The third day of the ninth month in the first year of Jinghe, the day of autumn executions.
Rain pattered softly against the moss-covered stone walls.
Before dawn, the Northern Patrol Division maintained strict security, with officers in dark robes standing silently before the main hall. Zhang Luo personally lit a lamp, suddenly illuminating the hall.
Deng Ying was brought out from the rear hall. He walked slowly, but his escorts didn’t hurry him.
His hands were bound behind his back, the ropes cutting into his shoulder blades.
Zhang Luo asked, “When was he bound?”
The officer responded, “Sir, according to regulations.”
“Untie him first.”
“No need.”
Deng Ying spoke evenly, “I’ll have to be bound anyway, what difference does a moment make?” He paused, then added, “I’d like some water.”
Zhang Luo said, “Give him water.”
A jailer brought forward a cup, and Deng Ying lowered his head to drink slowly.
Zhang Luo gestured for his escorts to withdraw to the bottom of the hall. “You may sit here for a while.”
Deng Ying raised his head and asked, “Who has been appointed as the execution supervisor?”
“Minister of Justice Qi Huaiyang. We have an understanding of all pre-execution matters. Whatever you wish, within my authority, I will try my best to help.”
Deng Ying shook his head with a slight smile, “I want to live.”
Zhang Luo froze slightly, and everyone present fell silent.
“Those are my true feelings, but I know it’s too late to say this now.”
Just as he finished speaking, someone announced from outside, “Sir, the Ministry of Justice has come to collect the prisoner.”
Zhang Luo responded coldly, “Understood.”
He stepped aside and raised his hands in farewell, “In that case, I bid you a good journey.”
At Chen hour (7-9 AM).
The rain gradually stopped, leaving the damp ground muddy from footprints.
Most shops near the Prefecture Office were closed. In front of the Pichangmiao Temple to the left of the office, officials were splashing water on the newly built execution platform. Large patches of filth washed down from the platform into the old drainage ditches below.
The Five Cities Military Police kept spectators ten meters away from the execution platform, but the crowd grew increasingly dense, pushing against the guards, with people occasionally falling. Qi Huaiyang stood behind the curtain and told the judicial officer beside him, “Go tell the Military Police Commander that civilians must not be harmed at this time.”
Soon after, the Military Police reported, “Minister, it’s not yet Chen hour, but over ten thousand civilians have gathered. We’re not being rough, but in this crowd, injuries are unavoidable.”
The judicial officer said, “Sir, it’s still early for the Si hour execution. Perhaps we should delay bringing out the prisoner?”
Qi Huaiyang replied, “That’s possible, but do you think it would help much?”
“Well…”
Just then, a Censorate Inspector hurried in, “Minister, please look outside.”
Qi Huaiyang lifted one side of the curtain, and the court officials gathered around.
In the crowd, Zhou Muyi and several Hanlin Academy officials in official robes were escorting the frail Bai Huan toward the execution platform. Already over eighty, he couldn’t walk alone, and even with Song Yunqing’s support, he had to rest every five steps. He had been Prime Minister under two emperors and a teacher to many Hanlin Academy officials. After retiring due to illness, he had been unable to walk. No one expected to see him here today. People called out his honorific: “Minister Bai has arrived, make way for Minister!”
Two judicial officers from the Ministry of Justice squeezed through the crowd and bowed, “Minister, the Minister of Justice invites you to come to the back.”
Bai Huan steadied himself against Song Yunqing and glanced behind them, “I’ve been away from court for many days. What right do I have to stand with your Minister?”
“Elder, you’re advanced in years, we…”
“What right have non-supervisors to stand on high platforms? I…”
He pointed at the platform, “I came today only to see my student…”
He finished speaking and leaned against the wooden railings in front of the execution platform, resting his weak body.
Qi Huaiyang let go of the curtain corner and turned to see all the officials hanging their heads in silence. He said, “Speak if you have something to say.”
At first, no one spoke, but finally, a low-ranking court official raised his head, “Minister, I cannot bear this.”
Just as he finished speaking, a gong sounded outside.
The prisoner cart carrying Deng Ying arrived at Pichangmiao Temple.
Deng Ying was helped down from the cart.
The intermittent drizzle had soaked his prison clothes, but being bound so tightly had numbed him to the point where he couldn’t feel the cold.
He raised his head to look at Pichangmiao Temple.
Built during the Founding Emperor’s time, Pichangmiao stood to the left of the Prefecture Office. It had once been a place for flaying, later converted to an execution ground. No matter how much it was cleaned, the blood-stained earth retained its stench. Yet the surrounding trees grew exceptionally well, almost hiding the high eaves of the Imperial City, leaving only a few glazed tile roofs, washed clean by the rain.
Deng Ying walked through the mud, his gaze never leaving the roof tiles.
Past times were like beautiful old dreams; even in the foulest muck, light could still reflect through.
After all these years, he had never seen himself as a builder of this Imperial City. Only now, facing death, after Yang Wan had finally extinguished his self-destructive heart, did he dare to look directly at the traces of his existence.
Red walls and golden tiles, carved beams, and painted rafters, like the magnificent rivers and mountains, are boundlessly beautiful.