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

Because he really thought he heard it just now—the very faint "crunch" sound of footsteps on compacted snow, and a faint... metallic scraping sound. But when he focused his attention, it was gone.

This is not just his illusion.

For the past two weeks, the entire camp, from the lowest-ranking bondservant aha to the most elite white-armored soldiers, has lived in a state of constant, low-intensity fear.

You never know when the sentry post on the edge of the camp will suddenly lose contact, and the sentry's body will be found in the early morning with a slit throat or an inconspicuous little hole in his chest.

You never know when the area where grain and fodder are stored will suddenly catch fire. The fire, fueled by the wind, will instantly devour the precious grain. By the time you extinguish it, the arsonist will have already vanished without a trace.

You never know when a cold arrow might slip through the tent cracks while you're fast asleep, landing precisely on the leader's pillow, or taking a life outright.

The Ming army will not engage you in direct combat.

They are like shadows, like ghosts, appearing silently when the wind and snow are at their fiercest and people are most exhausted, causing death and chaos, and then disappearing into the vast snowfield.

If you chase after them, you'll find nothing but messy footprints that will soon be covered by fresh snow. Often, the pursuers will also step into traps or be spotted by sniper shots from afar.

I dare not let my guard down during the day, and I dare not sleep soundly at night.

The food supply is being continuously depleted without being replenished.

The wounded soldiers, unable to receive effective medical treatment, died one by one in the cold and despair. Morale had already plummeted, and many were left with only numbness and a bleak outlook of waiting to die.

The atmosphere inside the central command tent was even more oppressive than outside.

The charcoal brazier burned brightly, yet it couldn't dispel the biting chill inside the tent—a chill that emanated from the depths of everyone's hearts.

Dorgon, wrapped in a thick fur coat, was still shivering slightly.

It wasn't coldness, it was anger, and fear. Standing before him were Daishan, Ajige, and Jirhalang, all of them with ashen faces.

"More than a hundred more died and more than thirty were wounded. Nearly 10% of the grain and fodder were burned."

Dai Shan reported the losses of the previous night in a dry voice.

"Several Niru chieftains have jointly petitioned for orders: either go out and fight the Ming dogs, or... set up camp somewhere else. We really can't stay here any longer."

"Compete? What will we use to compete?"

Ajige roared with bloodshot eyes.

"Going out is suicide! The Ming dogs' muskets can fire even farther in the snow! They'd love for us to get out!"

"So, are we just going to wait here to die?"

Jirhalang's voice trembled.

"Our food supplies are dwindling, and morale is crumbling. If this drags on for another half a month, we'll collapse on our own, without even needing any intervention from the enemy!"

The crowd was in an uproar, with despair and anxiety clashing within the cramped tent.

"enough!"

Daishan, who had been silent all along, suddenly slammed his hand on the table, his white beard trembling uncontrollably. He looked at the silent Dorgon and hissed:

"Fourteenth Brother, we can't hesitate any longer! We can't stay in Liaodong! The Ming dogs are slowly wearing us down, trying to kill us! We have to leave, leave immediately!"

Dorgon slowly raised his head, his eyes bloodshot:
"Then let's go!"

The order was issued swiftly: abandon all unnecessary baggage, take only weapons, food, and winter clothing, and the entire army should move eastward at top speed toward the Yalu River!
That night, the Jurchen camp began to be dismantled amidst a depressing chaos.

Many wounded soldiers who couldn't be carried away were abandoned in the cold tents, uttering desperate cries. But these cries were quickly drowned out by the officers' shouts and the sound of horses' hooves. When fleeing for their lives, no one looked back.

Unbeknownst to them, in the snow-covered forest just outside the camp, several pairs of cold eyes were silently watching everything through binoculars.

Then, several well-trained falcons took off, carrying the intelligence, and disappeared into the snowstorm in the southeast.

The wolf has successfully driven its prey into the designated enclosure.

Seoul, Korea, Gyeongbokgung Palace.

Both were swept by howling winds, but the cold of the Korean capital carried a sticky, bone-deep despair, completely different from the brutal and bloodthirsty atmosphere of Liaodong.

Inside the main hall, although the doors and windows were tightly closed and there were many charcoal braziers, there was still not much warmth.

The chill came from the kneeling, trembling civil and military officials, and from the deathly pale-faced Prince Li, who seemed to be shrinking into his oversized royal robes, on the throne.

"Great... Maharaja."

The voice of the Chief Councilor, Jin Liu, echoed in the empty hall, trembling uncontrollably.

"North... six hundred li to the north! The Jurchens... the Jurchen army has abandoned Liaodong and is marching day and night towards our Yalu River border! The vanguard... the vanguard is already within a hundred li of the riverbank!"

"boom--!"

Despite having a premonition, the hall was still in an uproar when the news was officially confirmed.

The civil officials were pale-faced, exchanging glances in terror. The military officers, on the other hand, kept their heads down, silent, their knuckles white as they gripped their sword hilts.

"How...how many soldiers?"

Li's voice was as thin as a whisper, tinged with sobs.

"The scouts estimate that there are at least... over 100,000 left!"

