Just as she said, she was like someone who had lived past the end, turning to tell someone who wasn’t living so happily, “Look, this is how we live. Would you like to try it too?”
When she said these things, she didn’t consider herself superior.
On the contrary, she immersed various modern concepts and ideologies, as well as her own body, completely into Deng Ying’s humble fate, protecting his heart from within and his skin from without, struggling alongside him. Even covered in wounds, she could still say to him on his sickbed, “Deng Xiaoying, go ahead and court death – you have me.”
“The two men Yang and Deng,” when placed in historical textual research, was indeed an inseparable phrase.
Unfortunately, Zhang Luo only said it once and never put it to paper.
If Yang Wan could read the phrase “the two men Yang and Deng” in historical documents six hundred years later, she would surely be startled and hesitant.
However, there was no need to regret this.
Although Yang Wan didn’t yet realize how much her return to see Deng Ying six hundred years later had changed this cruel and bloody history, she had gradually lived out a modern person’s courage and attitude toward life in the Zhenning era.
When Deng Ying went to Qingtian Temple, she sat in Chengqian Palace peeling nuts and arranging dried fruits. After preparing them, she divided them in two – half to be sent to Deng Ying through Chen Hua, half left for Yi Lang.
To pray for his father’s health, Yi Lang had reduced his meals to once a day, attending to the illness in Yangxin Hall without changing his clothes. Each time he returned, his eyes were dark with exhaustion, unwilling to say much, only silently leaning against Yang Wan. When Yang Wan offered him nuts, he would take them and eat them.
“Is Your Highness very tired?”
Yi Lang shook his head and looked up at Yang Wan, “Aunt takes care of me every day, and also takes care of the Factory Official. Isn’t that very tiring?”
Yang Wan smiled and touched Yi Lang’s nose, “He’s not a Factory Official anymore.”
“Oh, then can he no longer protect Aunt in the future?”
Yang Wan hugged Yi Lang and raised her head, “Aunt doesn’t need anyone’s protection. Aunt will protect all of you.”
Yi Lang said, “Aunt, what will happen to me if Father passes away?”
Yang Wan looked at the young man in her arms. Though the lecturers in Wenhua Hall dared not explicitly tell him about the current situation in the inner court and government, he seemed to have some awareness.
Yang Wan lowered her head and asked softly, “Is Your Highness afraid?”
Yi Lang shook his head, “I’m not afraid of what might happen to me, but I fear I might implicate my teachers and uncle.”
“They won’t be implicated.”
“Why?”
“Because…”
Because in the end, only Deng Ying would die.
Yang Wan coughed and said gently, “There will be people protecting Your Highness and your teachers.”
Yi Lang scratched his head, “Who?”
Yang Wan remained silent, and Yi Lang continued asking, “Then who will protect him?”
Hearing Yi Lang’s words, Yang Wan felt a chill in her heart, and a surge of bitter emotion filled her nose. She nearly cried and had to tilt her head back to hold back tears.
“Aunt, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Your Highness needn’t worry. In this world, someone will surely protect him. Your Highness, Aunt will watch over you. Sleep now.”
“Alright.”
After speaking, Yi Lang happily curled up under the blanket. Yang Wan tucked him in and leaned against the couch to rest herself.
Unexpectedly, she truly fell asleep.
She had a terrifying dream where Deng Ying was stripped naked and tied to the execution frame at Wumen Gate. That body she treasured so dearly was exposed before countless eyes. Deng Ying closed his eyes in despair on the frame, unable to speak a word, surrounded by unbearable curses.
This was a passage from the final chapter of “The Biography of Deng Ying” that she had written herself, based on records from the Ming History and other corroborating historical documents. Yang Wan remembered that when she wrote this section, her heart felt only infinite desolation. But now, awakening from this nightmare, her heart felt as if it had been snowed upon – the down-covered grass beneath the snow was both fragile and warm.
She put on her clothes and stood up, pushing open the door to walk into the autumn courtyard.
Leaf shadows danced gracefully on the ground, and the cold autumn wind entered her sleeves, and then freely flowed out.
Yang Wan retrieved her notebook from her room and spread it across her knees under the light of the corridor lanterns. She raised her hand to firmly massage her temples, closed her eyes, and whispered to herself, “Yang Wan, fear is normal. Don’t sink into it. These are two completely different books. When a scholar takes up the pen, they must continue writing.”