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

Seoul, the ruins of the "Royal Palace".

Compared to the bustling scene on the shores of the Bohai Sea, spring in Seoul arrives with a chill and despair.

The snow was melting, revealing even muddier, filthy land and unrecovered war wreckage beneath. The air was thick with the smells of burning, decay, and a deeper, more somber atmosphere of “apocalypse.”

Inside Dorgon's residence, the charcoal fire still burned, yet it couldn't dispel the bone-chilling cold. Dorgon sat alone behind his desk, several secret reports from different sources, all with largely the same content, spread out before him. The handwriting was messy, the sentences jumbled, but the core information was glaringly clear:
The Ming navy gathered in the Bohai Sea...

Large-scale construction is underway at the mouth of the Yalu River, widening the waterway...

The Ming army's land forces were frequently mobilizing and conducting landing drills...

The activities of the insurgents in northern North Korea have intensified, with attacks on supply lines...

Every word was like a heavy hammer, striking his already taut nerves. He knew the Ming army was preparing, knew they would come, but when these preparations were presented to him in such a concrete and overwhelming way, the sense of powerlessness and suffocation almost overwhelmed him.

Especially the section on "the navy entering the river".

This means that the natural barrier of the Yalu River, on which he pinned his last hope, may very well be rendered useless by the Ming army! It means that the traps he meticulously set up in the river and on the banks may be completely ineffective!

"It is said that...Fan Wencheng."

He spoke in a hoarse voice to the people outside the tent. His voice was dry, like the pumping of an old bellows.

Fan Wencheng arrived quickly, but his steps were unsteady.

However, after not seeing him for more than a month, this former "head of civil officials" seemed to have aged considerably. He was wearing an old cotton robe that had been washed until it was faded, his body was hunched over, his eyes were sunken, and his face had an almost numb, lifeless look.

Upon entering the room, he silently bowed, then stood with his hands at his sides, his gaze lowered, looking at the ground as if something there was attracting him.

"gentlemen."

Dorgon skipped the pleasantries and spoke directly, his voice trembling slightly, without even realizing it, and... a plea for help?
"The Ming army is widening the mouth of the Yalu River, and Zheng Zhilong's ships are about to enter. The army is also being mobilized... Sir, what... should we do?"

The tent was silent, save for the crackling of the charcoal fire. Fan Wencheng slowly raised his head, his cloudy old eyes looking at Dorgon. There was no fear, no flattery, not even any emotion, only a cold, all-knowing understanding.

"Your Highness."

He spoke, his voice hoarse and flat, as if stating a fact that had nothing to do with him.

"North Korea cannot hold out."

Dorgon's body stiffened abruptly.

"The Ming army is advancing by land and water, and its momentum is already established. Our army has no food or supplies, no reinforcements, has lost the support of the people, and the natural defenses of the mountains and rivers are no longer reliable. Defending here and fighting the Ming army head-on is nothing more than... throwing eggs against rocks, only increasing casualties."

"Then... are we just going to sit here and wait to die?!"

Dorgon's voice suddenly rose, filled with desperate anger.

Fan Wencheng looked at him quietly, and only after he had calmed down a little did he slowly say:

"Right now, there are only two paths."

"……explain."

"Firstly, we could cross the sea to Japan. Although Japan is closed off from the outside world, we could temporarily seek refuge in the islands of Tsushima and Kyushu. Although the Ming navy is strong, it is difficult to cross the sea and the weather is unpredictable. We might have a chance to survive. Perhaps... we could follow the example of the Mongol Yuan dynasty and negotiate with the Japanese to find a place to stay and then gradually rebuild our strength."

"Japan?"

Dorgon's facial muscles twitched, his eyes flashing with humiliation and resentment. To cross the sea and live under the roof of the Japanese, forced to be subservient to them? This was worse than death!
Secondly.

Fan Wencheng seemed not to notice his expression and continued speaking in that frighteningly calm tone.

"Heading north to Russia."

"Rakshasa?"

Rakshasa, also known as Ogres in later times.

Dorgon frowned. He knew very little about this distant northern country, only that it was extremely cold and its territory seemed to be vast.

"Yes. The territory of the Rakshasa Kingdom is said to be several times larger than that of the Ming Dynasty. The land is extremely cold and sparsely populated. No matter how strong the Ming army is, it is not an easy task for them to send troops on a long expedition to this remote region. If they can reach it, they may be able to find a place where no one is around to rest and recuperate."

The tent fell silent once more.

Both choices meant abandoning everything, fleeing like stray dogs to a completely unfamiliar and dangerous foreign land. Whichever they chose, it meant that the last dignity and hope of the Aisin Gioro clan and the "Great Qing" would be utterly shattered into dust.

