"I will not drink," I spit, pushing the steaming bowl back so hard the tray clattered. A clerk glared. "You refuse Meng Po?" "I do," I said. My voice did not tremble. "You know the law," another clerk said, softer. "No one bargains with oblivion." "Then write me a new fate," I said. "Send me to the blanks if you must. I will not drink." They stared like I had slapped the Riverbank itself. One of them—bald head, ink-stained fingers—snorted. "Anomalous cases cause paperwork," he said. "We need signatures. We need reports." A woman in thin robes stepped forward. Meng Po, the ladle at her hip, checked her list with the same lack of interest an auditor had for overdue accounts. "Drink," she said. "The soup erases the ledger. Your past will not wander where it does not belong." "I remember already," I answered. "I refuse to forget." Silence snapped. The priests who usually watched this ritual took two steps closer. The benches along the riverbank filled with whisper. A dove might have flown—no one noticed. I did not notice. I watched their faces like a judge watching witnesses. "Reason," the bald clerk demanded. "Why keep a memory that will cause disorder? The Emperor..." "He will sign," the woman beside him said, a note of smug approval in it. "The Emperor signs. If the Emperor says forget, you forget. We all obey." "Then let him sign my sentence," I said. My hands were clean because death