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

If I hadn't fled north back then? If I had been content to be a poor, lowly official in the Ming Dynasty? Even if I had remained unknown and died in obscurity in my hometown, at least I could have protected my wife and children and preserved my reputation, instead of being like a lost dog now, alone in the cold night of a foreign land, tasting the bitter wine of "betrayal" that I brewed myself.

But there are no "what ifs".

Everything is beyond repair.

Under the moonlight, Fan Wencheng's shadow was stretched long and thin, cast forlornly in the desolate courtyard, appearing extremely bleak and sorrowful.

The cold wind whipped up the snowflakes on the ground and lashed against him, making him shiver, but he was completely unaware of it.

Inside the house, the old servant carefully carried a bowl of still lukewarm porridge to the door and whispered:
"Master, it's late. Come inside and have some porridge to warm yourself up..."

Fan Wencheng slowly turned around, looking at the bowl of clear porridge in the old servant's hand, then at the undisguised fear and worry on the old servant's face. His last bit of support seemed to crumble. He waved his hand, his voice weary as a sigh:

"I'm not drinking anymore... Take it away. You guys... should get some rest too. Pack your things... no need. We can't go anywhere."

The old servant's hand trembled, and he almost spilled the bowl of porridge. He dared not ask any more questions and silently retreated.

Fan Wencheng closed the door again, shutting out the moonlight and the cold wind. He walked back to the kang (a heated brick bed) and blew out the small oil lamp.

The room was suddenly plunged into complete darkness.

Only his heavy breathing and the ceaseless sound of the wind outside the window could be heard.

In this endless darkness and cold, Fan Wencheng sat quietly, waiting. Waiting for the inevitable end, waiting for fate, or Mingjun, to put a final period on his erroneous and tragic life.

The night in Seoul is still long.

But Fan Wencheng felt that his day was about to dawn—the last, cold dawn before death.

February of the eighteenth year of the Chongzhen reign (1644) marked the second month of the standoff between the two banks of the Yalu River.

The mountains and rivers remained frozen in ice and snow, but the pace of war seemed to be halted by the extreme cold.

However, beneath this seemingly frozen stillness, both the Ming and the Jurchens were making their final and most crucial preparations for the impending, fate-determining battle in their own ways.

On the south bank of the Yalu River, the Jurchen defense line.

The Yalu River, once considered an insurmountable barrier, now presents an eerie stillness under a blanket of ice and snow. The river surface is frozen solid, with ice layers several feet thick, enough for horses and carriages to pass through.

However, beneath this seemingly flat ice surface, amidst the frozen soil and snow on both sides of the riverbank, lie countless deadly traps.

Dorgon abandoned the foolish idea of ​​engaging the Ming army in a direct artillery duel on the riverbank. The more than ten thousand warhorse carcasses on the banks of the Liao River, and the volleys of gunfire from the Liaodong front that seemed like divine punishment, had already told him in the most tragic way that in the face of the Ming army's steel and gunpowder power, flesh and blood, no matter how brave, were nothing but cannon fodder.

"Order: Abandon the concentration of troops on the riverbank."

Dorgon's voice was as cold as the ice and snow beneath his feet.

"We will use the land of North Korea, every stone, every crevice in the ice, to wear down the Ming dogs and bury them!"

The orders were passed down layer by layer, carrying a sense of desperate madness.

In the days that followed, a strange and bleak scene unfolded on the south bank of the Yalu River.

The once mighty Eight Banners elite troops, renowned for their horsemanship and archery in the field, have now become the most humble engineers and hunters. In the biting cold wind, they use rudimentary tools to carve irregular ice holes in the river, and in the swift currents beneath the ice, they drive sharp wooden stakes, attach rusty iron hooks, and lay down tough fishing nets.

At the landing point on the riverbank, they dug a network of pits, the bottoms of which were filled with sharpened bamboo spikes and wooden splinters. Along every path and mountain pass leading inland, they felled trees, piled up boulders, and laid layers upon layers of deer fortifications and tripwires.

There were no war drums, no bugles, only the dull thud of pickaxes striking frozen earth and the listless shouts of officers. The soldiers toiled numbly, their faces bearing only the bluish-purple hues of frostbite, and a deep-seated weariness and despair.

They knew what they were doing—not building a line of defense for victory, but digging their own graves, or adding some insignificant, perhaps utterly useless, obstacles to the impending massacre.

"Digging holes, digging holes, digging holes every day..."

A young flag soldier shoveled at the frozen ground, complaining under his breath to his companions, his lips turning a dark purple from the cold.

"My knife is practically rusting! What good are these craters once the Ming dogs fire their cannons?"

