Chapter Three: The Weight of Memory
"Some memories are like fruit left out too long—rotten, bitter, and still somehow hard to throw away."— Shen Wei
The day started with Zhao Gu snoring something that sounded suspiciously like a nursery rhyme about dragons and pickled eggs. I tried kicking his leg.
"Mmph… tell the turtle I'll pay him tomorrow…" he muttered.
It's comforting, in a tragic way, how prison routine dulls even the strangest truths. I had already walked a step into a path no one could see, shed ambition, stared down fear—and yet, here I was, sleeping on a rock slab next to a man who once claimed his mustache was sentient.
The path wasn't glamorous.
But it was mine.
Today, though, something felt heavier. Not on my back. In my chest. That slow pull—like a memory trying to rise from muddy water.
I knew what it meant.
The third weight: memory.
Of course, he would show up now.
Just as I stood to stretch, a guard appeared outside the bars. Not just any guard.
Guard Lin.
Taller than most. Eyes like cold iron. Wore his hair in a tight topknot that screamed "I failed at poetry, so now I punish people." He never smiled, unless he was hurting someone.
"You. Shen Wei," he barked. "You've got visitor rights today."
Zhao Gu's head popped up like a prairie dog. "He has what?! Since when do we have rights?"
"Since today," Guard Lin replied dryly. "Turns out someone remembered he existed."
That made one of us.
I was escorted through narrow corridors to a chamber lit by a single lantern. At the center sat a man dressed in clean—but simple—robes. Not a noble. Not a cultivator.
But I knew that voice.
"You're still alive, Wei," he said.
My throat tightened. I hadn't heard that voice in six years.
My brother. Shen Lang.Older than me by ten years. Once considered a genius. Left our village with pride. Returned with… nothing. Then blamed me for the disgrace.
I hadn't seen him since the day he threw me into the river.
I sat down, not because I wanted to, but because my legs decided to betray me.
"What do you want?" I asked.
He gave me that smile—half amused, half disappointed. He was always good at making praise sound like an insult.
"Just curious," he said. "Word travels, you know. They say you're… meditating. Found some 'new path' in a wall."
"They say that?" I raised an eyebrow.
He chuckled. "They say you're cracked. That you mutter to yourself. That you refused the guard's cultivation pills last week."
"They give those to rats now?" I shrugged. "How generous."
Lang leaned forward. "What are you really doing here?"
A pause.
Then I said it.
"I'm cultivating nothing."
His expression didn't change for a second. Then, finally—he laughed. Loud, full, ugly.
"You haven't changed a bit. Always chasing meaning in dust."
I could feel it. The weight pressing on my lungs. Not fear. Not ambition.
Memory.
Of him pulling me up the mountain trails. Of him yelling when I couldn't keep up. Of the day our parents died, and he blamed me for not "sensing" it coming.
Of his face when he left.
"I didn't ask for your belief," I said. "And I don't need it now."
He looked at me longer than I was comfortable with.
"You're still just a kid pretending to be wise. Let go of what? You couldn't even let go of me."
That one hurt.
Because it wasn't a lie.
After he left, I kept imagining him returning with a sword and a smile. Saving me. Apologizing.
He never did.
And I never stopped hoping.
I took a breath.
"You're right," I said. "I couldn't let go. But I think… maybe I can now."
He stood, folding his arms. "Let me know how that works out for you."
"I will. At your funeral."
He froze. Looked back, unsure if I was joking.
I wasn't.
He left.
And I stayed.
For a moment, it was silent again.
Then I laughed.
It started small, then grew—like something finally cracking.
I'd thought cultivation would be all silent meditation and deep breaths.
Turns out it's mostly confronting your family trauma in a dimly lit interrogation room while wearing prison linen.
Zhao Gu welcomed me back with his usual charm.
"Did you confess to the murders we didn't commit?"
"No," I said. "But I might've broken up with my brother."
"Romantic," he said, chewing something that definitely wasn't food. "So… you shed another weight?"
"I think so," I said.
"You think so?"
"Well, I didn't cry. That's a start."
He threw a ratty sock at me. I dodged.
But deep down, I knew something had shifted.
The memory no longer pulled at me like an anchor. It was still there—but now, it floated.
And I was lighter.
Three down.
Four to go.
And something told me… the next weight wouldn't wait long.