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

"From the moment we left Shengjing, no, from the moment Hauge committed suicide, from the moment we abandoned our ancestral heritage and fled to Korea, the Qing Dynasty as you and I know it was already dead."

He surveyed the people in the tent, his gaze slowly sweeping over Ajige and Jirhalang, these once powerful and influential brothers and nephews who now looked like stray dogs. His voice was low and clear:
“Everyone has their own choices, Fourteenth Brother. You chose to take the last seed and fight for survival in that icy wasteland, even if the future is uncertain, at least... it's a path. As for me.”

He paused, his gaze falling on the ruins outside the tent, illuminated by the firelight yet swallowed by deeper darkness, his voice carrying a strange tranquility:

“I am old and tired. From Hetu Ala to Shenyang, from Shenyang to this Han City… my whole life has been spent on horseback, on the edge of a knife, in scheming and fleeing. I don’t want to run anymore. Russia is too far away and too cold. My old bones will stay here, in the last place where my Aisin Gioro family stands, for you, and for myself… to hold off the Ming army’s advance.”

"To die here, to be buried here, at least... isn't too far from Liaodong, from Shengjing."

He turned back to look at Dorgon, his eyes filled with the final words of an elder brother to his younger brother, and a sense of farewell:
"Go, Fourteenth Brother. Take those you can and live well. I will stay here and buy you some last time. Don't worry, I will not surrender. I will fight to my last breath, just like Hauge, and with this old life, I will shed my last drop of blood for the Qing Dynasty... for the dignity of our Aisin Gioro family."

As the words fell, a deathly silence descended upon the side hall. Ajige, Dodo, Jirhalang, and the others gazed at the old man before them, his body hunched, yet seemingly having straightened his spine once more. A complex mix of emotions welled within them. There was shock, sorrow, a surge of patriotic fervor, but above all, a final, profound respect for their elder brother, ignited in this desperate situation, and an indescribable shame—they had chosen to flee, while he had chosen a dignified death.

"Second brother..."

Dorgon's throat tightened, his eyes burned, and he wanted to say something—words of pleas, words of comfort—but looking into Daishan's calm, almost empty eyes, all the words stuck in his chest, turning into a violent cough and a sharp pain in his heart. He knew Daishan's mind was made up. This brother, who had once been his adversary in the power struggle and who had stood behind him when he needed support most, had chosen his end.

Daishan waved gently to them, to everyone in the tent, his face still bearing that heartbreakingly calm smile:

"Go. Go all of you. I hope you... can live well. The Aisin Gioro family... cannot die out."

Dorgon took a deep breath, as if inhaling all the air and sorrow in his lungs, then exhaling it forcefully. He stopped looking at Daishan, abruptly turned around, his back to everyone, his shoulders trembling violently, and then, in an almost roaring yet forcefully suppressed voice, gave the order:

"Let's go! Board the ship immediately!"

After saying that, he didn't look back, strode out of the side hall, and his figure quickly disappeared into the darkest darkness before dawn.

Ajige, Dodo, Jirhalang, and the others glanced at Daishan one last time, their eyes filled with complex emotions, but they ultimately said nothing and followed in haste.

Inside the side hall, only Daishan remained, standing alone by the dying candlelight. He slowly walked to the door, gazing in the direction where Dorgon and the others had disappeared, listening to the increasingly distant, chaotic footsteps and hoofbeats outside, which finally faded into a deeper silence. He let out a long, slow sigh, a sigh that contained the weariness of having shed all burdens, the tranquility of approaching the end, and also a trace of unspeakable longing for the past, for his homeland, for Shengjing, which he could never return to.

"That's fine then..."

He muttered to himself, turned around, and faced the empty side hall, facing the empty seat that symbolized "royal power" but had long since ceased to exist. Slowly and solemnly, he performed the most standard etiquette befitting a prince of the Qing Dynasty.

Then, he straightened his back, walked out of the side hall, and headed towards his final battlefield.

Chaos and panic reigned at the Han River docks.

Upon receiving the news, the core soldiers, the families of princes and nobles, and a few selected bondservantes, under the officers' shouts and whips, rushed like a flock of frightened sheep towards the boats of all sizes moored on the shore. Cries, curses, shoving, and splashes of people drowning mingled together.

Many soldiers and their families who were not selected cried out in despair and cursed on the shore, trying to rush onto the boat, only to be mercilessly slashed with knives and shot with arrows, and pushed into the icy river.