His companion looked up, gazing blankly at the opposite bank.

Across the wide, desolate river, the outline of the Ming army camp on the north bank was faintly visible.

Although no sound could be heard, the continuous lights and the occasional wisps of smoke rising from the fires, symbolizing warmth and cooking, were like a silent mockery, piercing the hearts of every soldier on the south bank.

"I heard that people on the other side have meat with every meal, and they use something called honeycomb briquettes for warmth..."

His companion swallowed hard, his eyes filled with undisguised envy and even deeper fear.

"And what about us? We can't even get enough thin porridge, and our hands and feet are almost frozen off... How can we fight this war?"

Complaints drifted low in the cold wind, like a plague, eroding the last vestiges of morale in the army. Dorgon's "caltrop" tactic may have had its merits militarily, but it had already lost the battle in terms of winning hearts and minds.

On the north bank of the Yalu River, the Ming army camp.

In stark contrast to the lifeless and furtive construction on the south bank, the north bank presented an orderly and powerful pre-battle preparation.

The central army camp was located on a high ground ten miles from the riverbank. The camp was well-fortified, with crisscrossing trenches and strict security.

But what was most striking was not the camp itself, but the high morale that was almost overflowing within it, and the absolute confidence that had no doubt about victory.

The soldiers braved the cold wind to conduct high-intensity drills.

Charging across ice, crawling in the snow, changing formations, bayonet fighting… every movement was executed with precision, and every command was resolutely carried out. The new rifles were like an extension of their bodies, kept gleaming. Outside the tents, honeycomb briquette stoves emitted pale blue smoke, providing a rare warmth.

More importantly, every soldier's eyes were bright, and their faces had a healthy rosy glow—the look of someone who is well-fed, well-clothed, and full of faith.

"General, the scouts report that the Tartars on the other side are indeed digging pits and setting up obstacles, and they've also tampered with the river surface."

The deputy general reported to Li Dingguo, his tone tinged with disdain.

Li Dingguo was standing on a high platform in the camp, observing the opposite bank with a telescope.

Upon hearing this, he put down the mirror, a cold smile creeping onto his lips:
"Digging pits? Setting up obstacles? That's all Dorgon is good for. Aren't the deaths on the banks of the Liao River enough to teach him a lesson? In the face of absolute power, these petty tricks are nothing but a mantis trying to stop a chariot."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over his soldiers who were training hard in the freezing snow, and said in a booming voice: "Tell the brothers to hone their skills and take good care of their guns. After spring arrives, we'll use these weapons to show Dorgon what 'force can overcome skill' truly means!"

"Yes!"

The lieutenant readily agreed.

However, despite high morale and the apparent weakness on the opposite bank, the Ming army did not immediately launch a full-scale attack across the river. The main camp remained as solid as a mountain, with the main force remaining completely still except for routine scouts crossing the river for reconnaissance and small-scale harassment.

This inevitably puzzled some generals and soldiers who were eager for battle.

"General, why don't we attack now?"

During a military meeting, a young general couldn't help but ask a question.

"The river is frozen solid, so we can use cavalry and sleds to rush over and catch them off guard!"

Li Dingguo glanced at him, but did not answer directly. Instead, he looked at the supervising eunuch and the Ministry of War officials sitting at the head of the table who had remained silent.

The Ministry of War official spoke slowly, his voice steady:

There are three reasons.

"Firstly, although Liaodong has been newly recovered and appears calm, undercurrents are surging. The remnants of the Jurchens, defeated soldiers, and even some Mongol tribes with ulterior motives may not have truly given up. If the entire army were to launch a campaign against Korea, and something were to happen in the rear, the supply lines would be cut off, and all previous efforts would be in vain."

His Highness the Crown Prince has decreed that if Liaodong is not stable, the army sent to conquer the court will be like a tree without roots. Therefore, the most important task at present is to thoroughly pacify Liaodong, appease the people, and consolidate our foundation. This will take time.

"Secondly, waging war in the dead of winter is a major taboo in military strategy. Even if our army is well-equipped and has sufficient supplies, the severe cold will pose a huge challenge to morale, equipment, marching, and resupply. North Korea is mountainous and has complex terrain, making winter warfare even more difficult."

Our firepower is most effective in open terrain. Rushing into the mountains and getting bogged down in close combat would be detrimental. It would be better to wait for spring, when the roads are clear, and then launch a decisive, overwhelming attack.

Thirdly.

The Ministry of War official paused, a glint of shrewdness flashing in his eyes.

"And the most crucial point is that His Highness the Crown Prince has already made a comprehensive plan. Our army is not in a hurry, but there are people who are more anxious than us."