Dorgon's expression shifted, his chest heaving violently. After a long silence, he finally managed to squeeze out a few words through clenched teeth:
"Sir...please step back for now. Let me...think about it."

Fan Wencheng seemed to have anticipated this answer. He made no comment, simply bowed silently, and then, with a hunched back, slowly withdrew from the tent. From beginning to end, he did not attempt to persuade Dorgon, nor did he analyze the pros and cons. He simply presented Dorgon with two dead ends, leaving the agonizing choice to this once-arrogant regent.

The curtain fell, and Fan Wencheng's desolate figure disappeared outside the door. Dorgon sat alone behind his desk, staring at the flickering candlelight, motionless, as if he had turned into a stone statue.

After an unknown amount of time, he slowly rose, his steps unsteady, and walked to the tent side, where he whispered his instructions:

"Please... bring Prince Li."

Daishan arrived quickly, looking even older and more haggard than when we last met, with puffy eye bags and cloudy eyes.

"Second brother."

Dorgon didn't look at him, his gaze still fixed on the void ahead, his voice low.

"Just now, I summoned Fan Wencheng."

Dai Shan sat down silently without saying a word.

He said... Korea can't hold out. The only two ways to survive are to go east to Japan, or... go north to Russia.

Dai Shan's body trembled slightly, and he closed his eyes. After a long while, he slowly opened them, his eyes filled with unfathomable weariness and despair:
"Is there really... no third way?"

Dorgon finally turned his head, looked at Daišan, and slowly, heavily shook his head:

"That's it. The Ming dogs are pressing in step by step, and their navy is about to enter the river. We have no chance of winning in a head-on battle. If we are trapped here, we will only face death."

He paused, his voice growing even lower:
"Going to Japan... the risks of crossing the sea are too great, the Japanese may not accept us, and Zheng Zhilong's navy is waiting at sea. This route... is too difficult."

“That Rakshasa…” “Although the Rakshasa region is bitterly cold, it is vast and easy to hide in. Even if Ming Gou wanted to chase them, they might not have the determination or strength to do so in such a remote and desolate place.”

A ruthless glint flashed in Dorgon's eyes, a look of desperate determination.

"Second brother, you... make preparations in secret. Collect maps of the north, find guides who have been to Russia or know the way, stockpile furs, medicines, gold and silver... But this matter must never be known to anyone! If Korea really cannot be defended... this will be our last resort!"

Daishan looked at Dorgon, his once spirited and powerful fourteenth brother who now had bloodshot eyes and a contorted face, like a trapped beast cornered on the edge of a cliff. An overwhelming sorrow welled up within him. He opened his mouth, but only a long sigh escaped his lips.
"I... understand. I'll get started."

He stood up, preparing to leave, but when he reached the tent entrance, he suddenly stopped, without turning back, and asked in a hoarse voice:

"Fourteenth brother... Back then, in Shengjing, you seized the throne from Hauge... Now, he has sacrificed his life for his country, becoming a loyal martyr of the Qing Dynasty. And you and I... in this foreign land, at the end of our rope..."

He slowly turned around, his cloudy old eyes fixed on Dorgon, each word spoken like a heavy hammer:

Have you ever... felt even a sliver of... regret?

Dorgon was struck dumb, his face turning deathly pale. His eyes widened, his lips trembled, and he tried to say something, but couldn't utter a single word.

Regret? How could I not regret it! I regret the brothers turning against each other, I regret forcing Hauge to his death, I regret not fighting the Ming army to the death in Liaodong, I regret… so many regrets! But what's the use of regret now? Can it bring back the fallen soldiers? Can it bring back the lost empire? Can it change… this dead end before me?

He slumped back into his chair, avoiding Dai Shan's piercing gaze, a wheezing sound escaping his throat. Finally, he merely waved his hand weakly, his voice so faint it was almost inaudible.

"The person is gone... What's the point of saying all this now..."

Daishan gave him a deep, final look, a look filled with sorrow, pity, and perhaps a hint of relief at finally having asked the question. He said nothing more, but slowly turned around, his back hunched, lifted the tent flap, and staggered out, disappearing into the desolate early spring night of the ruins of Seoul.

Inside the tent, deathly silence returned. Only Dorgon's heavy breathing and the occasional crackling of the charcoal fire could be heard.

He sat there alone for a long, long time. Then, he suddenly grabbed a ceramic bowl from the table and smashed it hard, with all his might, onto the ground!
"boom--!"

The earthenware bowl shattered, and porcelain shards scattered everywhere.

Like his shattered empire, his broken ambition, and his impending utter shattering destiny.