Jin Liu closed his eyes and uttered this despairing number.

More than 100,000! And these were the Jurchen Eight Banners who had survived countless battles! The total number of soldiers that Korea could muster in the entire country, those who could be called "warriors," was no more than 50,000 or 60,000, and they were scattered in various places with outdated equipment. How could they possibly resist?
"Your Majesty...where is Your Majesty?!"

An old minister suddenly collapsed to the ground, banging his head on the ground and wailing loudly.

"With the nation in peril, how can Your Majesty abandon the ancestral temples and the people!"

This cry seemed to open a floodgate. The hall was instantly filled with sobs, complaints, and desperate sighs.

"And the Crown Prince! His Highness the Crown Prince has also been captured by the Jurchens, and his fate is unknown!"

"Lord Fenglin is far away in the Ming Dynasty, beyond our reach!"

"Heavens above! Why has my Korea suffered such a calamity!"

Li listened to the wailing below, his body trembling like a leaf in the wind.

How could he not resent it? He resented his father, Emperor Li Zong, for going to Shenyang to pay homage, only to never return.

I blame myself for being so useless. Faced with a crisis, my mind went blank, and I couldn't even utter a coherent sentence.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but his throat seemed blocked, and he could only make a "hoarse" gasping sound.

Finally, he looked pleadingly at the prince, who stood ramrod straight, his expression equally solemn yet relatively calm.

Jin Liu sighed inwardly. He knew that this Great King could not be relied upon.

Right now, the only hope is... "Report—!"

Suddenly, a sharp and urgent voice came from outside the hall announcing something.

"A secret envoy from the Great Ming... has arrived from the Great Ming! Presenting a confidential letter personally written by His Highness the Crown Prince of the Great Ming!"

Like a drowning person grasping at a last straw, the hall fell into a deathly silence, and everyone's eyes turned sharply to the hall door.

A middle-aged man, travel-worn and dressed as a merchant, but with sharp eyes and a composed demeanor, strode in, guided by a palace attendant. Ignoring the various glances directed at him from either side, he walked straight to the center of the hall, clasped his hands in a respectful greeting to King Li on the throne, and spoke in a clear, resonant voice:
"Chen Zhen, a centurion of the Northern Garrison of the Embroidered Uniform Guard under the command of His Highness the Crown Prince of the Great Ming Dynasty, has come overnight to deliver a secret letter to the King of Joseon and all the lords, by order of His Highness the Crown Prince!"

Having said that, he took out a copper tube sealed with wax and bearing a special seal from his personal pocket and held it high.

Jin Liu stepped forward quickly, took the copper tube, checked it and found it to be correct, then opened it himself and took out a roll of plain silk inside.

He quickly scanned the crowd, his expression shifting several times. Then, he took a deep breath, faced the assembly, and said loudly:
"His Highness the Crown Prince of the Great Ming Dynasty wrote in his letter: His Majesty the King is currently settled in the Shenyang Imperial Palace and is safe and sound. Please do not worry!"

Upon hearing this, a complex murmur of exasperation filled the hall.

The fact that the king is still alive is some consolation, but it also confirms the fact that he "abandoned the country".

Jin Liu continued reading:

"His Highness the Crown Prince has already discerned the Jurchens' treacherous plot to flee eastward. However, our Celestial Empire's army is on a long march to Liaodong, and the transport of provisions is fraught with difficulties, which cannot be accomplished overnight. His Highness has ordered that the Kingdom of Korea immediately mobilize the entire nation to deploy defenses along the Yalu River, resolutely defending the borders and hindering the Jurchens' advance, so that our Celestial Empire's army may be well-supplied and ready to cross the river to sweep away their foes, avenge your nation's humiliation, and save your people from suffering!"

As Jin Liu read this, his voice trembled slightly. The hall erupted in another uproar.

"Defend to the death? What can we use to defend?"

"When will the Celestial Empire's army arrive? How long will it take for supplies to be ready? One month? Two months? Can we hold off the Jurchens for ten days?"

"This...this is just sending my Korean soldiers to their deaths to buy them time!"

Whispers of complaints, doubts, and discontent hummed in the air.

Chen Zhen remained expressionless, simply standing there quietly, his gaze sweeping over the crowd with an undeniable air of authority.

Jin Liu suppressed the turmoil in his heart. He knew that this was the last chance and the only "order".

He turned to the throne and raised his voice: "Your Majesty! His Highness the Crown Prince's decree has arrived! Our Joseon has been blessed by the Ming Emperor for generations. At this critical moment, we have no choice but to fight with all our might and hold our ground while awaiting reinforcements. Only then can we have a glimmer of hope! If we abandon our borders, even if we are lucky for a moment, what face will we have to face the heavenly army when they arrive? How will the Joseon dynasty continue?"

His words were half encouragement and half threat.

The last sentence, in particular, points out the crux of the matter—if we don't defend it, even if the Jurchens don't come for the time being, the Ming Dynasty will settle scores later, and the Li Dynasty will be finished.

Li was intimidated by this imposing aura, and upon hearing that his father was "safe and sound," a sliver of his pitiful courage seemed to return.

