Xin Heng is the master of Cangwu Peak, the leader of the righteous path, and a living god recognized by the three realms.
When he woke up in the Demon Palace, he had a magic pattern bracelet on his wrist and a bandage on his shoulder. The hand that changed his dressing was very steady, one circle, then another circle. Xin Heng closed his eyes and counted the beats, exactly like the kid from Mortal Street a hundred years ago.
The demon wears a black iron mask every night and never takes it off. He can hold the pot high and press it high, he can tap the cup twice, and he can turn the mouth of the cup inward. He would carry the oil-paper package of spicy braised beef back in his arms and say through his mask: "Yan Ci is dead. I saw it at the bottom of the abyss of demons."
Xin Heng looked at the red mark between his eyebrows and told himself: It's not him.
But he taught him to write, holding the calloused right hand from behind, and wrote the word "banquet" stroke by stroke. He said: "Don't tremble, my teacher is here."
Later Xin Heng fled back to Cangwu Peak.
The young man who returned kneeling at the foot of the stairs, dressed in white as snow, with a cocoon in the tiger's mouth, respectfully called him Master. It's a banquet speech, a banquet speech at the age of seventeen, and the memory remains intact in the admiration of a hundred years ago.
He doesn't remember the mask in the magic palace, he doesn't remember cupping the cup twice, he doesn't remember the word "banquet".
Holding the stoneware bowl, Xin Heng suddenly felt that that month was like a dream that only he could remember.
——He imprisoned him for a month, and he searched for him for ten years.
The last person to come back was the seventeen-year-old him.
[The third person of the text, the main subject, is under the year.
Intent: When memory becomes a one-way prison, only by facing the imperfections can we break the cycle of missed memories.