My father is Chongzhen? Then I have no choice but to rebel.

Squads of fierce Manchu soldiers, armed with sharp blades, kicked open the doors of wealthy households, merchants, and even ordinary Manchu people. They loaded gold, silver, jewelry, antiques, paintings, silks, cloth, grains, medicines, and even iron pots and farm tools—anything of value—onto carts and transported them to the "Inner Treasury" near the palace.

Cries, pleas, and curses echoed throughout the city, but all they received in return were cold blades and merciless whippings.

"By order of the Regent! All males aged thirteen to fifty within the city must retreat north with the army! Anyone who disobeys will be executed!"

"Take all craftsmen with you, whether they work with gold, silver, copper, iron, wood, or bricks! Anyone who hides them will have their entire family executed!"

Along with the looting of supplies came an even more brutal conscription order.

Dorgon knew that retreating to the deep mountains of Liaodong would require a large number of people to transport supplies, build camps, and manufacture weapons.

In his eyes, the hundreds of thousands of people in Shenyang, whether Manchu, Han or Mongol, were all "resources" that he could use.

As for the elderly, women, children, the sick, and the disabled, they were ruthlessly abandoned and left to fend for themselves.

Near the palace, makeshift warehouses were crammed full, with gold and silver piled up like mountains and grain stacked into high walls.

Countless conscripted people, driven by whips, loaded boxes and bags of supplies onto thousands of mule carts like livestock. The convoy stretched for miles, all the way to Andingmen Gate in the north of the city, ready at any moment to begin a migration destined to be filled with blood, tears, and death, towards the unknown, cold, and wild land to the north.

In Dorgon's view, all this plundering and extortion was not only without remorse, but also a "brilliant" strategy.

At this moment, he stood atop the high steps of the Chongzheng Hall, coldly looking down through the open hall doors at the city he once knew so well, a city that he was now destroying with his own hands.

Inside the hall, princes and nobles such as Jirhalang and Ajige stood solemnly on both sides, their faces grim, yet no one dared to offer any words of dissuasion.

Now that things have come to this, they are already tied to Dorgon on the same sinking ship, and have no choice but to follow him to the bitter end.

"Fourteenth Brother".

Ajige licked his slightly chapped lips, a hint of bloodlust and resentment flashing in his eyes.

"We...are we really not going to fight anymore? Are we going to fight the Ming dogs to the death right here under the walls of Shenyang? With 200,000 troops and the advantage of the city's terrain, we might not...we might not necessarily lose!"

Dorgon slowly turned around, his face appearing exceptionally pale and sinister in the candlelight of the hall.

He glanced coldly at Ajige, his voice hoarse, carrying an almost numb coldness:

"Fight? With what? With the corpses of my Eight Banners soldiers to fill the fire-breathing iron beasts of the Ming army? With bows and arrows and sabers to block bullets that take lives from 350 paces away? Twelfth Brother, wake up! The corpses of those ten thousand warhorses on the banks of the Liao River are not even cold yet!"

He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone in the hall, his tone carrying a desperate, calculating air:
"The more ruthlessly we plunder, the less will be left for the Ming army. The more starving the people in the city, the more famine victims the Ming army will have to provide relief to after entering the city, and the greater the amount of grain they will consume. This is the 'gift' I am leaving for Chongzhen! As for whether these people live or die... Hmph, those who achieve great things do not concern themselves with trifles! Once we retreat into Changbai Mountain, relying on the natural defenses of the mountains and forests, we will accumulate strength. When the Ming army is exhausted and withdraws back to the interior... Shenyang, Liaodong, will ultimately belong to my Aisin Gioro family!"

His words were cold and ruthless, carrying a cruelty that regarded hundreds of thousands of lives as worthless weeds and bargaining chips.

The princes and nobles in the hall remained silent. They knew this was a desperate measure, a way to cut themselves off from the people of Liaodong, but... they had no other choice.

In the darkness of night, the city of Shenyang resembles a huge, bleeding wound.

The desperate cries and ruthless looting constituted the city's final, poignant swan song.

Outside the north gate of the city, the escape route leading to the unknown darkness and cold has already been laid out. Just waiting for an order, this "Shengjing," which once symbolized the glory of the "Great Qing," will be completely reduced to a hollowed-out, abandoned... dead city.

In the seventh month of the seventeenth year of Chongzhen's reign, in the imperial palace of Shengjing.

The chill of late autumn, like an invisible tide, has quietly seeped into this palace that once symbolized the supreme glory of the "Great Qing Dynasty".

