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

There was a slight commotion among the Ming soldiers in front of the battle.

They were used to the Jurchens' tenacious defenses, covert raids, or swift collapses, but they had never seen such a brazen, suicidal cavalry charge. Many soldiers instinctively gripped their rifle handles, and the gunners adjusted their cannons, but their eyes were filled with confusion.

Zhu Cilang silently put down the telescope.

Unlike the others, he wasn't surprised or sneered. He could see clearly that the cavalry that emerged from the ruins wasn't fast, and their formation wasn't particularly well-organized, but their indomitable and fearless spirit could be clearly felt even from a distance.

The figure of the veteran at the head of the group was somewhat blurry in the telescope, but he could guess who it was.

"They're not crazy."

Zhu Cilang's calm voice broke the astonishment on the high platform.

"They are simply using this method...to make a final...and only sacrifice for their former country, for the glory they believed in."

He looked at the generals beside him, his gaze deep and penetrating:

"Years ago, in Liaoxi and within the Great Wall, facing the Jurchen cavalry's charge, how desperate and powerless our Ming soldiers were. But today,"

His gaze swept over the forest of bayonets before the battle lines, over the rows of cannons poised to fire, and finally settled on the thirteen Divine Machine Iron Fortresses slowly adjusting their muzzles, preparing for their "performance." His voice carried a weight of history and an air of inevitability:
"Today, the balance of power has shifted. Let them charge. Let us use our guns and cannons to tell them, and to tell the world—the old era has come to an end."

The order was given swiftly. The officers at the front roared in fury:

"Flintlock musket squad! Front row—kneel!"

"Artillery! Prepare grapeshot!"

"Divine Iron Fortress! Target—Enemy Cavalry Vanguard! Ready—!"

"boom--!"

The Ming army's prepared response came from Daishan's last, hoarse yet piercing roar: "Descendants of the Aisin Gioro! Follow me—kill!!!"

"kill--!!!"

Eight thousand throats erupted in a final, desperate roar! The sound of hooves suddenly intensified, from a slow trot to a trot, then to a sprint! Eight thousand warhorses and eight thousand knights, like moths drawn to a flame, launched a final, irreversible charge towards that wall of steel and fire! Dust billowed, and the earth trembled!
"put!"

Almost simultaneously, hundreds of cannons of various sizes in the Ming army formation spewed out deadly flames! Solid shot, chain shot, grapeshot... like a storm of steel, instantly covered the front and flanks of the charging cavalry!

"Bang bang bang bang bang-!!"

Immediately following was a volley of thousands of flintlock muskets and breech-loading rifles! Smoke filled the air, and lead bullets rained down!

The charging cavalry formation was as if it had crashed into an invisible wall made of steel and fire.

The knights at the very front, along with their horses, were instantly torn apart and sent flying by the cannon fire.

The bullet pierced through the armor and into flesh; the warhorse collapsed with a pitiful neigh, and the knight tumbled to the ground.

The charge faltered, but the cavalry behind seemed oblivious to the carnage of their fallen comrades, their eyes still red, trampling over the corpses of their fallen men and horses, howling as they continued their advance! A second and third volley followed in quick succession…

A massacre. It was a one-sided, predictable massacre.

The range, accuracy, and rate of fire of flintlock muskets and cannons, along with the despairing power and protection of the Iron Fortress, turned the desperate charge of these eight thousand cavalrymen into a tragic and futile self-destruction.

Zhu Cilang did not raise the telescope again.

He simply gazed silently at the battlefield shrouded in smoke, fire, blood, and death, watching the black-clad cavalrymen fall one after another in the hail of bullets, yet a few still struggled forward until the last bullet claimed their lives. His face held no victor's joy, only a profound solemnity.

He knew that what he was witnessing was not only the end of a battle, but also the final and most dignified swan song of a once invincible military group that had brought countless nightmares to the Central Plains.

In this most tragic and meaningless way, they drew a bloody end to themselves and to the short-lived dynasty called "Great Qing".

"The warriors of the old era paid their final tribute to the steel of the new era with blood and fire."

He muttered to himself, his voice barely audible.

"Then, it was crushed to pieces."

The battle, or rather the massacre, lasted less than fifteen minutes.

When the last wisp of smoke was blown away by the river wind, all that remained on the battlefield were the remains of men and horses, shattered weapons, and the silent flow of blood.

Of the eight thousand Jurchen warriors who fought to the death, none survived.

In the very center of the battlefield, amidst a particularly dense pile of corpses, people found Dai Shan's body.

