He pulled the knife from his pocket and looked it over.
The bottom of the dark-green handle used to be bumpy from having been burnt in the flames. Now the material had already been made smooth and shiny from the caress of his hand.
He unsheathed the blade and its sharp edge glinted in the sunlight. Gently, Fang Mu ran his thumb along the serrated edge, feeling the ridges against his skin.
The knife had already followed two owners, had witnessed too many things. Back when it was gradually put together on some crude assembly line, it probably never expected that it would lead such a full life.
Now it just lay in Fang Mu's hands, happily enjoying its owner's attentions, as if it had already forgotten what a terrifying weapon it had been when held by those two other people.
In the end, a knife was just a knife.
Why must people hold them responsible for so much?
Fang Mu laughed quietly. What does a knife know about responsibility? In the final analysis, only we can take the blame.
He stood up, weighed the knife in his hand, and then suddenly launched it over the lake.
The knife shone in the sunlight as it arced through the air. Then with a plop it dropped beneath the water. A few small ripples drifted out from the spot, but soon the lake was just as placid as before.
Goodbye, Wu Han.