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

In the streets and alleys, amidst the merriment of drinking, the people no longer spoke of suffering and fear, but rather of which barren land to sow in the coming spring, what kind of seeds the imperial court would provide, and—

"Have you heard? The Emperor is going to send troops to Korea to fight the Jurchens!"

"Fight! They deserve to fight! Kill those beasts completely!"

"His Majesty is a benevolent ruler; he will surely win! Then, Liaodong will be even more peaceful!"

"Who knows, maybe in the future North Korea will also be like us and won't have to pay so many taxes!"

His words revealed absolute trust in the emperor and boundless confidence in the military might of the Ming Dynasty. He even unconsciously began to include the future of "Korea" in the blueprint of "Ming".

On several occasions, Emperor Chongzhen traveled incognito through the streets of Shenyang under the covert protection of Zhu Cilang and his guards. Listening to the heartfelt praise of the people and seeing their genuine smiles, the sense of accomplishment and responsibility he felt as an emperor had never been so clear and so heavy.

On the fifth day of the first lunar month, in Liaodong, off the coast of Dalian.

Here, there is no warmth or celebration like in Shenyang, only an endless, leaden-gray sea and a salty, piercing sea breeze that cuts like a knife across the face. The sky hangs low, and although the heavy snow has stopped, the snow flakes whipped up by the cold wind and the icy spray from the waves mix together, instantly freezing into ice crystals when they hit your face.

However, on this frigid and desolate sea, a breathtaking scene unfolds.

As far as the eye can see, from the harbor near the shore to the horizon in the distance, masts are densely packed like a forest, and sails block out the sun! Hundreds of ships of different sizes and shapes almost fill the entire Jinzhou Bay.

There were massive Fujian and Guangdong ships, like floating castles; faster sand ships and bird ships; and even a few long, slender warships with gun ports on the sides, clearly in a Western style.

Thick frost covered the masts and rigging of all the ships, and the hulls creaked and groaned as they rose and fell with the waves.

This is where the main force of Zheng Zhilong's Ming Dynasty navy and the civilian ships he requisitioned gathered.

At this moment, they are carrying out what is perhaps the largest and most dangerous winter sea transport operation in the empire since the Wanli era.

"Quickly! Hurry up and make sure the rope is tied securely! If you fall into the sea, no one will be able to rescue you!"

The harsh roar echoed across the dock.

Wearing bulky cotton-padded coats and with cheeks red from the cold, laborers and soldiers chanted work songs as they unloaded heavy sacks of grain, bundles of tightly packed cotton cloth, and boxes of ammunition sealed with "Caution: Fire" stickers from the docked ships. They then transported these goods across long gangplanks to a makeshift warehouse area on the dock, covered with thick straw mats and tarpaulins to protect it from rain and snow.

Outside the warehouse area, there were guards every three steps and sentries every five steps, all of them elite soldiers of the Yongwei Battalion, fully armored and armed with new-style rifles.

Their gazes were sharp as eagles, scanning everyone who approached, seemingly unaffected by the chill.

Anyone attempting to approach without a specific badge or warrant will be unceremoniously driven away, or even apprehended on the spot.

On the sea, more ships are lined up, waiting to dock.

On some ships, sailors and escorting soldiers were desperately pounding the increasingly thick ice on the hulls and decks with long bamboo poles and axes.

Breaking ice chunks kept crashing into the sea. Sailing in such weather risked capsizing the ships and damaging the cargo with moisture, but no one dared to stop.

A Fujian-style ship, having just unloaded its cargo, slowly sailed away from the dock, its large "Zheng" flag fluttering in the cold wind.

On the deck, a middle-aged man, dressed in a heavy mink coat, with a face tanned and rough by the sea wind, but with eyes as sharp as lightning, was holding a telescope and silently watching the busy dock and the massive fleet of ships on the sea in the distance.

He is Zheng Zhibao, Zheng Zhilong's elder brother, and he was in charge of transporting supplies this time!
"Sir, this is the third batch today."

Beside him, a seasoned general whispered.

"Ships from Dengzhou, Laizhou, and Tianjin have been arriving almost non-stop. The main supplies are grain, gunpowder, and cotton clothing, as well as 'field rations,' medicine, shovels, pickaxes, and even... honeycomb briquettes, as specially ordered by His Highness the Crown Prince. The warehouses at the port are almost overflowing."

Zheng Zhibao put down his binoculars and exhaled a puff of white breath:
"If there's not enough room, we'll build more! The Crown Prince said that this battle in the spring is a war of annihilation, a contest not only of guns and cannons, but also of logistics! Our navy is the lifeblood of the army! Not a single grain of rice, not a single bullet of ammunition, can be wasted in our hands!"

He looked north, towards North Korea, his gaze deep and thoughtful.