Under the desperate protection of his personal guards, Dorgon finally boarded the largest and only Fujian ship equipped with several cannons. He stood on the violently rocking deck, gazing at the hellish scene on the shore and the flames soaring into the sky in the direction of the ruins of Han City, his face blank and his eyes empty.

Beside him were Ajige and Jirhalang, both pale-faced, as well as Fulin and Dayuer, still shaken.

"sail!"

Dorgon gave the order in a hoarse voice, devoid of any warmth.

The sails were raised, the mooring lines were untied. Nearly a hundred ships of varying sizes, carrying less than 50,000 "elite" soldiers, their ambitions, fears, and the last illusions of a dynasty, laboriously turned their bows in the darkest darkness before dawn, sailing against the current of the Han River northward, towards that unknown, frozen land of Rakshasa, in a panic.

They left behind all the chaos, despair, and the fate of more than 70,000 abandoned comrades, along with the burning ruins.

Meanwhile, the ruins of the "Royal Palace" in Seoul.

Daishan returned to the "palace" that symbolized his end.

He didn't enter the large tent that once belonged to Dorgon, but instead climbed to the highest and most expansive arrow tower among the remaining palace walls. The faint morning light illuminated the outline of the ruins, and also the crowd that had gathered behind him.

There were over eight thousand people. Most of them were not young, their faces weathered and weary, but their eyes were exceptionally firm, even possessing an almost fanatical light.

They were the most die-hard, the most loyal, or rather, the most unwilling veterans to leave their homes and flee like stray dogs among the two yellow flags, two white flags, and two red flags.

They refused to board the ship with Dorgon and refused to kneel before the Ming army.

When they learned that Prince Daishan had chosen to stay and fight to the death, they spontaneously gathered around him.

Eight thousand against hundreds of thousands is like a mantis trying to stop a chariot. But they didn't care. They just wanted one last time to grip their swords and bows, mount their warhorses, and charge like their ancestors, and then... die on the battlefield, rather than on the run or freezing and starving to death on the icy plains of a foreign land.

Looking at his silent subordinates, whose eyes burned with the will to die, Daishan felt a complex surge of emotion.

There was sorrow, relief, and a sense of liberation at finally no longer being alone. Just as he was about to say something, suddenly, a hunched, thin figure, supported by two old servants, shakily climbed up the arrow tower.

It is Fan Wencheng.

He was wearing a faded old cotton robe, his hair was disheveled, and his face was withered, but his eyes were unusually clear, even carrying a kind of indifference that seemed to have seen through life and death.

"Mr. Fan?"

Dai Shan was somewhat surprised.

"Why...why didn't you leave?"

He believed that, given Fan Wencheng's intelligence and will to survive, he would surely try to leave with Dorgon.

Fan Wencheng walked to Daishan's side, gazing at the boats on the distant river that were gradually turning into black dots, and then looked further south on the horizon—that was the direction from which the Ming army was about to arrive.

On his aged face, a weary yet serene smile appeared, strikingly similar to that of Dai Shan:

"Your Highness hasn't left either, has he? This old minister... is here to keep Your Highness company."

Dai Shan was slightly taken aback, but then he understood.

He looked at Fan Wencheng, this Han Chinese official who had served the Qing Dynasty for decades, only to end up with his family destroyed and his homeless, and a sudden wave of sorrow washed over him, a sense of shared misfortune washing over him. He gave a bitter smile:
"Mr. Fan...doesn't want to run away anymore either?" Fan Wencheng nodded, his voice calm:
"From Liaodong to Korea, the journey has been arduous, and this old minister has already lost a son and a daughter. Russia... is further north than Liaodong, colder, and more desolate. This old minister is too old and frail to endure such torment. Rather than die in the freezing cold, in a foreign land, it would be better... to stay here. This place, at least, is... near my homeland."

He paused, looked at Dai Shan, his gaze frank:

"Besides, if Your Highness stays, it is to die for your country. If this old minister stays, it is to atone for his sins, and it is also to die for his lord. On the road to the underworld, with Your Highness by my side, I will not be so lonely."

Dai Shan looked at him intently. This strategist, whom he had once relied on and feared, had now become his only and final companion on his journey to the end. He reached out and patted Fan Wencheng's thin shoulder hard, the touch feeling like dry twigs.

"Good! Good!"

Tears welled up in Dai Shan's eyes, but he laughed loudly.

"With Mr. Fan by my side, this journey to the underworld won't be so lonely for me! Hahaha!"