The night in Seoul is still long. But when dawn breaks, the sun that shines on these ruins will no longer be that of the Aisin Gioro clan.

In mid-March of the eighteenth year of the Chongzhen reign (1644).

Spring in Liaodong has finally revealed its true colors.

The ice and snow melted, the streams murmured, and sporadic green shoots began to emerge from the withered grass. The sunlight became warm, and the wind was no longer a slashing knife, but carried the scent of earth and the revival of all things.

Outside the city of Shenyang, in the open fields, an unprecedented rally is underway.

Unlike the oath-taking ceremony a month ago, what is gathered here today is the last and largest strategic reserve force of the Ming army.

The army of 200,000 men was centered around the Imperial Guards, the Brave Guards, and the elite border troops equipped with new rifles, supplemented by a large number of well-trained garrison soldiers and conscripted militia.

Flags of all colors fluttered in the spring breeze, armor gleamed, swords and spears stood like a forest, and men and horses stood solemnly, stretching from the city of Shenyang all the way to the horizon. Their imposing presence almost dyed the early spring sky with the color of iron and blood.

At the forefront of the procession, Crown Prince Zhu Cilang was not wearing his usual apricot-yellow dragon robe, but instead donned a specially made silver-gray mountain-patterned armor that combined protection and lightness, over which he wore a scarlet cloak. He rode a magnificent, jet-black warhorse, his posture upright and his face serene, except for his eyes, which gazed southward toward the Yalu River, burning with a sharp and ardent light.

Today, he will personally lead this army to the final battlefield.

Emperor Chongzhen remained atop the city wall, bidding farewell to his son. He did not deliver a lengthy speech, but simply nodded heavily and waved vigorously to Zhu Cilang, who was clad in armor and exuded a commanding presence.

it is more than words.

"set off!"

The command flag was waved down, and the war drums sounded.

The 200,000-strong army, like a giant steel dragon that had finally fully awakened and was brimming with power, began to slowly move forward and roared towards the southeast!
The sounds of horses' hooves, footsteps, wheels, and steam-powered locomotives converged into a thunderous roar, sweeping across the revitalized land and heralding the end of one era and the beginning of another.

The army set off, raising clouds of dust.

Zhu Cilang breathed a soft sigh of relief. He knew that his decision to personally lead the expedition might seem risky to many. As the Crown Prince, he could have simply stayed behind to coordinate operations; why go to the front lines in person?

But he didn't think so.

This was not only the last battle in Liaodong and Korea, but also the most decisive event that Zhu Cilang had to personally accomplish since arriving in this era.

He wanted to witness the fall of the Jurchens, to see the Ming Dynasty's dragon flag raised over Seoul, and to personally witness and lead the complete reshaping of the Northeast Asian landscape. This achievement, this sense of participation and shaping of history, was something he could not entrust to others, nor did he want to miss.

More importantly, he wanted to prove one thing to the world and to the future—that the crown prince of the Ming Dynasty not only had strategy, but also the courage and responsibility to brave arrows and stones and share weal and woe with his soldiers!

"Your Highness, it's time to set off."

Li Hu, who was beside him, whispered a reminder.

Zhu Cilang pulled himself out of his thoughts, took one last look at the majestic Shenyang city gate, and at the blurry yet incredibly determined bright yellow figure on the gate, then suddenly pulled on the reins and turned his horse around.

"drive!"

The black steed neighed loudly, then broke into a gallop, charging towards the front of the procession like an arrow released from a bow.

The scarlet cloak left a dazzling trail behind him, like a battle flag, guiding the 200,000 iron troops toward their final destiny.

Several days later, on the banks of the Yalu River, at the Ming army's forward camp.

When Zhu Cilang's main reinforcements arrived, Li Dingguo's vanguard camp had already formed a massive fortress, firmly holding the riverbank. What delighted Zhu Cilang even more was that he saw familiar figures who had been waiting there all along.

"Abnai!"

Zhu Cilang dismounted and went to greet his brother-in-law who was walking towards him.

Abunai was still wearing a heavy fur robe, a scimitar at his waist, and his face was deeply wrinkled by the wind and frost of the grasslands. Compared to a few months ago, his eyes held less scrutiny and doubt, and more heartfelt respect and closeness.

This was certainly related to his sister Qiqige, but more importantly, he had witnessed the true strength of the Ming army along the way—their disciplined military bearing, their incredibly sophisticated equipment, their terrifyingly efficient logistics, and the heartfelt support of the people along the way for the "royal army."

All of this tells him that the young man before him, and the Ming Dynasty he represents, possess an overwhelming power.

To be their enemy is foolish; only by closely following them can the grassland tribes survive and thrive. (End of Chapter)