107: Chapter 107 The name is burned, but the person still has to live.

The moment the Iron Page Puppet landed, the hairs on the back of Chen Fan's neck stood on end.

The body, stitched together from a hundred human skins, weighed down the floor, making it groan like tearing silk. Every eye on every face turned toward him simultaneously—one of those faces made his blood freeze: his fifteen-year-old self was staring at him, the corners of his forehead still stained with cement debris from a construction site fall. The agonizing pain of the data stream piercing the youth's chest actually stabbed straight into his own heart along with the puppet's gaze.

"This is... Memory Cortex." Chen Fan's throat tightened.

The system vibrated urgently in his mind, like a frantic alarm. "They used the memories of those who were erased to make this thing... and I am a Purifier candidate..." He thought of the registry in the hidden compartment, his nails digging deep into his palms.

The Critical Hit Rate Panel pulsed on his retina; the 5% red figure made his eyes ache—to fight head-on now would be no different from seeking death.

"Hurry, leave! They're going to burn the tower!"

Silent Eye's voice was like a sharp blade slicing through the stagnant air.

The Blind Proofreader had rushed in at some unknown moment, her pale fingers tightly gripping his wrist. The Ear-bone piece she pressed into his palm still carried her body heat. "The seventh floor... there's a heartbeat." Her Fox-fur earrings shimmered in the shadows. Only then did Chen Fan notice that the hem of her plain white dress was soaked with blood—she had likely been injured while leading away the pursuers.

"You..."

"Stop talking!" Silent Eye suddenly gave him a shove and turned to charge at the Iron Page Puppet.

Her Blind Cane struck the ground heavily, and the sheep-bone bookshelves collapsed at the sound, bone fragments pelting the puppet like a rainstorm. "Go to the Incineration Room!

Use Identity Ash to mask your Soul Brand!" Her voice was drowned out by the puppet's roar. Chen Fan saw a pale pink fox tattoo emerge on her neck—a sign of bloodline awakening.

As the rusty smell of the ventilation duct filled his nostrils, Chen Fan's heart beat so fast it felt like it would burst from his throat.

He crawled along the narrow metal walls, the crying in the Ear-bone piece sounding now distant, now close, like countless fine threads tugging at his nerves.

The sign for the sixth floor, the "Incineration Room," cast a dark red glow below. He pried open the vent cover and saw the Ash-Tongue Monk kneeling on a Prayer mat.

The old monk's cassock was stained with charred paper ash. With every name he chanted, a tuft of eerie green flame rose from the Bronze brazier—the last traces of those who had been erased.

"Amitabha, Late Lin."

The Ash-Tongue Monk's voice sounded like sandpaper rubbing together. Chen Fan's footsteps faltered.

Late Lin... Little Candle's mother's name.

He saw half a Contract paper lying on the Offering table, its edges still bearing a child's teeth marks—a relic Little Candle had secretly hidden away.

From the pile of paper ash by the brazier, he grabbed a handful of blood-stained cinders. The coarse grains rubbed against his palm with a familiar burning sensation—this was the "Identity Ash" of those erased by the system, capable of temporarily confusing a Soul Brand.

As he smeared the ash onto his face, the Ash-Tongue Monk suddenly looked up.

The old monk's cloudy eyes swept over him, then slowly lowered again. "Benefactor, you carry the scent of incineration." Chen Fan's Adam's apple bobbed. He lowered his head, pretending to be touched by the words, and took the opportunity to kick a piece of broken bone into the Bronze brazier. With a soft "pop," the Ash-Tongue Monk's chanting broke for a split second—enough for him to slip into the seventh floor.

The temperature on the seventh floor was ten degrees higher than below.

The moment Chen Fan pushed open the door, the light of the eerie blue flames stung his eyes.

The Memory Furnace crouched in the center like a giant beast, devouring bundles of files. The pages whimpered as they burned, sounding exactly like the crying in the Ear-bone piece.

The Ink Judge stood by the furnace with his back to him. The gold threads on his black official robes glinted coldly in the firelight. The scroll in his hand was exuding black mist—it was the shadow pact that Chen Fan had tricked earlier.

"Oblivion is mercy, yet you wish to awaken pain?" The Ink Judge did not turn around, his voice sounding as if it were submerged in ice. "Purifier, you should know better than anyone the price of remembering."

Chen Fan's nails dug into his palms.

He saw a piece of parchment on the iron rack by the furnace—it was the original manuscript of the coordinate map mentioned by the Broken Pen Official, its edges still stained with dark red blood.

He feigned a couple of stumbles and pulled a forged list from his robe. "Chief, should this person... be burned?"

The Ink Judge finally turned his face.

Cracks from his Brain-box had already spread across half his face, revealing the tangled black tentacles within. "Burn it."

The moment the flames flared up, Chen Fan's wrist flicked violently.

The list did not fall into the furnace; instead, it was thrown with precision toward the Iron Page Puppet.

The high heat ignited a patch of skin on the puppet—it was a female player with a ponytail. Chen Fan had seen her file: she had been erased after reporting a system bug.

"I... don't want to forget..."

The puppet's roar shook the ceiling, sending dust falling.

A hundred human skins contorted at once, some clawing at their own faces, others gouging out their eyes. The memory backlash was like boiling water poured into an ant nest, and the entire puppet began to smash frantically against the walls.

Chen Fan seized the opportunity to rush toward the iron rack. Just as his fingertips touched the coordinate map, the crisp sound of paper tearing came from behind.

"You burned her name, but I remember she's called Late Lin!"

Little Candle rushed out from the shadows.

The child's small face was flushed red by the firelight. Holding half a Contract paper, she tore it forcefully toward the ground.

The shadow pact trembled in mid-air. Black mist wrapped around her wrist and then let go, unable to form an erasure beam.

Chen Fan saw pale green patterns on the inside of her wrist, like some ancient rune—it was the "Anti-Contract" her mother, the First-generation proofreader Late Lin, had carved into her bones before dying.

"Little Candle!" he shouted, stuffing the coordinate map into his robes.

The Ink Judge's roar exploded: "Full Tower Silence Program, activate!"

The entire tower began to vibrate.

White smoke rose from the skins of the Living files. The Iron Page Puppet's roar turned into a shriek. A crisp sound came from Silent Eye's direction—she stood in the center of the flames, her hands stroking the bone bookshelves, fox tattoos covering her entire face. "I am Quiet Speech... I have returned."

Chen Fan's pupils constricted sharply.

Quiet Speech was the name of the First-generation proofreader. Silent Eye... it turned out she had inherited her predecessor's memories.

She turned and threw herself against the Memory Furnace. At the moment the lingering thoughts erupted, the entire row of archives exploded violently.

Countless names rose from the flames, weaving into a golden net in the air: "We existed!"

"Go!" Chen Fan scooped up Little Candle and rushed into the Secret door.

The system hummed in his mind, the vibration this time carrying a strange warmth: [You... have been remembered].

He looked back. The entire Archive Tower was collapsing, charred bits of paper fluttering down. One piece drifted to his feet—on it, three characters were scrawled: Chen Fan.

"Brother, what is that?" Little Candle pointed ahead.

Chen Fan looked where she was pointing.

At the end of the passage, a crystal barrier shimmered in the gloom, its surface covered in countless tiny water droplets—it was the tears of millions of erased people, the "Wailing Wall" that had condensed over a century.

He sniffed his aching nose and hoisted Little Candle onto his back.

The system's notification sounded again. This time, on the Critical Hit Rate Panel, the 5% figure was pulsing slowly.

"We are going behind the Wailing Wall," he said.