He raised his hand with trembling hands, his voice still weak, but at least coherent:
"What the Chief Councilor said is very true. I hereby issue the decree: the whole nation must prepare for war! We must defend the Yalu River to the death! Everything... everything shall be discussed and implemented by the Chief Councilor and all the ministers!"

The order was given in an almost childish manner.

But having received the order, Jin Liu felt somewhat relieved and immediately began assigning tasks, deploying troops, and urging various regions to collect provisions and weapons, creating a flurry of activity.

Having completed his mission, Chen Zhen quietly withdrew from the main hall.

Stepping out of the palace gates, the cold air invigorated him. He glanced back at the majestic yet lifeless Gyeongbokgung Palace in the twilight, a barely perceptible cold smile playing on his lips.

Delay, chaos, despair, and then... hope.

His Highness the Crown Prince's chess moves are incredibly precise, each step executed with unparalleled accuracy.

He pulled his straw hat down low and quickly disappeared into the dimly lit streets of Seoul. He had another task—to stir up the waters even more.

Meanwhile, Chief Councilor Kim Ryu returned to his residence, dismissed his attendants, and sat alone in his study, his face ashen as he looked at the secret letter.

He cursed under his breath, cursing both Li Zong, who had abandoned his country and fled, and the secret letter that seemed to be a rescue but was actually a death warrant.

"Let us take the hits first... Crown Prince of Ming, what a cunning scheme!"

He gritted his teeth, yet was utterly helpless. Because, as he had said in court, they had no other choice.

They would either die under the Jurchen swords or... die in the Ming Dynasty's schemes, and then pray that the latter would fulfill that slim promise of "restoring the country".

The night in Wangjing grew ever deeper amidst panic and undercurrents.

Liaodong, Shenyang.

In contrast to the panic and chaos in North Korea, a peculiar and vibrant scene of activity is unfolding both inside and outside Shenyang.

The snow continued to fall, but the soldiers and laborers organized by the authorities had cleared the snow from the main streets, revealing the bluestone pavement. Many shops along the streets had reopened, selling simple food, coarse cloth, needles and thread. Although there weren't many customers, the shopkeepers' faces no longer showed the sorrow of the past, but rather a cautious anticipation.

Even more eye-catching were the several soup kitchens.

A large iron pot was set up in the open air, with honeycomb briquettes burning brightly underneath, and thick millet porridge with wild vegetables and a little salt bubbling inside.

People, dressed in rags but whose faces were no longer so emaciated, lined up in an orderly fashion. The soldiers responsible for maintaining order were no longer fierce-looking; sometimes they would even help the elderly and children carry their bowls.

Another long queue was forming in front of a spacious courtyard in the city center.

This is not a soup kitchen, but a "petition office." A prominent notice is posted at the entrance of the courtyard, stating that anyone oppressed by the Jurchens, local tyrants, or corrupt officials, and harboring deep-seated hatred, may come here to petition and report. Once verified, the court will surely uphold justice for you and severely punish the wicked!
Just then, a handsome young man walked out of the courtyard, accompanied by several clerks and a small squad of Ming soldiers.

This person was none other than Zhu Cilang.

He wasn't dressed in the robes of a prince, but rather like an ordinary scholar. Yet, his composed demeanor caused the surrounding people to fall silent and focus their attention on him.

Zhu Cilang walked to the notice board and gently swept his gaze over the queuing crowd. Among them were sallow-faced and emaciated Han Chinese farmers, Mongolian women with fearful and evasive eyes, and even a few elderly people with thin braids hanging down their backs and dressed in tattered Manchu attire. They all kept their heads down and dared not meet his eyes.

"Gentlemen."

Zhu Cilang spoke, his voice not loud, but it clearly reached everyone's ears.

"Don't be afraid. The court set up this 'Petition Office' not to investigate what you were forced to do in the past, what clothes you wore, or what hairstyle you had."

He paused, then pointed to the notice:
"The court will investigate those villains who, relying on the power of the Jurchens, bully men and women, seize land, and commit murder! They are the parasites who drink the blood and eat the flesh of the people! No matter if they are Han, Manchu, Mongol, or from another tribe, as long as they commit crimes and harm people, the court's sword will not spare them!"

A low murmur arose in the crowd, and many people looked up, a faint flame igniting in their eyes.

“Among you, some have suffered, some have witnessed the murder of their loved ones, and have no place to seek redress for their grievances or to express their hatred!”

Zhu Cilang's voice rose, carrying a convincing power.

"Today, your chance is here! Go in and tell the officials who he is and what he did. The authorities will investigate and verify. If it's true, I'll give you an explanation within three days!"

His gaze, sharp as lightning, swept over the elderly men dressed as Manchus:

"That includes you too. I know that many of you were forced into this situation, and your lives are not necessarily better than those of the Han people. As long as you haven't done anything wrong, you will still receive grain, coal, and shelter. If you know of anyone who has done wrong, you can speak up! The court can distinguish between good and evil!"

These words were like a drop of boiling oil thrown into a pond.

The crowd erupted in cheers. (End of Chapter)