Laughter echoed in the morning breeze, carrying with it endless desolation and a final sense of liberation. Eight thousand elite soldiers stood silently, gazing at their prince and the old Han official, their eyes filled with an even more fervent resolve.

Eight days later, in the early May of the eighteenth year of the Chongzhen reign.

South of Seoul, beyond the last mountain pass, the world changed color.

Black and crimson flags, like surging tides, swept across the horizon, filling the entire field of vision. The gleaming of swords and spears, under the May sun, formed a chilling sea of ​​metal. The deep, rhythmic footsteps, like the heartbeat of a giant, made the earth tremble slightly.

The roar of the steam engine, like the panting of an ancient behemoth, grew closer and clearer.

Then, they appeared.

Thirteen "Divine Iron Fortresses," like steel behemoths straight out of mythology, spewed thick smoke and steam, emitting deafening roars, as they rolled over the hastily repaired road and slowly made their way to the front lines. Their massive bodies, studded with rivets and gleaming with a cold, hard sheen, their dark cannon muzzles, and the tremors that shook the earth as they moved were enough to terrify even the bravest warriors.

Surrounding these thirteen god-like creations were hundreds of thousands of Ming soldiers, their armor gleaming and their ranks impeccably orderly.

The bayonets of the new rifles gleamed coldly, and the muzzles of the cannons pointed menacingly at Seoul.

On the flanks and behind the Ming army's main formation were even more people, dressed in disheveled clothes but equally indignant, waving simple weapons—these were Korean civilians who had rushed to welcome the royal army with food and drink, as well as the reorganized Korean militia.

As they gazed upon the thirteen "divine machines" and the countless "heavenly soldiers" covering the mountains and plains, they erupted in a deafening cheer:

"The heavenly soldiers are here!"

Long live the Ming Dynasty!

"Kill Jiannu! Restore the rivers and mountains!"

The sound waves, like a tsunami, crashed against the dilapidated walls of Seoul, and also against the hearts of the last eight thousand people on the walls and in the arrow towers, ready to die.

Standing at the highest point, Daishan saw through the telescope that the thirteen steel monsters spewing black smoke becoming clearer and clearer, and the boundless array of Ming troops drawing ever closer.

He lowered his binoculars, his face as calm as an ancient well. Beside him stood a general gripping his sword hilt, and eight thousand silent, iron-willed soldiers.

They saw and heard it too.

Fear? Perhaps.

But more than anything, it felt like a relief—finally, it's here.

Finally, it's coming to an end.

"Your Highness, the Ming dogs... are about to attack the city."

A general hissed.

Dai Shan nodded, taking one last look at the ruins behind him that he had guarded for months but which had never belonged to him, then at the comrades-in-arms who were willing to die with him, and then at Fan Wencheng who stood quietly to the side, resting with his eyes closed.

He took a deep breath, as if trying to inhale the last of the air in North Korea, and then, with all his might, issued the last and only command to attack:

"Open the city gates!"

"Crunch—"

The dilapidated, symbolic palace gates were slowly pushed open.

"Mount up!"

More than eight thousand riders silently mounted their horses. Their hooves lightly pawed the ground, and they snorted loudly.

Daishan took the lead, slowly urging his horse out of the city gate and towards the vast Ming army formation that represented death and end. Fan Wencheng had no horse; he sat in a simple carriage, driven by an old servant, following at the back of the procession, his expression still calm.

Eight thousand iron cavalry, like a thin, desperate black stream, flowed from the ruins toward that crimson, boiling sea of ​​death.

The Ming army's grand formation, with the central command platform.

Zhu Cilang, Cao Wenzhao, Zu Dashou, Abu Nai, Zheng Chenggong and other generals, as well as the reconnaissance soldiers who had just rappelled down from the hot air balloon, all witnessed this incredible scene through telescopes.

"They...opened the door?"

Zu Dashou put down the telescope, rubbed his eyes, and thought he was seeing things.

"They're coming! Cavalry! About... eight thousand cavalry!"

The observer on the hot air balloon repeatedly confirmed the information using flag signals and a bronze mirror.

"Charge?! Have they gone mad?!"

Cao Wenzhao frowned, utterly bewildered. Facing thirteen Divine Machine Iron Fortresses, facing hundreds of thousands of troops standing ready with overwhelming firepower, eight thousand cavalrymen launched a charge? This wasn't bravery, it was suicide, it was… utter madness! (End of Chapter)