Chapter 891: Anchor Point

“What?”

“I’m really scared that my memories might disappear,” Bai Yang said. “I’ve never felt this way before. In the past, I just subtly conditioned myself day after day, but now… I’m afraid. There are things I can’t forget, people I *have* to remember…”

That familiar feeling crept in again—Bai Yang was saying things I had to carefully parse to understand.

“I don’t quite get it… Yang-ge,” I replied. “You’re already a ‘Terrestrial Zodiac’… Logically, there shouldn’t be any risk of ‘memory loss,’ right? Unless you keep ‘ascending’… or…”

*Turning to ashes*—I couldn’t bring myself to say it, but Bai Yang could surely guess.

“What if I become something beyond a ‘Zodiac’?” Bai Yang asked. “I’m genuinely scared… Yan Zhichun. I’m walking a path no one in this world has ever walked before. I don’t know what’s waiting for me ahead.”

“I… I understand…”

Lu Xun once said that there were no roads in the world to begin with, but when many people walk the same way, a road is made.

But if a pitch-black direction has only one person groping forward in the dark… can it still be called a road?

“So, how can memories truly be engraved in the heart?” Bai Yang asked again.

“Yang-ge… isn’t it a bit… to ask *me* this?”

“No, I think you can help me,” Bai Yang said. “Once, you unintentionally solved a major problem for me.”

“Me…?” I was confused. The only time Bai Yang had ever needed my help was to find a “face,” but even then, *I* wasn’t the one who found it.

“Yes.” Bai Yang lifted his white-furred hand and pointed to his temple. “It was about ‘knowledge storage.’”

I blinked. “But you should know far more than me now… and all of it came from your own reading—”

“You taught me a simpler way to remember—organizing knowledge by the names of effects and theorems. That way, I only need to recall a few words to retrieve an entire chain of knowledge.”

I felt Bai Yang was overestimating me. Even if he hadn’t known those terms, he could’ve figured out the concepts himself.

“So, do you have any other memory-storage methods?” Bai Yang asked. “Something like effects, laws, or theorems—ways to retain important memories through small triggers.”

“Well…” I thought carefully. I *had* consciously studied memory techniques.

But my motivation was entirely different from his. As a child, my poor memory led to bad grades, so I actively sought ways to improve it.

But did Bai Yang *really* need these tricks?

“Yang-ge… I’m not sure if this will help…” I said softly. “If you want to remember something important, you can use the ‘anchor memory method.’ Associate key moments with something external. Then, when you encounter that thing again, it’ll trigger the memory.”

“External things…?” Bai Yang looked at me. “Like what?”

“Like…”

I glanced around, but the room had nothing useful for an example.

Then it hit me. I reached out and knocked on the desk in front of Bai Yang.

*Tap tap tap!*

Bai Yang visibly stiffened at the sound.

“For instance, this sound,” I said. “When something feels important, knock on the table. Next time you knock, you’ll remember what you were doing the last time you did it.”

“So *that’s* the ‘anchor memory method’…”

Bai Yang nodded—not like he’d learned something new, but like he’d just discovered the name for something he’d always used.

“Yang-ge… you’ve been using this all along?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he sighed. “Yan Zhichun, what if there’s *nothing* around me to use as an ‘anchor’? What if I can’t even knock on a table?”

“Then…” I pondered. “What kind of scenario *are* you trying to create an anchor in?”

“In a dream,” Bai Yang said.

A *dream*…?

“Even imagined associations can work.”

“Imagined ones?”

I turned and noticed a cartoon lamb pattern on Bai Yang’s desk.

“What’s this…?” I picked it up—a small fabric patch.

“A ‘client’ left it here. Said they found it on the road and thought it suited me, so they gave it as thanks for helping them store their ‘Dao.’” Bai Yang’s tone was indifferent. “I don’t care for such trivial gratitude. They should’ve left a life instead.”

I shook my head, then pinned the cartoon lamb onto the breast pocket of Bai Yang’s suit.

“What are you doing?” He frowned at his now-embellished jacket.

Admittedly… Bai Yang’s cold, sharp features clashed bizarrely with the cutesy lamb.

“Yang-ge, this lamb *really* doesn’t suit you,” I said.

“Obviously…?” He sounded puzzled.

“That’s why it can be an anchor,” I explained. “You’d *never* wear something like this normally. But if you suddenly see yourself in a dream wearing a cartoon-patterned shirt or suit, you’d instantly realize ‘something’s wrong’ or the like…”

“Oh…?” Bai Yang narrowed his eyes slightly, then nodded. “Any other examples?”

“Uh… well…” I was stumped. “Yang-ge… what exactly do *you* need to remember? Maybe we should tailor it to your situation.”

“I…” He paused. “I need to remember a flawless symbol. She appears with ‘Summer’ and vanishes with it. She is pure white, serene, perfect. Her arrival will lead us to witness the end of everything.”

I winced. Bai Yang’s description was *way* too abstract.

What was he trying to remember?

A flawless *symbol*…?

“First, this symbol must drive me forward without hesitation. Then, it must plunge me into despair. After that, it will make me feel ‘something’s wrong.’ Finally, she will guide me to the end.”

Bai Yang looked at me. “How can I distinctly remember each phase’s different state?”

*Good lord…* Did Bai Yang *seriously* not overestimate me?

This was *way* beyond my pay grade. He’d just revealed part of his plan—but every step was *insanely* abstract!

Yet… for some reason, it reminded me of something I’d read in a book once.