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

Occupying these ruins is not the end of victory, but the beginning of another, more difficult and desperate battle.

The Ming army was located north of the river and at sea, and countless hateful eyes were hidden in the mountains and forests of Korea.

But right now, they need food, they need rest, and they need to catch their breath from the extreme exhaustion of months of fleeing and fighting.

These palace ruins, at least, provided walls, offering a tiny bit of illusory "security."

"The first thing."

Dorgon returned to the main tent, which had just been prepared and covered with tiger skins, and spoke in a deep voice to Jirgalang, Ajige, and the others who had just returned.

"Food. Our food reserves are only enough for ten days. Seoul has been ravaged several times, and there's very little left. Immediately send troops, under the pretext of 'collecting military rations to support the new king,' to Gyeonggi Province, Chungcheong Province, and even Jeolla Province! Tell the leaders not to hold back, take as much as they can! Especially rice! We need rice! Without food, everything is just empty talk!"

"Second, redeploy our defenses. We must immediately ascertain the terrain around Seoul. We need to know which passes can be defended, which mountain paths are passable, which direction the Ming army might come from, and where the navy might land. We need to figure all that out! Our flintlock muskets and bows and arrows must be positioned in key locations. Tell the men that the good days are yet to come, so be on your guard! The Ming dogs have formidable firearms, but we have city walls and mountains, so we may not be without the strength to fight them!"

Orders were issued one after another, tinged with bloodshed and anxiety.

The Jurchen war machine, which was on the verge of collapse, barely started up again after occupying the symbolic high ground of Seoul, and began a final, desperate deployment and plunder.

As night fell, the shadows of the ruins were torn apart by the light of the torches.

Inside the main tent, Dorgon dismissed his attendants, leaving himself alone.

He walked to the edge of the tent, lifted a corner, and looked out at the flickering firelight, the undulating outline of Seoul in the darkness further away, and beyond that outline, the boundless Korean mountains and rivers that concealed countless dangers.

A cold wind swept in, carrying the acrid smell of ruins and the faint sound of weeping in the distance.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his palms.

King of Ruins.

He chuckled self-deprecatingly.

Yeah.

Let's start from these ruins. Either fight our way out, or... perish here.

In the following days, imperial edicts began to appear throughout Korea:

"By the decree of the Regent! The army is encamped and supplies are scarce! All subjects of Joseon, regardless of whether they are scholars, farmers, artisans, or merchants, should be mindful of the hardships endured by the royal army and eagerly contribute their stored grain to supply the military! Anyone who disobeys this order and fails to deliver grain or supplies, or who conceals grain or supplies, will be considered a traitor and executed without pardon! Their property will be confiscated and their houses burned down!"

The elaborately written notices were plastered all over the remaining city gates and street corners of Seoul, but in practice, there was no room for any "consideration" or "implementation".

The Jurchens' hunger, like a plague, drove their equally starving soldiers.

Squads of fierce Jurchen soldiers, led by Niru Ejen or lower-ranking officers, armed with flintlock muskets, bows and arrows, swords and spears, kicked open tightly closed or already dilapidated doors.

They were no longer soldiers; they were more like hyenas driven mad by hunger, their eyes fixed on the green light of food.

"Hand over the grain!"

"Search the rice bin! The cellar!"

"Dare to hide even a single grain of rice, and I'll slaughter your entire family!"

The sounds of cursing, wailing, begging for mercy, beatings, shattering porcelain, and overturned chests and cabinets echoed throughout the streets and alleys of Seoul.

The slightest resistance, or even just a slight slowness in movement, will be met with a gleaming blade slashing down without hesitation.

Blood splattered on the already filthy walls and floor, quickly trampled into dark red mud by messy footprints.

The soldiers roughly searched every corner, leaving no stone unturned—rice bins, earthenware pots, stoves, even the kang (heated brick bed) holes.

They stole not only the old rice, but also the remaining beans, pickled vegetables, and even the bran used to feed the livestock.

Valuable valuables, fabrics, and bronzeware were naturally also destroyed. Often, all that was left for a family in the end were smashed furniture, broken pots and pans, the corpses of their loved ones lying in pools of blood, and their wives and daughters who had been forcibly dragged away, their cries deafening.

"Sir! Please have mercy! This is the last bit of food my whole family has to survive! Please have mercy..."

An elderly woman with white hair knelt on the ground, tightly clutching a cloth bag containing half a sack of coarse rice that a soldier was about to snatch away, tears streaming down her face.

"Get out of my way, you old geezer!"

The soldier impatiently kicked her away. The old woman screamed and crashed into the wall, curling up and falling silent.

