Yang Lun stopped.
“What is it?”
Zhang Luo threw his horse’s reins to his servant and silently walked past Yang Lun, only speaking once he was ahead: “His Majesty has shown great patience with you all. You should exercise restraint. If Zhang Zhanchun’s death isn’t enough to intimidate those people from the Six Offices…”
“Zhang Luo!”
Zhang Luo turned around, unconcerned that Yang Lun had interrupted him, and said with his head tilted, “The Northern Depot exists to maintain the Emperor’s authority. Offending imperial authority is a crime – I can’t control anything else.”
“Wait.”
Yang Lun turned and caught up with him. “What do you mean by that?”
Zhang Luo didn’t respond to his question, only saying coldly, “Step aside.”
Yang Lun wanted to ask more but suddenly heard commotion break out at the temple gate.
The officials scattered in front of the Hall of Many Treasures now all gathered toward the gate.
Zhang Luo glanced down at the temple gate, then turned and walked over as well, with Yang Lun hurriedly following.
At the temple gate, Deng Ying stood in the rain holding an umbrella.
The rain was much heavier now, with droplets hanging like strings of pearls from the umbrella’s edge.
Though many of the officials present had known Deng Ying before, this was their first time seeing him since his punishment.
Despite their varying attitudes, they couldn’t help but show contempt.
A Censor surnamed Huang from the Censorate stepped out from the crowd, raising his hand in direct accusation: “Your teacher died because of you, yet you have the face to stand here?”
Deng Ying raised his head, “Deng Ying comes to pay respects to his teacher, with no intention to offend the officials.”
After speaking, he lowered his umbrella, raised his hands, and bowed deeply.
Censor Huang did not return the courtesy, pointing at Deng Ying while laughing lightly to those behind him, “Look at this – now even palace servants perform scholars’ courtesies. What has become of the proper ceremony?”
Deng Ying kept his head lowered without speaking, released his hands from the bow, lifted his robes, and knelt, prostrating himself again.
“Please, honored officials, allow Deng Ying to pay respects to his teacher.”
Yang Lun stood at the back of the crowd, about to step forward when Qi Huaiyang suddenly grabbed him from behind. “Don’t go.”
He felt somewhat annoyed and said in a low voice:
“Let go.”
Qi Huaiyang didn’t listen to him, looking down toward the back of the crowd.
“It’s not that I want to hold you back, but the one kneeling there doesn’t want you to show your face.”
Yang Lun was startled.
“Why?”
Qi Huaiyang watched the figure in the rain and said evenly:
“You’re from the Grand Secretariat. The criminal court is one thing, but at this moment you can’t stand opposite the Six Offices and the Censorate. Otherwise, the Grand Secretariat will be in an even more difficult position when trying to suppress people like Censor Huang.”
Yang Lun couldn’t help but clench his fists after hearing this.
Sometimes, he truly hated Deng Ying.
He had thought Zhang Zhanchun’s death would make Deng Ying hate him and hate this official world, but it seemed he didn’t. Just as Zhang Zhanchun had understood them, he didn’t blame him and Bai Huan. Even in his most humble state, he was still trying to protect the Grand Secretariat that had humiliated him.
But wasn’t this also forcing them to feel ashamed?
“Please, honored officials, allow Deng Ying to pay respects to his teacher.”
Deng Ying repeated in a louder voice.
Some officials, seeing him kneeling and begging in the rain, fell silent.
Censor Huang didn’t speak either.
However, just as someone was about to persuade those nearby to make way for him, a cold voice suddenly came from within the crowd: “Letting you enter the memorial hall would only shame the deceased.”
Everyone turned to look and saw the speaker wearing dark robes with an embroidered spring sword at his waist. They hurriedly made their way, pushing and squeezing to the sides.
No one dared speak.
Yang Lun could hardly bear to watch anymore and was about to turn toward the hall when he suddenly heard a clear female voice.
“Deng Ying, stand up.”
Yang Lun’s heart sank. He turned back and pushed through the crowd to see Yang Wan bending down, one hand holding an umbrella, the other supporting Deng Ying’s arm.
She too wore plain clothes without ornaments, only the pair of lotus jade pendants at her waist instantly revealing her identity.
Deng Ying raised his head.
The person before him was already soaked by the rain, hair clinging to her face, but her expression remained gentle.
“Stand up, or I’ll get angry and leave.”
That’s what she said, but her hand supporting his arm never let go.
In this rain during the twelfth year of Zhenning, many people forced him to kneel, but only this young lady asked him to stand.