Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

The Forgetters might have stayed a scattered, gentle, grassroots thing — broken people sharing the peace they’d found — if someone had not seen, in all that diffuse despair, an army.

Someone did. And of course it was the Empire.

The Empire of a Thousand Verses was dying. Its entire thousand-year power had rested on controlling memory — deciding which names lived and which were wiped — and our movement had taken that power and handed it to every ordinary person on earth. An empire that ruled by erasure cannot survive in a world learning to remember on its own. So the Empire was collapsing, its hardliners displaced and desperate and furious — and they looked out at the rising Forgetters, all that leaderless grief, and they saw the one thing that might save them: a cause, a movement, a war they could lead.

Their leader was a man called Grand Archivist Lu. In every way, he was the person Xue Ningzhi used to be — before a fishing village and an empty chair cracked her open. He was a true believer. He genuinely thought forgetting was mercy and order and peace, thought a world that remembered everything was a world drowning in its own pain, thought the Empire’s thousand years of erasing had been a sacred and necessary kindness. Where Xue Ningzhi had let that certainty break, Grand Archivist Lu had let it harden — into something cold and absolute and, in its own terrible way, sincere.

He took the scattered Forgetters and he forged them. Gave the grieving a banner, a purpose, a doctrine. He organized the gentle gospel of oblivion into a disciplined movement with the dying Empire’s whole machinery behind it — and he allied it, openly, with the Editor. The two of them now hand in hand: the cosmic dark that wanted the blank page, and the human empire that had spent a thousand years helping it get there. The Forgetters stopped being a scattered mercy and became a force, sweeping across the world a step behind our Rememberers, offering oblivion not gently now but zealously. A crusade of forgetting against our crusade of memory.

And it was Xue Ningzhi who had to face him.

We caught up to the heart of the Forgetters in a great trading city where the two movements had brought half the population to each side, the whole city trembling on the edge of a choice. And there, in the central square, the converted chessmaster came face to face with the Grand Archivist — the woman who had broken, and the man who had hardened, the two possible ends of the same thousand-year faith.

”Ningzhi,” Grand Archivist Lu said, and there was real sorrow in it, real betrayal. ”You served the Empire for a thousand years. You understood — better than anyone alive — that forgetting is the only mercy in a world this full of pain. And now you carry water for a clerk who wants to force the whole world to hurt forever, in the name of remembering.” He shook his head slowly. ”What happened to you?”

”A fishing village,” Xue Ningzhi said quietly. ”An empty chair. A grief that had outlived its own memory and ached anyway, because the erasing was never even clean, Lu. That’s what happened to me. I learned that we never spared anyone the pain. We just made them suffer it in the dark, with no name to hold.” She stepped toward him, and I had never seen her so unguarded. ”You think you offer mercy. I believed that too, for a thousand years. But mercy isn’t taking away someone’s pain by taking away their love. That’s not kindness, Lu. That’s just death, done gently. I gave my whole life to it before I understood. I’m not carrying water for a clerk. I’m trying to undo a thousand years of the kindest cruelty there ever was — the one we committed together.”

”And I am trying to save a suffering world from a tyranny of remembering,” Grand Archivist Lu said, cold and certain and unmoved. ”You call forgetting death. I call remembering a wound that never heals. We will never agree, Ningzhi. So let the world decide between us.” He swept a hand at the trembling, divided city. ”Let them choose. Your labor, or my rest. Your wound, or my peace. And we will see which a suffering world truly wants — because I promise you, old friend, when you offer broken people a choice between carrying their pain forever and setting it down at last—” his eyes were certain ”—they do not choose the weight. They never have. That is why the Empire ruled for a thousand years. Because forgetting is what people want.”

(A/N EXAMPLE: People waiting for certain files... then very, very suspici—cough—coincidentally, a war happened and suddenly most people forgot about them. Nothing suspicious here 😂)

The terrible thing, standing in that divided square, was that he might be right. The First Author had said it: forgetting is easier. It will always be easier. And here was a whole city — and a whole world behind it — being asked to choose the harder love over the gentler peace, with a frightened cosmic god and a dying ruthless empire both whispering that they could just let it all go.

I stepped forward then, beside Xue Ningzhi, because this was my fight too — the tired fraud against the Grand Archivist, the gospel of remembering against the gospel of oblivion.

”You’re right that forgetting is easier,” I told Lu, and told the whole watching square. ”I won’t lie to anyone about that. He’s offering you rest, and I’m offering you weight, and the weight is real, and it’s heavy, and it never fully goes away.” I looked out at the divided, frightened, grieving city. ”But I’ve sat with a man who lost his whole family, and I watched him choose to keep them — to keep the pain — because the pain was the last piece of the love he had left. And I’ll tell you what he told me.” My voice rose, carried on a Storied legend’s light, a whole continent’s love behind it. ”They were real. They were mine. I’d rather break every morning than wake up having never had them at all.” I swept my own hand at the trembling city. ”So yes. Choose. Freely. Awake. No one will force you — not us, not him, not the dark. But choose knowing the whole truth: forgetting doesn’t end your pain. It ends the love that the pain is made of. It doesn’t heal the wound. It erases the person you got the wound for. The Grand Archivist offers you peace. But it’s the peace of having never loved anyone at all.” I let it land. ”We’re not the easier choice. We never will be. We’re just the true one. And I believe — I have to believe — that when you ask a whole world to choose between an easy lie and a hard truth, enough of them, enough to matter, will be brave enough to choose the truth. Because love is worth its weight. It always has been.”

The square went silent. Half leaning toward Lu’s rest. Half toward our weight. The whole world, in one trembling city, hanging in the balance.

And Grand Archivist Lu smiled — cold and certain.

”Pretty words,” he said. ”Let us count, then, demon-slayer, when the whole world has chosen, how many were brave, and how many were merely tired.” He turned, his Forgetters falling in behind him, the dying Empire at his back and the cosmic dark at his side. ”I will see you at the end of the world, when every heart has decided. And I do not think you will like the count.”

He left. The divided city stayed divided, and the war for the world’s heart went on — every soul on earth a battlefield, the easy peace and the hard love each spreading hand to hand toward a final reckoning that would not be a battle at all. Just a choice.

”He’s wrong,” I said, watching him go, with more hope than certainty. ”He has to be wrong.”

”Perhaps,” said the First Author quietly. ”But he is not foolish. He knows people, Lin Bo, the way I used to. The easy mercy has the stronger pull.” She looked at me. ”If we are to win a free choice of every heart on earth, then we cannot only offer remembering. We have to make the whole world believe — down to its bones — that the weight is worth carrying. And that is the hardest thing anyone has ever tried to make the world believe.”

”Then it’s a good thing,” I said, and managed something like a smile, ”that making the world believe a true thing is the only skill I’ve got.”

I looked up at the sky — at the hundred thousand flames still burning across the dark, at the small ember of Su Yue still faintly lit, at the billions of dark souls across the world still waiting to choose.

”Come on,” I said to my family. ”We’ve got a whole world to convince that love is worth the weight of it. Every heart. One at a time. All the way to the end of the world.”

And we set out to ask the hardest question there is, of every soul alive.

The war for the world’s heart had begun.

And not even a thousand-year-old god knew how it would end.