"That old bastard Dorgon is probably starving to death right now, scrambling every last drop of profit in that poor place called Korea. We, on the other hand, must make sure our soldiers at the front are well-fed, well-clothed, and have plenty of ammunition! This icy sea supply route is the noose around the necks of the Jurchens; every ship we transport across the sea tightens that noose a little more!"

"Understood, sir!"

The general said solemnly, "The brothers all know what's important, and no one dares to slack off. It's just this damn weather..."

"weather?"

Zheng Zhibao grinned, revealing his teeth stained yellow by tobacco.

“Back in my day, I made a living at sea, and I’ve seen way more treacherous weather than this! Tell the brothers, it’s tough, but it’s worth it! Once we’ve wiped out the Jurchens, the Crown Prince and the Emperor will treat us well! Silver, land, and titles—we’ll have them all! But right now, if anyone makes a mistake and delays the military operation…”

A cold glint flashed in his eyes.

"My knife doesn't discriminate!"

"Yes!"

The general's heart skipped a beat, and he loudly obeyed the order.

Zheng Zhibao said no more and turned to walk towards the cabin.

The cabin was much warmer, with a charcoal brazier burning and a huge nautical chart hanging on the wall, marking the various routes, water depths, reefs, and areas that the Jurchens might threaten from land, from Dengzhou and Laizhou to Liaodong and then to the west coast of Korea.

He stared at the nautical chart, his finger tracing a path from Jinzhou, along the eastern side of the Liaodong Peninsula, all the way to the mouths of the Taedong River and the Han River on the west coast of North Korea.

"After the spring, the land forces crossed the river at Uiju and headed straight for Pyongyang and Seoul. Our navy's mission is twofold: first, to continue safeguarding this vital maritime route; and second..."

His fingers struck the mouth of the Han River heavily.

"From here, sail up the river and head straight for Seoul! Use naval cannons to tell Dorgon that even if he seizes the palace, he's trapped and can't escape!"

He could almost see the massive Ming fleet rushing into the Han River, the cannon fire reflecting red across the water.

February of the eighteenth year of the Chongzhen reign.

The severe cold in Liaodong finally showed signs of fatigue.

Although it was still bitterly cold in the mornings and evenings, the midday sun had already brought some warmth, shining on the snow that had been lingering in the shade for a long time, making the snow surface moist and glistening.

Icicles dripped from the eaves, heralding the arrival of spring. The surface of the frozen ground began to soften; when horses trod upon it, the sound was no longer a crisp, hard crack, but a muffled thud tinged with mud.

South of the Yalu River, spring seems to arrive earlier, and also... more cruelly.

As the snow melted, it revealed the devastated land beneath, repeatedly trampled by war and the iron hooves of the enemy.

The frozen corpses began to rot, mixing with mud and water, emitting an indescribable stench. On the bare branches, the occasional hoarse cries of oblivious crows added to the desolation. Seoul, Gyeonggi Province, North Korea.

This capital city, once known as "Little China," has now completely lost its former prosperity and solemnity, like a giant beast that has been skinned, gutted, and is still twitching slightly, lying prostrate in the cold early spring sunlight.

The city wall has collapsed in many places, and traces of smoke and fire can be seen everywhere.

Sewage flowed freely in the streets, and garbage was everywhere. Occasionally, emaciated people with blank stares would hurry by like ghosts, indifferent to everything around them.

More often, there were corpses lying dead by the roadside, uncollected. The air was filled with a nauseating mixture of burnt, bloody, and rotting stench.

The most shocking scar of this dead city lies at its heart—Gyeongbokgung Palace.

The once magnificent palace, with its carved beams and painted rafters, symbolizing the authority of the Joseon royal family for centuries, has now been reduced to a vast ruin, still emitting wisps of smoke.

The fire had obviously been extinguished for some time, but many of the massive wooden beams and pillars were still not completely burned, their charred skeletons pointing menacingly towards the sky.

Bright yellow glazed tiles shattered on the ground, mixed with charred charcoal, twisted metal components, and broken white marble railings.

Several major palaces, such as Sizheng Hall and Kangning Hall, are now reduced to a few blackened ruins that barely mark their former outlines.

The wind howled through the ruins, swirling up ashes that danced in the air.

Dorgon stood on horseback in the square in front of Guanghua Gate.

Behind him were generals such as Ajige and Daishanjirhalang, as well as a large number of elite Eight Banners soldiers, fully armored but unable to hide their exhaustion and hunger.

They stared at the ruins before them, and for a moment no one spoke, only the warhorses snorted uneasily.

What sustained them through their burning, killing, and looting was not only the instinct for survival, but also the illusory hope of "occupying the capital and enjoying victory."

