Everything was ready.
Qi Zhimu officially began the clinical trial.
While checking the integrity of his own memories and making digital backup copies, he discovered an unexpected fact.
“My memories…
are partially incomplete?” Moreover, from a digital perspective, the residual traces of deliberate sealing were still quite obvious.
Who had tampered with his memories?
Qi Zhimu paused for a moment, furrowing his brow in thought.
A Memokeeper of the Garden of Recollection?
Or a Cremator?
Finding few clues, Qi Zhimu didn’t dwell on it excessively.
He took the opportunity to attempt to recover that sealed portion of his memories.
The entire process went unexpectedly smoothly.
The moment he remembered everything, a shadow fell over Qi Zhimu’s face.
The next morning.
Qi Zhimu slowly opened his eyes.
A stabbing pain emanated from deep within his brain, dispelling his drowsiness as quickly as possible.
His gaze swept across his surroundings, sensing something strange.
What had happened yesterday…
He had gone to the back hill to tend to the soil, suddenly rain fell, Clarisse had come with an umbrella, and then…
Ms.
Durand’s treatment session had ended.
After leaving her medical instructions, he had conducted the clinical trial himself.
Yes, that was it.
But…
why did his subconscious feel that something was missing?
What were the experimental results?
And why did his head hurt?
When had he come to the window?
His gaze dropped.
Beside him were several wine jars filled with plum blossom wine.
The wine jars were now empty, scattered messily across the floor.
The familiar Chinese lute lay beside him — it had originally been hanging on the wall.
Qi Zhimu picked up the empty wine jars one by one and sniffed them.
…All were from the oldest vintages.
Drinking so much, he would have certainly been drunk a hundred times over.
This wasn’t right.
He was always disciplined.
Even if the clinical trial results had been unsatisfactory, he wouldn’t have drunk to drown his sorrows.
“Hm?” Qi Zhimu’s wrist moved.
Only then did he notice that his other hand was gripping a piece of paper.
The handwriting was extremely familiar.
His own.
“Clinical trial completed successfully.
Durand’s amnesia can be completely cured.” Qi Zhimu was certain — these were indeed his own words.
But why had he written them down?
Why did he have no memory of writing them?
And even more perplexing — why had he needed to remind himself in this way?
Staring at that line of text, Qi Zhimu noticed there was more content on the back.
He turned his wrist and took in every word without missing a single one.
“This is…” Still his handwriting, but the content seemed like…
unfinished lyrics?
He stared at the lyrics for a moment, then suddenly took up the Chinese lute, strummed a melody he had composed long ago, and began to hum softly.
Words and music merge seamlessly.
“As expected, I wrote this too…” Qi Zhimu tried to recall when this melody had been born, but another sharp pain struck his mind.
The specific date was quite blurred.
“A long time ago…
before I had completed my apprenticeship?” Qi Zhimu continued playing and singing, his body and mind gradually sinking into the lingering sorrow woven into the song.
Until he reached the incomplete part of the chorus — the words that slipped out without deliberation made the melody come to an abrupt halt.
“…” He was stunned.
Without having given it any careful thought, why had he been able to so naturally fill in the missing line?
Gazing at the final few lines of lyrics, Qi Zhimu understood.
Three lines were still missing.
He tried again.
The melody rose once more.
“Drunk beneath the heavens, standing guard — may I ask, my love, do you know?” The lyrics should have ended here.
Yet Qi Zhimu did not hesitate for a moment, completing the remaining flaw in one smooth breath.
“In this life, suddenly turning back — waiting through life and death — my love, will you stay with me?” “Though love runs deep, already known — in the end, love becomes hand in hand…” The song ended.
Qi Zhimu gazed at the instrument in his hands, silent, savoring the moment for a long time.
His teacher excelled in many instruments — the xiao, di, qin, se, zheng, ruan, pipa…
among which she held a special fondness for the ruan.
Through constant exposure to her playing, combined with diligent practice in his spare time outside of research, Qi Zhimu had reached a level where he could perform duets with his teacher without holding her back.
Over so many years, whether playing the works of past masters or his own compositions, everything had been in styles his teacher loved.
But this song he had just played and sung…
It was filled with a melancholy regret, and moreover, was inseparable from the theme of love.
“The last three lines I just filled in — they clearly differ greatly from the original meaning of the preceding verses, slightly departing from) the central theme, yet…” “…strangely fitting?” How had he…
how had he unknowingly created such a song?
This was not a style Ruan Mei would like.
The relentless intrusion of peculiar sensations left Qi Zhimu increasingly bewildered.
Why had his memories been forgotten?
Knowing he would forget, why had he left reminders for himself?
Or perhaps…
someone from certain Path factions had targeted him?
Qi Zhimu hung the Chinese lute back up and walked to the treatment room, searching for any possible clues.
Unexpectedly, on the central console of the memory disorder treatment equipment (equipment) — in black and white — “A warning to myself: do not seek the forgotten memories.
On the day my lifespan ends, all memories will return as promised.” Qi Zhimu tore the paper down and checked the remaining facilities.
There were no abnormalities.
He pulled up the clinical trial records from last night to review them.
Everything was normal, consistent with the conclusions in his mind.
As of now, he possessed the ability to cure Durand’s amnesia, with a ninety percent success rate.
The remaining ten percent was reserved for risks not yet overcome.
Before the day he had promised Clarisse arrived, he would certainly eliminate that ten percent risk.
At that thought, Qi Zhimu chose to listen to the advice of his former self from yesterday — to no longer investigate his temporarily forgotten memories.
He only needed to wait.
“Cough, cough…” Waves of weakness swept through every part of his body.
Qi Zhimu’s appearance rapidly aged.
His full head of black hair turned grayish-white.
With a heavy cough, he coughed up a trace of blood.
For an elderly short-life species, the body’s organs simultaneously fail and age.
The closer one drew to the day of death, the weaker the body’s functions became.
“It seems…
I need to take the medicine twice daily now to maintain (maintain) this state.” Dragging his weakened body to the secure safe, he took out two pills and swallowed them.
“By the last thirty days of my life…
taking four pills daily will probably increase to six pills daily…” Qi Zhimu sighed inwardly, hesitated for a moment, and this time did not put the medicine back in the safe.
He had finally reached the stage where he needed to carry the medicine with him at all times to prevent emergencies.
Yu Qingtu could come and go as she pleased whenever she wanted to see him.
If she learned the truth about his condition, even if she didn’t do anything herself, she would likely notify Ruan Mei.
Qi Zhimu did not want his corpse after death to become one more source of fuel, propelling his teacher further into the abyss.
He could not stop his teacher.
But at the very least…
he could choose not to push her further in that direction.
As the drug(took effect), he returned once more to his youthful appearance.
Days passed one by one.
Qi Zhimu’s rhythm of life continued as usual.
Clarisse’s frequency of visits increased somewhat.
He saw her every few days.
The more significant change was that sometimes when he played the Chinese lute, he would unconsciously switch to the melody of that song, and would unconsciously begin singing it aloud.
Three days remained until Durand’s follow-up visit.
The sky had barely begun to lighten when Qi Zhimu woke from a light sleep.
He picked up Xiao Ju, who had been sleeping soundly on his chest, and gently placed her into the warm blankets.
He got out of bed, washed up simply, took the medicine that maintained his youthful appearance, and cast a glance toward the window.
Snowflakes had arrived silently in the night, painting all living things with silver makeup.
“A few days earlier than previous years.”