She seemed to have said those words before.

In that moment, there was a sense of piercing through – piercing through these four years of the Ming Dynasty, and through the deep, unspeakable chaos hanging above their heads.

Whether you call it fate, coincidence, or some “cause and effect” that current civilization cannot explain. In any case, Yang Wan had appeared before him. This woman who had dedicated her best years to the name “Deng Ying” finally opened her mouth and spoke to this living flesh and blood, and the soul within it, clear as a cold spring: “I am a person who lives for you.”

“Deng Ying.”

She called his name tenderly, holding his gaze as she said, “At first, I didn’t want to empathize with this era. I only wanted to watch you complete your tragic life. That’s why I never told you about my origins. But now, I very much want you to know who I am, to understand what you mean to me.”

She picked up the nearby “Eastern Depot Observation Notes,” laid it across her knees, opened the title page, and pointed to the author’s name, telling Deng Ying: “This is my name – Yang Wan, from another era six hundred years after now. Like you, I’m also a scholar. In our era, the world is peaceful, people live and work in contentment, and women can study just like men. Literary hearts carry through ages, able to study history, to write texts. I am the former.”

She turned the pages as she spoke, “Previous scholars wrote countless books observing rulers and nobles. I observed you. Besides several academic papers, I also wrote a ‘Biography of Deng Ying,’ though sadly I never saw it published. Still, I remember its opening to this day – ‘The twelfth year of Zhenning…'”

She paused, then continued in a calmer tone, reciting to Deng Ying with closed eyes.

“The twelfth year of Zhenning was a pivotal year in Ming history. With Grand Secretary Deng Yi’s beheading, the Ming Dynasty, long like an endless night, finally saw a glimmer of dawn. It’s hard to say whether Deng Ying’s life ended or began that year. Deng Ying, I wrote this opening when I was twenty. For the ten years after, all my lamp-lit hours belonged to you. As a historian, I excavated your life experiences, tried to understand your heart, and attempted to speak to future generations on your behalf. During this process, I never loved anyone else, had no marriage, no children – only a literary heart, devoted lifelong to a departed soul. So…”

She smiled, her eyes curving, “Do you understand my meaning? Do you know what you mean to me?”

“You looked back on my life six hundred years after my death…”

Deng Ying’s voice trembled.

Separated by over six hundred years of time and space, the differences in civilization carved a chasm of thought between him and Yang Wan. He couldn’t see the future world, didn’t know how feudalism would be overturned, how “equality” would be born, how “class” would change. He only understood that six hundred years later, a woman named Yang Wan knew his name and wrote a book about him.

“Was I still considered a criminal then?”

He asked Yang Wan softly.

“Yes.”

Yang Wan’s voice caught, “But not anymore after that. Deng Ying, I’ve put brush to paper. Even if I disappear from that era, people will see you through my written words. It’s the same now. Deng Ying, even if we both perish in the Ming Dynasty, I’ve written, I’ve spoken – because of me, people will surely see you anew in the early years of Jinghe. I’ve lived two lives without regret. I was once your posthumous name.”

She smiled at him, “And I’ve become your living name too. So, Deng Ying, I can both respect and deserve to love you. What about you – are you willing to love me now?”

She used the word “willing.”

From beginning to end, she had never rejected the “lowliness” Deng Ying handed her. She accepted his trembling and shame in “intimacy,” accepted his interpretation of “love” as “atonement,” and let him place his chains in her hands, gently guiding him down the “dead end” path he wished to walk.

But in this seemingly unequal relationship, the truly humble one was Yang Wan.

She didn’t demand anything from Deng Ying in this era, not even his “love.”

Because she had always respected him first, before falling in love with him.

Deng Ying seemed to understand dimly.

“I’m asking you?”

As she spoke, her eyes gradually reddened, “Do you know how excessive you’ve been? You were once my career, my foundation for establishing myself, the greatest meaning in my life. But you forced me to give you a servant’s pity. I wanted to hold your hand, but you handed me the chains on your wrists instead. I didn’t want you to humble yourself before me, but you insisted on reading those messy little yellow books. And I couldn’t even blame you…”

She sniffled, raising her shackled hands to wipe away tears, “I, Yang Wan, have lived nearly thirty years and never submitted to anyone, but I’m helpless against you, I…”

Before she could finish, she buried her head between her knees, her shoulders trembling slightly.