The soldier weighed the rice sack in his hand, cursing under his breath:

"Damn it, that's all? Not even enough to fill a tooth gap! What bad luck!"

Such scenes play out day after day in and around Seoul, in Chungcheong Province, Gangwon Province, and even in more remote villages.

The Jurchen invaders, like locusts swarming across the land, devoured the last vestiges of green on the Korean soil. The already devastated villages, ravaged by war, were reduced to utter ghouls. No smoke rose from chimneys, fields lay barren, and the roads were littered with the corpses of starving people and scattered bones.

The looted grain was quickly concentrated in a newly built, simple but heavily guarded temporary granary in the "Royal Palace" area of ​​Seoul.

But this small gain is nothing compared to the 200,000 hungry mouths.

Hunger, like a persistent, insidious disease, continued to spread throughout the military camp. Soldiers' rations were repeatedly rationed, with many receiving only a bowl of watery porridge each day, so thin you could see your reflection in it. Discontent and resentment festered, and fights and even murders over a meager meal became frequent.

In the days that followed, the area around Seoul turned into a huge, chaotic construction site.

Ragged Jurchen soldiers drove more emaciated Korean laborers to cut down trees, dig soil, and move stones. Simple camps, crude trenches, and crooked watchtowers sprang up like poisonous mushrooms along the banks of the Han River, at mountain passes, and among the ruins of cities.

The atmosphere was tense and oppressive, with the constant cracking of whips and shouts from the overseers.

Further afield, the Jurchen troops dispatched to various defensive lines did not forget to plunder during their marches.

Like a comb, they combed the land along the way, which had already been combed countless times, one last time, squeezing out the last drop of oil. The suffering of the North Korean people had reached its peak.

However, the more ruthless the plundering and the longer the defensive line, the deeper the unease and fear in the hearts of the Jurchen soldiers.

The grain they plundered had to be prioritized for the physical labor required to build fortifications, leaving less and less for them to eat.

Many soldiers toiled in the cold wind, their hands and feet frostbitten, yet they received no proper medical treatment. The officers' whips and reprimands could not dispel the pervasive sense of uncertainty and despair about the future that filled the army.

In private, when the Niru Ejen (tribes) gathered together for drinks, they would sometimes complain in hushed tones:
"How can we defend such a long line? If the Ming army bombards it, won't it collapse?"

"Food is running low every day, and people are so hungry they can barely lift a knife. What kind of fortifications are we building?"

"I heard that Cao Cao in the north has over 100,000 men, all armed with modern firearms... How many rounds can our dilapidated village withstand?" "Sigh, let's just take it one step at a time... Hopefully, the Regent will have a solution..."

Hope, like a candle flickering in the wind, sways precariously in the early spring chill.

In contrast, the North Korean people are burning with a flame of hatred and hope.

The Jurchens' atrocities burned away even the last vestiges of hope and hesitation.

More and more desperate people fled into the mountains with their families, seeking resistance groups like those led by Li Shibai. They guided the resistance, relayed messages, and even attacked lone Jurchen soldiers with rudimentary weapons.

Intelligence about the Jurchens' troop deployments, supply routes, and officers' daily routines was transmitted through various clandestine channels across the mountains to the north, to the other side of the Yalu River, and to the eyes and ears of the Ming army.

An invisible net, woven from hatred and hope, is quietly tightening both inside and outside the Jurchens' supposedly impregnable defenses.

In the western suburbs of Seoul, about three miles from the ruins of the "Royal Palace," at the end of a secluded alley, there is an inconspicuous house.

The courtyard walls were low, the doors were mottled, and there were only a few ordinary tile-roofed houses inside. Compared with the dilapidated houses around it that had been burned and looted, it could barely be considered a complete place to live.

This is the residence that Dorgon "arranged" for Fan Wencheng and his family.

It was called an "arrangement," but in reality it was a form of exile and neglect.

The former "chief civil official" and "confidant strategist" has now become an awkward figure, dispensable and imprisoned.

Night had fallen, and a cold wind seeped in through the cracks in the tattered window paper, making a soft "whooshing" sound, like the wailing of ghosts.

The room was lit by only a small oil lamp, its light dim and yellow, barely illuminating the small space.

Fan Wencheng, wearing a worn cotton robe, sat alone on the cold edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), unconsciously stroking a warm, smooth Tianhuang stone seal engraved with the character "Fan" in his hand—one of the few old things he had brought from his hometown outside the Great Wall.

Outside, the faint sounds of family members and the two remaining old servants talking in hushed tones, filled with fear, and the rustling of things being packed could be heard.

