Prophecy and Anlu

Many years ago, in the western suburbs of the capital, the autumn rain was bleak, and I rescued a young man who was in trouble. Later, he became my sword. The silent sword. A useful sword. I handed over the documents, and he handed over life and death. I held out the paper and wrote a name on it. He handed it back to the wind, and there was one less name in the wind. My drawers are on two levels. On the upper level, there are folded documents with regular ink marks. On the lower level, his records are scrawled. It was night, I was looking through the documents, and the secretary wrote: August 13, the 22nd year of Anli, at You hour...