He walked to the sand table and pointed to the mouth of the Yalu River downstream:
"Zheng Zhilong's navy is currently dredging the waterway connecting the Bohai Sea and the Yalu River. Once the ice melts in spring and the waterway is clear, our giant warships will be able to sail upstream and completely control the Yalu River! At that time, our army will be able to cross the river as easily as walking on flat ground! No matter how many pits Dorgon digs or how many obstacles he sets up on the shore, what use will it be? Wherever our naval gunboats point, there will be a smooth road!"

Upon hearing this, the generals in the tent all showed expressions of realization and excitement.

It turns out that His Highness the Crown Prince had already planned this all along! He appeared to be holding back, but in reality, he was preparing for a devastating attack by both land and sea!

"so."

Li Dingguo concluded, his sharp gaze sweeping over the assembled generals.

"Order all battalions to intensify drills, stockpile supplies, and maintain weaponry. Tell the soldiers to conserve their energy and await the opportune moment! After spring arrives, it will be our time to achieve great deeds and sweep away the enemy's strongholds!"

"Your subordinate obeys!"

The gears of war continued to turn toward their final destination, thanks to the Ming army's methodical preparations.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away on the shores of the Bohai Sea, another silent but crucial "battle" is also being waged intensively amidst the icy snow.

Bohai Bay, the estuary of the Yalu River.

It's even colder here than in Liaodong. The sea wind, whipping up ice pellets, lashes your face like knives. Large chunks of ice float on the sea, colliding with each other with a dull rumble. Yet, right on this frigid and desolate coastline, a vibrant and bustling scene unfolds.

Thousands of laborers and engineers conscripted from Shandong and Dengzhou-Laizhou, under the protection of Zheng Zhilong's marines, were chanting in unison, wielding picks and shovels, pushing winches, and even using small amounts of gunpowder, as they worked hard.

Their goal is to widen and dredge the narrow, shallow section of the Yalu River that connects to the Bohai Sea in its lower reaches.

"Keep it up! If we get this section through, everyone will get an extra three coins!"

The supervising officer roared in the cold wind, his voice distorted.

With generous rewards, the laborers were highly motivated. More importantly, they were driven by a simple belief in "serving the country and eliminating the Jurchens."

They knew that every shovelful of soil they dug and every rock they blasted was paving the way for their army's victory.

A tall Fujian-style ship was anchored a little further out at sea, serving as a temporary command post.

Instead of hiding in the warm cabin, Zheng Zhilong, draped in a heavy mink coat, stood on the deck, holding a telescope and watching the progress of the project intently. The sea breeze made his dark, rough face even redder, and his beard was covered in frost, but his eyes shone brightly.

"My lord, at this rate, the main warships should be able to enter the river by early March at the latest!"

The general beside him could not hide his excitement.

Zheng Zhilong lowered his binoculars, exhaled a heavy puff of white breath, grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow by tobacco:
"Good! Tell the brothers, this last bit of hard work was worth it! Once my ship sails into the Yalu River, all those traps that old bastard Dorgon dug will become his own doing!"

He turned and looked southwest, towards Seoul, his eyes filled with murderous intent.
"Aggression by both land and water! I'd like to see how you, a tiger on land, can still leap about in the water!"

The wind from the Bohai Sea carries a salty, fishy, ​​and chilly feel, as well as a destructive force that is about to break through the ice.

Shenyang.

Compared to the tense and orderly preparations for war on the front lines and the bustling construction along the coast, Shenyang, which was liberated just a few months ago, is immersed in a sense of peace after surviving a catastrophe and a slow recovery of vitality.

The snow continued to fall intermittently, but the snow on the main streets was always cleared in time. The number of pedestrians gradually increased on the streets. Although most of them were simply dressed and looked pale, the fear and numbness of the past were gone from their eyes. Instead, they looked around cautiously and considered how to make a living.

Long queues formed in an orderly fashion in front of several government-run soup kitchens and honeycomb briquette distribution points.

Some daring vendors reopened their shops, selling needles, thread, and simple meals, and business was surprisingly good.

More significant changes are taking place outside the city.

The imperial decree of "five-year tax exemption," "distribution of seeds and oxen for plowing," and "assistance in house repairs" spread rapidly throughout the prefectures and counties of Liaodong, like a gentle spring breeze.

The scattered people began to return to their hometowns one after another. Under the organization of the government, they cleaned up the burned villages, claimed the unclaimed wasteland, and received a small amount of grain and farming tools that were enough to save their lives.

Although the spring chill lingered, there were already faint signs of renewed cultivation in the fields. (End of Chapter)