Zhang Zhanchun’s coffin rested in the Hall of Many Treasures at Guangji Temple.

On this day, rain began at the Chen hour (7-9 AM) and had not yet ceased. The ancient trees in the temple, washed by the rain, appeared even more lush and verdant against the white mourning clothes, their branches strong and leaves abundant, dripping with emerald moisture.

The officials who came to pay their respects all held plain white umbrellas. Though numerous, they maintained solemn expressions, with no voices to be heard.

Yang Lun stood beneath the cloud pine in front of the hall, speaking quietly with Qi Huaiyang.

Qi Huaiyang, arms folded, watched the helpless ants in the muddy rain. “These creatures look quite pitiful when it rains heavily.”

Yang Lun asked, “Did you come to find me about something?”

Qi Huaiyang looked at him.

“I heard His Majesty rejected the joint memorial from the Six Offices of Scrutiny.”

“Yes.”

“How many rounds of rejection now?”

“Four.”

Qi Huaiyang said, “What are you all thinking?”

Yang Lun laughed softly, reaching out to touch the rough branches of the cloud pine. “You’re usually the one who never asks about anything. Why so talkative today?”

Qi Huaiyang dropped his arms and spoke more openly: “That servant from the Directorate of Ceremonial came to see me.”

Yang Lun quickly turned around. “Deng Ying?”

“Yes. I originally didn’t want to interact with him, but some of what he said made sense, so I thought to relay it to you.”

“Go on.”

Qi Huaiyang said, “These joint memorials can’t continue. I heard that the previous night, His Majesty nearly killed Zheng Yuejia from the Directorate of Ceremonial.”

Yang Lun said coldly, “Isn’t that good?”

Qi Huaiyang gave a short laugh. “That’s exactly what I asked him.”

Yang Lun asked, “What did he say?”

Instead of answering directly, Qi Huaiyang asked, “Can your Grand Secretariat currently control those people from the Six Offices and the Censorate?”

Hearing this question, Yang Lun walked forward a few steps in silence, then finally shook his head after a while. “I don’t know now if it’s that the Teacher is unwilling to suppress them, or unable to.”

Qi Huaiyang shook his head and said, “If Zheng Yuejia is truly beaten to death by His Majesty, and if it could quell these people, that would be fine. But if it instead emboldens the Donglin Party, you and Grand Secretary Bai should consider how this matter will end.”

Yang Lun lowered his head and asked, “You think Deng Ying’s view is correct?”

“Not entirely. After all, he’s now with the Directorate of Ceremonial.”

Qi Huaiyang paused, then continued, “But I think his words weren’t meant to protect the Directorate.”

Yang Lun nodded, “I know that.”

Qi Huaiyang continued, “Actually, I’ve been wondering why he came to find me instead of speaking directly with you.”

“Heh…”

Yang Lun shook his head with a laugh, patted the tree trunk behind him, and said wistfully:

“Master Zhang is dead. He must hate me and the Teacher very much.”

Qi Huaiyang didn’t respond to this, instead turning to look at the row of side halls to the west, where candlelight flickered, vaguely showing the shadows of two or three people.

“Have all the Grand Secretaries come today?”

Yang Lun followed his gaze and glanced over. “Zhang Cong hasn’t arrived yet.”

Qi Huaiyang smiled and said, “Without him here, that Youdu Official won’t come either. That’s probably for the best.”

Just as these words were spoken, the crowd before the hall suddenly fell silent.

Yang Lun turned around to see Zhang Cong getting out of his sedan chair at the temple gate.

Qi Huaiyang walked to Yang Lun’s side. “Heh, speak of the devil.”

Yang Lun turned back and said, “You should go first.”

With that, he walked alone toward the temple gate.

Zhang Cong was sixty-seven this year, his hair and beard white, but he still appeared vigorous and didn’t look as severe as Zhang Luo.

He stood by his sedan chair, waiting for Yang Lun to bow in greeting, then smiled and returned the courtesy.

“I hear it was Vice Minister Yang who took care of Master Zhang’s funeral arrangements.”

Yang Lun replied evenly, “Master Zhang’s son is still on his way back from Hainan and should arrive today. This official merely acted on their behalf.”

Zhang Cong smiled, “No small task, indeed. By the way, where is Grand Secretary Bai?”

Yang Lun stepped aside, “The Teacher is in the western side hall.”

“Good.”

Zhang Cong said nothing more and walked toward the western side hall with his hands behind his back.

Yang Lun was about to leave when Zhang Luo suddenly called out, “Vice Minister Yang.”

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.

While he was still stunned, she pressed her lips together, looked up toward the temple gate, and then back down at him, speaking softly:

“Deng Ying, it would pain Master Zhang to see you like this.”

She then used a bit more strength, “Stand up, I’ll help you.”

Not daring to hurt her by pulling away, Deng Ying quickly stood up following her guidance.

Yang Wan helped him steady himself, then took out her handkerchief and handed it to him, “Dry the rain from your face, and hold your umbrella properly.”

With that, she walked alone toward Zhang Luo.

“Yang Wan!”

Yang Wan didn’t respond to Deng Ying, walking straight to the stone steps at the temple gate.

This wasn’t her first time facing Zhang Luo, but this time, there wasn’t a trace of fear in her heart.

“Though you share the surname Zhang, are you Master Zhang’s relative?”

Zhang Luo’s eyes darkened.

Yang Lun hurriedly stepped out from the crowd and rebuked, “Wan’er, don’t be impudent.”

Yang Wan turned to look at Yang Lun, “Lord Yang, I am a female official of the Bureau of Ceremonies, in charge of inner palace etiquette. Am I not allowed to point out and correct errors in funeral and memorial rites?”

Yang Lun was so angry his chest felt tight. She had no intention of giving face to him, or indeed to anyone present.

Yang Wan looked at Zhang Luo again, repeating, “Is Official Zhang a relative of Master Zhang?”

Zhang Luo was silent at first, then said coldly, “No.”

“Today, Master Zhang’s relatives are not here. Of those close to him, only his sole student remains, yet you force him to kneel and beg, refusing to let him pay respects. What kind of proper ceremony is this? Did you study for decades just to stand above others and attack those who differ from you?”

Zhang Luo said in a deep voice, “Do you know what you’re saying?”

Yang Wan curtsied, “If my words have given offense, I willingly accept punishment.”

A few drops of rain ran down her cheeks and into her mouth.

After saying those words, she suddenly felt somewhat dazed.

This scene seemed entirely new to her and yet as if she had experienced it countless times.

In numerous academic seminars, she had stood alone like this, facing a group of stern people. Those people weren’t wrong either – they too had buried themselves in ancient texts their whole lives, steadfastly defending their academic views. It’s just that they didn’t believe her, or the person behind her. Compared to those years when she desperately tried to reconstruct Deng Ying’s image before them, desperately tried to correct those deeply prejudiced views about him, and tried to protect the posthumous reputation of someone already gone.

Now, she was protecting Deng Ying’s real dignity.

He was alive, standing right behind her.

Not an illusory figure in the river of history, nor her lonely obsession.

Yang Wan’s throat tightened.

If she hadn’t come back from six hundred years in the future, would Deng Ying never have known that later there would be a descendant he didn’t know, standing opposite to most people, expressing the feelings he couldn’t voice?