The once magnificent scene of bright lights and endless music has long since vanished. The vast palace garden is now as silent as a giant tomb, with only the cold night wind blowing through the empty halls and corridors, whistling and swirling a few withered yellow leaves on the steps, drifting into the dark corners.

The flickering candlelight in the palace did nothing to dispel the suffocating oppression and despair that permeated the air.

Da Yu'er wore an elegant moon-white brocade robe, without any makeup. Her long hair was loosely tied up and only adorned with a simple silver hairpin, which made her look even more haggard. Between her brows was a deep and unyielding worry and exhaustion.

In her arms, the eight-year-old Emperor Fulin seemed to sense the terrifying atmosphere before the storm, sleeping very restlessly, his little brows furrowed, occasionally uttering frightened murmurs in his sleep.

Da Yu'er could only gently pat her son's back and hum an ancient lullaby from the Horqin Grassland, trying to soothe this young life that was destined to bear the pain of national ruin and family destruction.

A series of steady yet slightly hurried footsteps broke the deathly silence outside the hall.

Without needing to announce his arrival, Dorgon's tall figure appeared at the palace gate.

He was still dressed in the regent's usual clothes, but he could not hide the fatigue and weariness brought on by days of hard work. His eyes were sunken, and there was a bluish-black stubble on his chin. He exuded an anxious and resolute air as if he had reached the end of his rope.

Da Yu'er looked up when she heard the voice. When she saw it was him, a complex and unfathomable look flashed in her eyes. There was dependence, resentment, and even more so, a kind of resigned despair.

She didn't get up, but simply watched him approach with her eyes, which had lost their former luster.

"You've arrived."

Her voice was dry, with a slight, almost imperceptible tremor.

Dorgon nodded, his gaze sweeping over the sleeping Fulin on the bed before settling back on Dayuer's face. After a moment of silence, he cut to the chase, his voice low and hoarse:
"The Ming army's vanguard is less than fifty li from Shenyang. At the latest... in five days, they will surely be at the city gates."

Despite being mentally prepared, Dayuer's body still swayed almost imperceptibly when Dorgon clearly uttered this cold deadline.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, they were filled with a deathly stillness.

"So fast?"

Her tone was neither a question nor a statement, but rather a numb acceptance.

Once upon a time, besieging cities was the norm for them against the Ming army, Korea, and the Mongol tribes. She still remembered how, when Huang Taiji was alive, the Eight Banners cavalry repeatedly surrounded the cities of the Ming Dynasty, listening to the desperate cries of the defenders inside the city and watching the white flags rise on the city walls.

At that time, standing beside Huang Taiji, she was so full of vigor and so proud.

But now... the roles have been completely reversed.

This Shenyang city, this "Shengjing" they had built with their own hands, had become the besieged city. This enormous contrast, like the sharpest icicle, pierced her heart with sharp pain. "Have everything I asked you to prepare been taken care of?"

Dorgon had no time for sentimentality and asked directly, his tone urgent.

Da Yu'er nodded and pointed to a corner of the hall. There, several large sandalwood chests wrapped in thick cowhide and sealed with the seal of the Imperial Household Department, along with several brocade bundles stuffed full, were quietly piled up.

"The valuable gold and silver artifacts, jewelry, antiques, and paintings that can be taken from the palace, as well as a few changes of clothes belonging to Fulin, are all here. We can leave anytime..."

Her voice was soft, carrying an indescribable sense of desolation.

This vast palace, with its wealth and treasures accumulated over nearly twenty years, can now only yield a few meager boxes of belongings.

The rest—the palaces, pavilions, and gardens that couldn't be taken away, everything that symbolized power and glory—would be abandoned and left to their former enemies who were about to enter the city.

Dorgon glanced at the boxes, nodded in satisfaction, then stepped forward, knelt down, and took Dayuer's somewhat cold hand, attempting to convey a sliver of strength and... perhaps a lie-like comfort:

"Yu'er, don't worry. All of this... is only temporary. Once we retreat deep into Liaodong, relying on the natural defenses of Changbai Mountain, we can recuperate and regroup. When the Ming army is exhausted and withdraws back to the interior, Shenyang... Liaodong will eventually be ours again! At that time, everything... will return to normal."

Da Yu'er raised her eyes and quietly looked at the man in front of her.

In the candlelight, the feigned composure in his eyes couldn't conceal the deep-seated fear and guilt. She knew in her heart how slim the chances of "restoring things to normal" were, how self-deceptive it was.

