After speaking, she kept her hand on Deng Ying’s back, trying to move a little closer to him.
He trembled slightly from the pain, causing the edge of the quilt to brush against Yang Wan’s cheek.
“If it hurts too much, you can squeeze my hand.”
“No…”
He shook his head through the pain, “When a person’s fortune is spent in a day, what follows is all retribution.”
As he finished speaking, he winced in pain, his hand by the pillow clenching and unclenching repeatedly.
Yang Wan dared not move again, speaking softly: “I used to think that after the people from Tongjia Academy died, you gloriously assumed the position of Superintendent of the Eastern Depot.”
“This now… is deserved.”
Deng Ying’s breath fell on Yang Wan’s face, its temperature seemingly warmer than his body.
“I now have no way to collect my teacher’s bones, to prepare proper burial clothes for Master Zhou and the Zhao brothers. I can’t repay any of their kindness… so let this be my atonement.”
He coughed lightly twice after speaking.
Yang Wan raised her wrist, patting Deng Ying’s back rhythmically.
Facing this wounded man, she truly felt the contradictions inherent in the Great Ming Dynasty.
But these contradictions had their balance, pulling Deng Ying toward self-blame and self-harm while also pushing him to bravely shoulder responsibility. Though this contradiction made him struggle, it also allowed Deng Ying to continue living.
In this era that Yang Wan and Deng Ying inhabited, Italy was experiencing the Renaissance, capitalism was sprouting, individualism was being born, and the concept of “ruler and subject” was gradually dissolving. More advanced civilization was bringing human thinking to a new stage. From then on, Western civilization began to emphasize individual values, stressing self-governance and individual freedom. No one would be like Deng Ying anymore, extending their hand toward the shackles that hurt them while still trying to unlock the fetters of others.
If feudalism devoured people, wouldn’t civilization from another era kill people too?
Yang Wan was grateful that history was linear—no one else could look back like her, nor could anyone foresee the future. People all lived in the balance of their present, and thus wouldn’t feel they were the ones being crushed under the forward-rolling wheels of history.
Therefore, Yang Wan decided to respect Deng Ying.
“Yes, how could they blame you when they see you like this?”
After speaking, she slowed her hand’s movement, “Does it still hurt?”
Deng Ying closed his eyes and shook his head slightly.
“It doesn’t hurt.”
Yang Wan pressed her lips together, suddenly saying, “Later, those people will be punished too.”
Deng Ying’s hand tightened, “What are you saying…”
“Just what the words mean.”
She looked into Deng Ying’s eyes as she spoke, “Let me tell you… um…”
She slowed her hand’s movement, breaking down the rigid theoretical logic in her mind before speaking again, “Things will always develop in a better direction, but sometimes this process encounters obstacles, back and forth. However, you should believe that the injuries you’ve suffered, and the wrongs you’ve endured, will gradually pass. And what you’ve done, someone will understand in the future. As for those people, whether it’s current punishment or future condemnation by words and writings, they won’t escape at least one of these.”
Deng Ying was silent for a moment, then smiled and said, “Again you speak words I can’t quite understand.”
“Then don’t think about it. Get some good sleep, and call me if you’re in pain or thirsty.”
After speaking, she propped herself up to blow out the lone candle on the table.
That night, the autumn wind blew continuously over the moat. Yang Wan curled up, listening to all the subtle autumn sounds through the night.
Deng Ying lay beside her. Perhaps from exhaustion, or perhaps from the fever caused by his wounds, he seemed to sleep deeply. The inner garment he wore for healing was as thin as cicada wings, wrapped in frost and snow.
Listening to the leaves outside the window, Yang Wan suddenly remembered a Song Dynasty poet named Mao Pang, who loved to write about autumn.
In his “Night Sailing Boat,” there was a line: “Counting drops of autumn sound invading brief dreams.”
Yang Wan hadn’t previously found this line particularly beautiful.
But now, lying by the window in Deng Ying’s chamber, she was suddenly moved by this layer of romantic ancient sentiment.
“Counting drops of autumn sound invading brief dreams.”
Yang Wan softly murmured this line, but couldn’t remember the next one.
After trying in vain to recall it, she smiled self-mockingly, pressed her lips together, and closed her eyes.
In the thick darkness, Deng Ying completed the second half of the line, moving his lips without sound.
“Beneath the eaves, rain on plantain leaves.”
Counting drops of autumn sound invading brief dreams, beneath the eaves, rain on plantain leaves.
This year’s autumn passed particularly quickly.
As Zheng Yuejia had anticipated, on the seventh day after Zhou Congshan’s death, the Emperor personally visited the Cabinet’s duty room.
That day, there were roadside memorial services everywhere in the capital, paper ashes flying like butterflies throughout the city.
In the streets and alleys, whether or not the coffins of those dozen or so people passed through, one could hear the sounds of mournful worship.
For a time, the imperial capital was in mourning white.
The Northern Commanding Office originally intended to prohibit roadside memorial services and arrest the instigators but was unexpectedly restrained by a secret imperial edict. The Emperor severely reprimanded Zhang Luo in the Hall of Mental Cultivation and ordered him to kneel for a day at the Gate of Supreme Harmony.
When Yang Lun and Bai Yuyang passed by the Gate of Supreme Harmony, they saw Zhang Luo being held down by Imperial Guard officers, and forced to kneel before the gate.
Bai Yuyang said, “Such a tragic case, and he’s only punished with kneeling. And specifically made to kneel here at this hour, putting on a show for the Cabinet, heh…”