He was riddled with bullets, and several broken arrow shafts were still stuck in his chest, but even in death, he held the knife tightly in his hand, pointing it in the direction of the Ming army.

Inside a courtyard in the city lay Fan Wencheng's peaceful body. He appeared to have committed suicide by poisoning himself, his face serene, as if he were simply asleep.

The ruins of Seoul fell completely silent. Then, an even more deafening cheer erupted from the Korean people and Ming soldiers!
"Victory! Victory!"

"The Jurchens are gone! The Jurchens are gone!"

"May Heaven bless the Ming Dynasty! Long live His Highness the Crown Prince!"

The cheers were like a tsunami, sweeping across the land.

Amidst the thunderous shouts of "Long live the Emperor!", Zhu Cilang slowly rode his horse toward the battlefield that had just been soaked in blood, toward the now undefended ruins of the royal palace that symbolized the old era of Joseon.

The setting sun, like blood, dyed the sky, the earth, the ruins, and the endless crimson of the battlefield with a tragic yet glorious golden-red hue.

An era has come to an end.

And a new, even larger empire is slowly rising from the ashes of blood and fire, its shadow stretched long, long by the blood-red setting sun.

Further away, in various corners of the ruins of Han City, and in the surrounding mountains and villages, the more than 100,000 Jurchen remnants who had been abandoned by Dorgon, scattered on their own, or chosen to stand by and watch during Daishan's last stand, were now facing their final choice.

Resistance? Look at the battlefield plowed by cannon fire and covered with corpses, look at the thirteen steel behemoths still steaming and standing like gods and demons, look at the hateful eyes of countless Korean people around, and the dark muzzles of Ming soldiers' guns. Any thought of resistance turned to dust in an instant.

Escape? Where could you possibly escape to?
Surrounded by the sea on three sides, to the north lies the land recently traversed by the Ming army, and to the east are continuous mountain ranges and the Koreans who share their hatred.

Waterways? The ships had already been taken away or burned by Dorgon.

Despair, like an icy tide, completely overwhelmed them.

When the first white flag, a symbol of surrender, was raised tremblingly from a ruined camp, it was like toppling the first domino. One, two, ten, a hundred... white flags rose like a plague across the ruins of Seoul.

The ragged, ashen-faced Jurchen soldiers discarded their rusty swords and spears, removed their tattered armor, and emerged in droves from the ruins, tunnels, and forests where they had been hiding, like walking corpses, and knelt on the muddy ground in front of the Ming army's formation.

Most of them kept their heads down, not daring to look at the Ming soldiers escorting them, and even less daring to look at the Korean people around them who were pointing and whispering, their eyes filled with hatred and glee.

The number of people was beyond imagination.

A rough count revealed a staggering 100,000 people! This included abandoned soldiers from various banners, bondservants, artisans, and women and children who had accompanied the army.

Faced with this dark mass of prisoners kneeling on the ground, even generals like Cao Wenzhao and Zu Dashou, who were used to seeing large-scale battles, couldn't help but frown.

"Your Highness, there are too many surrendered ones."

Cao Wenzhao said in a low voice, his tone tinged with worry.

"One hundred thousand men, consuming countless provisions daily, and guarding them is a major problem. Moreover, most of these people have a blood feud with me, and their intentions are unpredictable. What if..."

Zhu Cilang stood on the high platform of the hastily cleared palace square, gazing at the crowd of prisoners below, which resembled a gray tide, his face expressionless. He naturally understood Cao Wenzhao's concerns.

One hundred thousand people would normally pose a huge threat. But at this moment…

“Killing is not an option; you can’t kill them all, nor is it necessary to kill them all.”

Zhu Cilang spoke slowly, his voice calm yet carrying an undeniable determination.

"Heaven cherishes life, and our Great Ming is not a bloodthirsty nation. Since they have already laid down their arms and surrendered, let them live."

He paused, then continued:

"Order: Separate all prisoners of war. Bannermen, officers, and those with blood on their hands shall be held in separate custody until after the war when the Ministry of Justice and the Court of Judicial Review shall jointly try and convict them. Ordinary bondservants, artisans, women and children shall be resettled separately. All prisoners of war shall be tattooed immediately, registered as slaves, and sent to government-run mines, shipyards, and road construction teams in Liaodong, Liaoxi, and even Beizhili and Shandong to serve twenty years of hard labor to atone for their crimes."

"Those granted amnesty will not be pardoned. Instruct those below to keep a close watch, and any unusual activity should be met with death. However, arbitrary torture and killing are strictly prohibited."