Once they abandoned Shenyang, abandoned their stronghold in Liaodong, and retreated into that harsh, desolate wilderness, what difference would the so-called "Great Qing" be from a tribe in the mountains? But she didn't expose him; she simply let him hold her hand, nodding softly, her voice barely audible.

"Okay, I understand. I... believe you."

At this moment, even this pale and powerless comfort was something she was willing to believe. Because she had no one else to rely on but the man before her.

Two days later, at dawn.

As dawn broke, the leaden-gray clouds hung low, pressing down on everything and making it hard to breathe.

The biting autumn wind whipped up dust and withered leaves, swirling them around and stinging my face. A heavy, pungent smell filled the air, a mixture of horse manure, sweat, burnt odors, and… a sense of despair.

Outside Andingmen Gate, the scene was one of utter chaos. A seemingly endless line of mule and horse carts stretched as far as the eye could see.

The cart was loaded with gold, silver, jewelry, grain, cloth, military equipment, and supplies looted from Shenyang, as well as forcibly conscripted craftsmen and their rudimentary tools.

Between the caravans were densely packed crowds that stretched as far as the eye could see. There were men who had been forcibly conscripted and whose faces were ashen; there were Manchu women and children with their families, weeping and wailing; and there were Han Chinese bondservants and craftsmen who were bound together with ropes.

Cries, shouts, horse neighs, the cracking of whips, and the harsh shouts of officers mingled into a despairing, heartbreaking noise.

This was the last "seed" Dorgon preserved for the "Great Qing"—200,000 troops and more than 300,000 civilians who were forcibly taken hostage.

He practically emptied Shenyang, taking away all the wealth, resources, and people he could carry, leaving the approaching Ming army with a "ghost city" that had been looted and was now empty except for the old, weak, sick, and disabled, and a sense of despair that could not be taken away.

At the city gate, Dorgon, clad in heavy armor, rode a magnificent black horse, his face as cold and stern as he gazed at the chaotic scene before him, a scene resembling a mass exodus.

Beside him were princes and nobles, including Ajige and Jirhalang, who were also fully armed, as well as a heavily guarded carriage with its windows closed—inside sat Dayuer and the young Emperor Fulin.

Everyone's expression was extremely solemn.

Abandoning the capital and fleeing to the wilderness was an unprecedented humiliation for the "Great Qing," which once aspired to rule the world, and a complete turning point in the nation's destiny.

But now, they have no other choice but to take this path.

Just then, a fast horse galloped from the city, and the rider was none other than Prince Su, Hauge! He was not wearing armor, but only a plain cloth armor with a dark blue battle robe over it, and a waist knife at his waist.

He reined in his horse and stopped a few steps away from Dorgon. His gaze was calm, even resolute, as he looked at Dorgon on horseback and the carriage beside him.

"Fourteenth Uncle".

Haug's voice wasn't loud, but it clearly pierced through the surrounding noise.

Dorgon looked at Hauge, then at the small but solemn-faced personal guard behind him, his brow furrowed.
"Hauge! What are you doing? Quickly pack your things and join the army!"

Haug shook his head, a bleak yet relieved smile appearing on his face:

"Fourteenth Uncle, you should go. I... I'm not leaving."

"What did you say?!"

Dorgon's pupils constricted sharply, and he shouted sternly:

"Staying here means death! The Ming army will arrive any minute now. What can you do if you stay?"

"I could die here."

Haug's voice remained calm, yet carried an undeniable firmness.

"This is Shenyang. It is where my father established the capital, the foundation upon which my Aisin Gioro family rose to prominence. I was born here, grew up here, and now... it is time for me to die here. Fourteenth Uncle, you should take the Emperor and the clansmen and go to Changbai Mountain to find a way to survive. I... will stay here and guard this last gate for you."

Upon hearing this, Dorgon trembled violently, his knuckles turning white from gripping the reins so tightly.

Looking into Hauge's eyes, which were calm to the point of being eerie, he felt an indescribable shame and pain, like a red-hot iron, burning his heart.

He recalled how he and Dayuer conspired to seize the throne that rightfully belonged to Hauge after Huang Taiji's death, using every means at their disposal.

Thinking back on all these years of suppression and ostracism he had inflicted on his nephew, he realized that now, at this critical juncture of national collapse and family ruin, he was about to flee with the "Emperor," while his nephew, whom he had taken everything from and who had suffered endless humiliation, had chosen to stay and perish with the city on the verge of falling!
"you……"

Dorgon opened his mouth, his throat dry, his voice hoarse, and for a moment he didn't know what to say. Shame, regret, anger, and helplessness intertwined, causing the usually decisive regent's cheeks to burn. (End of Chapter)