They were also filled with fear and were making futile preparations, even though everyone knew that they could not escape to where they were trapped in this inescapable net.
Fan Wencheng seemed oblivious to all of this. His gaze was unfocused, fixed on the flickering lamplight, his thoughts drifting far, far away, back to his study in his hometown within the Great Wall, back to the brightly lit literary academy during the reign of Huang Taiji, back to those sleepless nights he had spent tirelessly planning for the Qing Dynasty's conquest of the Central Plains…

"A good bird chooses its tree to perch on..."

He murmured to himself, his voice dry and hoarse, filled with endless self-mockery and bitterness.

Back then, he was so arrogant and proud of his talent. He was unwilling to be a lowly official in the Ming Dynasty. Seeing the corruption of the Ming Dynasty's bureaucracy and the deterioration of the border affairs, he thought he had found the "mandate of heaven". He resolutely went north and served Nurhaci and Huang Taiji, who were as rising as the sun.

He established rules and regulations for them, translated Chinese classics, offered advice and suggestions, handled civil affairs, and even participated in confidential matters, sowing discord between the Ming Dynasty's emperor and his ministers... He believed himself to be an unparalleled talent like Yi Yin and Lü Shang, assisting a great ruler in establishing a new dynasty, leaving his name in history, and benefiting his descendants.

He did indeed receive important responsibilities and honors.

The head of the Han officials, a Grand Secretary of the Inner Court, was regarded as a confidant by Huang Taiji, and Dorgon treated him with courtesy in his early years. The Fan family was also once very prominent.

But now?

The mighty ruler has long since turned to dust, and the so-called "Great Qing" dragon flag was torn to shreds in Liaodong. Now, it stands like a tattered rag on the ruins of this scorched land in Korea, trembling in fear.

The "great cause" he assisted in became a mirage, a huge and bloody joke.

And what will the cost be?

Fan Wencheng gripped the Tianhuang seal tightly, his knuckles turning white.

He thought of his eldest son, Fan Wencai, the intelligent and filial son on whom he had placed his hopes. He had been separated from his family by the fleeing soldiers and had never been heard from again. He must have long since become a skeleton in a mass grave.

He thought of his youngest daughter, a cheerful and lively girl like a flower, who caught a cold during the long, cold winter after fleeing Shenyang. Lacking medical care and medicine, she slowly grew cold in his arms and died before she was even fourteen years old.

After this blow, my wife fell seriously ill and is now barely clinging to life, spending her days in tears.

The family was destroyed, and the descendants were few and far between.

This is the reward for his "choosing the right tree to perch on".

And what about the Ming Dynasty people whose cities fell and whose homes were destroyed because of his schemes, and the innocent lives who were displaced and slaughtered in the war? Could some of their blood also be attributed to him?
"Retribution...is this all retribution?"

He raised his head and looked into the darkness of the roof. Finally, the turbid tears in his eyes could no longer be held back and trickled down his deep wrinkles.

"God, are you punishing me, Fan Wencheng, for betraying my ancestors, recognizing a thief as my father, and aiding and abetting evil?"

No one answered. Only the cold wind howled.

He slowly got up, walked unsteadily to the door, and pushed open the creaking, broken wooden door.

The cool moonlight poured into the courtyard like mercury, illuminating the outlines of the overgrown weeds and lingering snow, as well as his aged, haggard face, like a candle flickering in the wind.

He looked up at the desolate, lonely moon in the sky.

The moonlight was cold, as if it could penetrate the deepest darkness and regret in people's hearts.

Would escaping to North Korea be of any use?

Fan Wencheng knew this better than anyone else.

It's useless. Utterly useless. He had already assessed the strength of the Ming army based on scattered intelligence and his understanding of the Ming Dynasty's potential.

That wasn't simply a matter of military strength; it was a comprehensive and suffocating crushing defeat.

The new firearms were merely the surface; behind them lay the terrifying coordination, organizational skills, and unfathomable strategic vision displayed by the young crown prince.

They were surrounded on this ruin, with no food or supplies inside and no reinforcements outside. The people had lost their support, and the army was in disarray.

Their demise is only a matter of time. And it won't be long.

As the chief "traitor" who betrayed the Ming Dynasty, and as one of the notorious "culprits" who devised strategies for the Jurchens, Fan Wencheng knew what his fate would be if he fell into the hands of the Ming army.

Lingchi? Gripping? Imprisonment of nine generations of relatives? He could almost picture the scene, and hear the curses and cheers of the world.

He was not particularly afraid of death.

Having lived to such an old age and experienced so much, death may be a relief.

But he feared that kind of disgraceful and infamous death, that the Fan family would be wiped out, becoming a permanent negative example in history books, nailed to the pillar of shame, and despised for all eternity.

Regret, like a venomous snake, gnawed at his heart day and night. (End of Chapter)