After all, their fathers and grandfathers had once conquered Shenyang and Liaoyang, enjoying the thrill of capturing enemy capitals. But the ruins before them were like a bucket of ice water, poured over the hearts of many.

"Who did this?!"

Ajige was the first to erupt. He spurred his horse forward a few steps, brandishing his whip at the ruins, his anger barely contained.

"How dare they set fire to this place! Investigate! Find them out for me! Skin them alive! I'll chop them up and feed them to the dogs!"

Dorgon's face was expressionless, showing neither anger nor disappointment, only an unfathomable coldness.

He slowly spurred his horse, stepping over the rubble and ashes, and walked deeper into the ruins.

The horses' hooves made a soft "rustling" sound as they stepped on the coke.

"No need to investigate further."

His voice was eerily calm, echoing through the empty ruins.

"Either they are those self-proclaimed loyal Korean remnants, preferring death to dishonor. Or..."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the dilapidated palace walls in the distance, as if he could see through the eyes hidden behind them.

"It's the people of the Ming Dynasty who don't want us to sit here comfortably."

He reined in his horse and stopped it in a relatively open space, which had once been the square in front of the palace. There was less ash here, and the ground was made of cracked bricks.

"Clean it out."

Dorgon issued the order, his voice leaving no room for argument.

"Right here, I will set up my main tent. The other banners will each choose their own camps within the palace grounds. As for the palace itself..."

He looked up at the remaining, towering palace walls and gate towers:
"The walls are still there, the gates are still there. Clean this place up and plant our flags. From today onwards, this will be our camp, our new 'capital'!"

"Fourteenth brother, this..."

Jirhalang hesitated for a moment.

"How can authority be demonstrated amidst ruins? Perhaps another option should be chosen..."

"So what if it's ruins?"

Dorgon interrupted him, his gaze sharp as a knife.

"When Zhu Yuanzhang ascended the throne in Nanjing, the imperial palace wasn't built in a day! The important thing is that we are standing here! Standing atop the palace of the King of Joseon! That's enough! Ruins are just right! Let those Korean bastards see what happens when they don't submit to us! Let the Ming Dynasty see that even standing on ruins, we are still a powerful force they need to look up to!"

His sophistry, though seemingly unreasonable, carried a kind of obsessive and madness born of desperation, which surprisingly stirred up the last vestiges of pride and resentment in his subordinates.

"Yes! The Regent is right! Let's stand right here and infuriate those Ming lackeys!"

"Get it ready! Let those Korean bastards know who's in charge!"

The command was executed swiftly.

The Eight Banners soldiers began clearing away the ruins, cursing and swearing, moving large pieces of timber and stone, leveling the ground, and setting up tents.

More people, like hungry wolves unleashed, pounced on the areas of Seoul that had not yet been thoroughly looted, launching a new and even more thorough plundering. Cries, shouts, and the sounds of smashing and vandalism once again shattered the deathly silence of Seoul's morning.

At the same time, an edict issued in the name of Dorgon, the "Regent Prince of the Great Qing and Minister appointed to assist in governing the country," was quickly copied and posted on the remaining city gates and markets of Seoul, and sent by fast horse to various provinces.

The core of the edict is very simple:
It condemned King Yi Jong of Joseon for being "foolish and immoral, abandoning his country and fleeing to war, causing chaos in the nation," and announced that "the Great Qing" should, in response to "the tearful pleas of the Joseon royal family and subjects," send troops to "relieve the people and punish the guilty," and "support the virtuous and illustrious Crown Prince Yi to ascend the throne and oversee the country, so as to secure the nation."

The edict demanded that officials, soldiers, and civilians throughout Korea "quickly come and submit to the cause and join in the grand undertaking," and that past transgressions would be forgiven. However, if they "remain stubborn and obstinate, and aid the wicked," then "when the heavenly army arrives, everything will be destroyed!"
In front of a newly erected, enormous bright yellow tent with brocade dragon patterns, Crown Prince Sohyeon, supported by two expressionless soldiers in white armor, wore an ill-fitting, slightly oversized Korean crown prince's robe. His face was ashen, his eyes vacant, and he was like a puppet, allowing Dorgon's guards to manipulate him. Before a few trembling former Korean officials who had been forced to come and "observe" the ceremony, he made a simple, silent "appearance."

There were no cheers, no worship, only deathly silence, and the undisguised fear and...pity in the eyes of those former officials.

Dorgon didn't care.

He knew the performance was poorly acted and the excuse was full of holes.

But what he wanted was not the genuine allegiance of the Koreans, at least not now. What he wanted was a fig leaf, a pretext to temporarily issue orders and plunder supplies, a symbol to stabilize morale and tell the exhausted soldiers, "We have won, we have captured the territory."

Truly intelligent people, like him, and like the somber-faced generals in the tent, all knew perfectly well what was going on. (End of Chapter)