Those stripped of outer garments and dressed in prison clothes seemed to lose half their dignity. The thin fabric covering skin couldn’t withstand even a slight insulting touch, yet more than ever, they longed for pure skin contact, yearned to be tenderly caressed.

“Wanwan, don’t cry…”

Deng Ying raised his hands to steady her shoulders. She trembled slightly.

“Don’t cry, I was wrong, I’m sorry, I was wrong.”

As he spoke, he gently embraced Yang Wan, drawing her into his arms.

“I didn’t know anything before. My father was guilty and executed, and I lived bearing guilt. Later I was tortured and entered the palace – I couldn’t possibly have the status to love my dear friend’s sister. But you were too good…”

At this point, Deng Ying also choked up.

“I deceived myself, made myself your prisoner, following you, accepting your restraints, listening to your words. This way, even when I was with you, I could pretend I was serving you, that’s why I read that book. I’m sorry, Wanwan, I did study it – even when you scolded me, I secretly learned so much… I…”

“I didn’t blame you.”

She said in a muffled voice: “I know you wanted me to protect you. Deng Ying, it wasn’t easy coming back from six hundred years later – I must protect you well, I must… And what you need to do…”

She coughed softly several times, “Do you know what you need to do?”

Deng Ying didn’t answer.

“What did you promise me?”

“I…”

“What did we agree to at the palace gate?”

Deng Ying froze, then spoke: “No matter how much I despise myself, as long as Wanwan likes me, I will live on well.”

“That’s right.”

She wrapped her arms around Deng Ying’s waist as she spoke.

“Deng Ying, don’t destroy yourself. You must cherish yourself, only then will I dare let you read that little yellow…”

As she finished speaking, her consciousness became somewhat fuzzy.

Under the thin clothes, Deng Ying felt Yang Wan’s temperature, different from usual. Today she was very cold, her breathing somewhat hurried, as if seeking warmth from him.

“What’s wrong, Wanwan?”

“Nothing… just a bit cold.”

Deng Ying hurriedly pulled over the quilted clothes he hadn’t yet changed into, covering Yang Wan.

Yang Wan coughed several times, saying from within Deng Ying’s embrace, “I’m very tired, I want you to hold me while I sleep for a while.”

The deep walls of the imperial prison confined the two.

Cutting off all the sights and sounds of the capital. In the autumn sounds they couldn’t hear, voices of injustice gradually rose.

Days of continuous autumn rain caused the moat’s waters to surge, countless brilliant begonias were washed into the water, all swept away in a single night.

When the sky cleared, an old man carrying his grandchild walked past the river. The child, arms around the old man’s neck, said: “Grandfather, look, the water’s risen so high – will it flood over?”

The old man said: “It won’t.”

The child asked: “Why not?”

The old man stroked his forehead, answering gently: “Because the person who dug this river was very clever. He built the channel so ingeniously that even the biggest floods can be channeled away, and the river can protect the imperial city.”

The child lay on the old man’s shoulder, looking up at the city gate.

A lone autumn goose called out as it flew over the golden-glazed roof tiles, darting into the rain clouds and disappearing.

The child looked at the sky and asked: “Grandfather, do you know who dug this moat?”

The old man adjusted the child’s position on his shoulders.

“The moat was dug by the skilled craftsmen of Xiangshan, but the person who led the construction… was a eunuch.”

“Eu…nuch…”

The child repeated in his childish voice.

The old man nodded, “Yes, besides building this moat, he also built the imperial city.”

“Oh, I know.”

The child grinned, “He’s like Master Zhang. Our school teacher told me Master Zhang built the imperial city, he’s the Ming Dynasty’s greatest craftsman.”

“Yes.”

“Then is this person the Ming Dynasty’s second greatest craftsman?”

The old man smiled, then sighed softly.

“He isn’t. He’s about to be executed.”

“Why?”

“Because he committed crimes. His Majesty has ordered his punishment.”

“Oh…”

The child blinked and looked up again, asking: “But he could build the imperial city, he was so capable – why would he do bad things?”

The old man hesitated for a moment, then finally said: “Perhaps he had difficulties he couldn’t speak of.”

Then, pointing at the water, he said: “Look, the water will rise again tomorrow.”

The child lowered his head and said: “Grandmother told me, that when the moat’s waters rise, it’s a day of buried injustice.”

“Where did your grandmother go today?”

The child pointed west, “She and mother went to burn incense.”

“For whom?”

“Um…”

The child scratched his head, thinking, “That person… I think his name was Deng Ying…”