I Scraped the Inscription Off the Stele, and My Father Bit Through His Finger

On the execution platform at Yanshan Ferry, the executioner scraped the name Ji Heng off the stone tablet with a scraper. Three strokes, as the law required. The onlookers did not dare make a sound. After the third stroke, Ji Heng suddenly bit his finger and began writing in the sand. At the foot of the Ninth Domain's warning stele, the lanky man took out a nail-tipped pen and thrust it into his mouth. Blood washed away the unfinished character for "bottom."

Ji Wujie stood at the very edge of the crowd, his nails digging into his palm. His father had moved his lips just before he died. Two words, mouthed silently: Don't forget. When the constables collected the body, a damp piece of paper slipped from his sleeve and was kicked aside. Ji Wujie pretended to rub his forehead as he rolled the paper into his palm and tucked it beneath his shoe. The instant he stepped down, he felt that faint chill. In his heart, he murmured, Dad, I'll keep it safe for you for now.

The lanky man flipped through the register and read aloud, "Ji Heng's son, Ji Wujie, age twenty." His voice was flat, as if he were reading from a bill of sale. Ji Wujie stood motionless, his eyes not even red, because his father had said one last thing the night before: Crying is useless. Once they've had their fill of watching, it's time to strike.