and use the hearts of hundreds of millions of people as inkstone.
I'm going to write a word that they can never swallow -
Not "kill", not "suppress".
But... "People".
