"What are you afraid of? My ancestor once cleaved the sky."
My great-grandfather really did. One sword stroke split the sky screen in two.
Unfortunately, the sword broke, and he died too. All I inherited was a fragment of that broken sword, the title of "convict," and a memory someone had sealed away.
When I was seven, my parents died right in front of me. I survived, but I forgot that night.
The doctor said it was the shock. I believed him for ten years.
Until I found that broken sword tucked away in the rafters. My father's words were carved into its hilt.
Some people say mortals are just mortals, so I should accept my fate.
I refuse.
In this life, I seek neither immortality nor an immortal destiny. I want only one thing:
To remember that night.
