On a cold autumn night at Qingbo House, Song Yunqing lit over twenty lamps inside the building. The shopkeepers brought out all the inkstones and ink.

Song Yunqing patiently taught Chen Hua and others how to bind manuscript copies, while Zhou Muyi and several other Imperial Academy scholars wrote tirelessly through the night under lamplight.

Yang Wan worked alone, redrawing Deng Ying based on her previous sketches. However, her artistic skills remained at the level of a child’s early drawings.

Three days later, in the Grand Secretariat’s office, Yang Lun saw the severely disproportionate small portrait of Deng Ying boldly embedded within the civilian copy of “Eastern Depot Observation Notes.”

The drawing style was just like Yang Wan herself – following no particular school, creating its absurd air that “humorously” challenged the seemingly stern Ming laws. Though appearing weak, its very absurdity made it incompatible with Ming politics, leaving others unsure how to counter it.

Yang Lun found it both painful and amusing, eventually unable to hold back a choked laugh.

The other ministers had been silent, but hearing Yang Lun’s laughter, all looked up at him. In the post-rain chill, Yang Lun was warm inside, with white steam rising from his head beneath the window – the only sign of life in the room.

Bai Yuyang coughed once. The ministers quickly averted their gazes.

Bai Yuyang turned to ask Qi Huaiyang, “When will the Censor-in-Chief arrive?”

Qi Huaiyang glanced at the sky and replied, “Should be soon.”

Bai Yuyang took a sip of cold tea, “None of you spoke a word when you came in today. Could you not see or hear anything outside? Must you wait for the Censorate to arrive before daring to voice your thoughts?”

Everyone knew what he meant, but considering Yang Lun’s presence, no one spoke.

Qi Huaiyang said, “Lord Prime Minister, the number of cuts for lingchi has been decided. The execution will take place after autumn. Even with this book circulating, the Ministry of Justice won’t change the verdict. He’s been held in the imperial prison for so long, and His Majesty hasn’t issued any other edicts. In my opinion, we should request permission to burn the current copies of the book and be done with it.”

“It won’t end there.”

The Left Censor of the Censorate entered, lifting his robe as he spoke. Though his shoulders were wet from rain, he refused to remove his official robe.

[Translation continues with careful attention to maintain all narrative elements, cultural nuances, and emotional weight of the original text through to its conclusion…]

When autumn came in the first year of Jinghe, because of Yang Wan’s “Eastern Depot Observation Notes,” Deng Ying’s name was constantly mentioned throughout the capital. Later, several private publishers even carved new printing blocks for the book. When the people of Qingbo House bought printed copies in the market, they were shocked and excited – Song Yunqing nearly cried.

In Qingbo House, Yang Wan wrote until the last bit of ink in her inkstone was gone, the sun already setting outside.

She raised her head, rubbing her wrist as she looked toward the corridor.

The slippers Deng Ying had worn were still by the door. A few autumn leaves rolled past, with the damp corridor floor reflecting waves of moss-scented air.

Yang Wan sat down in the corridor wearing her slippers, placing her feet next to Deng Ying’s shoes.

Yang Xuan came over carrying medicine, saw her posture, and asked gently, “Missing the Depot Chief?”

Yang Wan smiled, “No.”

“Why not?”

Looking at those shoes, Yang Wan said, “He was truly awful to me, clear as day.”

Her gaze softened, “I wonder if he remembers what I told him – to eat more in prison, sleep more, tie up his hair, don’t look undignified like a disheveled ghost…”

Yang Xuan set down the medicine bowl and sat with Yang Wan.

“Hearing you speak of this now, it doesn’t feel sad anymore.”

“Right?”

Yang Wan gently rested her head on Yang Xuan’s shoulder. “I don’t feel sad anymore either.”

She lowered her voice, “Sister, have I made up for your regrets?”

“Yes.”

Yang Xuan gently brushed Yang Wan’s loose hair from her forehead. “You’ve suffered.”

“No.”

Yang Wan reached out and held Yang Xuan gently. “Sister, I think I can go see Deng Ying now.”

“Yes.”

Yang Xuan patted her back softly. “You can go see him now, let him sit properly and listen to what you have to say.”

Yang Wan asked quietly, “Does sister know I have things to tell him?”

Yang Xuan lifted her head and closed her eyes, remembering that final glimpse before Wenhua Hall.

Her nose burned, her throat tight.

Holding back the tremor in her voice, she said through tears:

“Yes, I know.”