His gaze swept over the generals:
"After this battle, the Jurchens' backbone has been broken and their spirit scattered. These 100,000 men are scattered in various places, strictly controlled, and deterred by the new guns and cannons. They cannot cause any great trouble. Besides."

He looked north, a cold smile curving his lips.

"Their 'master,' their 'hope,' will soon cease to exist."

The order has been issued.

The Ming soldiers began to systematically detain, screen, tattoo, and organize this huge group of prisoners.

Cries, pleas, and shouts filled the air, but the die was cast. The fate of these people for the rest of their lives was sealed—to repay the blood debts they and their fathers and brothers had incurred on the Central Plains with their blood, sweat, and toil in the dark mines, on construction sites where they toiled in the rain, and on ships sailing on turbulent seas.

They might survive, but the last remaining strength of the "Jiannu" as an organized military and political entity was thus completely swallowed up.

Ignoring the commotion behind him, Zhu Cilang, surrounded by his guards, rode slowly through the wide-open palace gates that symbolized the last vestige of dignity for the Joseon Kingdom.

Inside the palace, broken walls and ruins were everywhere, charred and blackened, and the air was filled with a burnt smell and a musty odor.

Occasionally, one or two Korean palace servants who hadn't had time to escape or didn't want to escape could be seen huddled in a corner, peeking at the invading "heavenly army" with terrified eyes.

At this point, the Korean War seemed to have come to a close.

With Seoul fallen and the remaining enemy forces either destroyed or surrendered, the Yi family, father and son, were now in control, and it seemed they could finally celebrate their victory.

But is it really over?

Three days ago, in the Whale Sea off the northeast coast of North Korea.

The sky was overcast, with leaden-gray clouds hanging low, and a biting sea breeze whipping up layers of gray-white waves.

A fleet of over a hundred ships of various sizes is struggling against the wind and waves, heading northeast.

The ships were a motley crew, including hastily repaired and reinforced North Korean pan-ok-boats, hastily built rudimentary sailboats, and even several cargo ships that were clearly converted from merchant vessels. The sails were worn out, the sailors were inexperienced, and the ships bobbed violently with the waves, as if they might fall apart at any moment.

This was the last escape fleet of the Jurchens, led by Dorgon.

The ship carried approximately 50,000 "elite" soldiers, most of whom were still shaken and seasick, as well as a small amount of gold, silver, and valuables.

They had been adrift on this cold, unfamiliar sea for several days. Food and fresh water were becoming scarce, and despair and confusion, like the boundless sea, enveloped everyone.

Dorgon stood at the bow of the largest and only somewhat respectable Fujian-style ship, clinging tightly to a rope just to keep his balance. The sea breeze tousled his gray hair, and the salty seawater lashed against his face and body, chilling him to the bone.

His face was sallow, his eyes were sunken, and he stared intently at the gray, seemingly endless horizon to the northeast. His lips were tightly pressed together, and his eyes held a complex light that was a mixture of exhaustion, fear, and the last glimmer of desperate hope.

Rakshasa... Rakshasa... He kept repeating these two words in his heart, as if they were the only spell that could keep him from falling.

Once we reach Russia, with our flintlock muskets and tens of thousands of battle-hardened veterans, we will surely conquer a new land! We will! Heaven will not forsake our Great Qing!

"Dorgon, the waves are too high. Shouldn't we... find a place to dock and take shelter?"

Jirhalang, pale-faced and vomiting uncontrollably while leaning against the ship's railing, staggered over, his voice weak.

"Can't stop!"

Dorgon interrupted sharply, a fierce glint flashing in his eyes.

"The Ming navy might be right behind us! We must get away from Korean waters as soon as possible! Head north!"

Just then, the lookout at the top of the mast suddenly let out a distorted, terrified scream:

"Boats! There are ships ahead! Lots of ships!!"

"what?!"

Dorgon's heart clenched, and he rushed to the ship's side, snatched the telescope from the guard beside him, and held it up to his eyes with trembling hands.

On the grey horizon, first came the spires of masts, then the sails—white, brown, black—densely packed, like a forest suddenly rising from the sea, quickly filling the entire northeastern view! Then came the ships—massive, sleek Fujian and Guangdong ships, gunboats with neat rows of gun ports on their sides, and towering Western-style battleships with masts reaching for the clouds…

Their numbers far exceeded his fleet! Their sheer scale left him momentarily speechless! (End of Chapter)