Who killed the Ming Dynasty?

When Zhang Xianzhong gave the order, Zhu Zhishu was dragged towards the palace gate with his arms tied behind his back by two soldiers.

He strained to lift his head, shouting angrily:

"Zhang the traitor! Do you know that the veins of Chengdu are connected to the imperial aura of Nanjing? Today you are burning the land deeds, tomorrow the Ming army will burn your very soul."

His voice echoed in the hall, each word filled with anguish.

Zhang Xianzhong stood with his back turned, as if he hadn't heard a thing.

"Skinning someone to light a lamp...that's perfect!"

"Let's see if these three hundred and sixty human oil lamps... cough cough... can light your way to the Yellow Springs."

Zhu Zhishu suddenly turned his head and spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm at Wang Zhaolin.

"You thief—!"

The mouthful of bloody foam traveled three feet and landed right in front of his feet.

"If you cook the Ming imperial family for lamp oil today, you will be boiled into ashes and used as lamp oil by the people of the world one day."

He struggled to twist his body, his screams growing louder.

"What a masterful demonstration of 'Butcher Ding's skill in dissecting an ox'!"

"One day, the historian's pen will be like a knife, ensuring that you treacherous officials will be infamous for ten thousand years."

Before the cursing had even stopped, a soldier struck him on the back with a stick, making a dull thud.

Zhu Zhishu collapsed and was dragged out of the palace, bloodstains running across the brick surface.

More than thirty people were forcibly dragged out of Chengyun Hall like lambs to the slaughter, their cries instantly swallowed up by the wind outside the hall.

Song An's Adam's apple bobbed up and down, but he was powerless to do anything about it and could only watch helplessly as it all unfolded.

These once high-ranking sons and grandsons of the dragon are now either used as fuel for sky lanterns or forced into labor.

Just then, a sliver of sunlight pierced through the roof of Chengyun Hall and fell upon Zhang Xianzhong's golden-inlaid sword.

As the shouts and cries faded into the distance, Zhang Xianzhong, as if nothing had happened, picked up his gold-inlaid knife and began peeling walnuts again.

The blade moved along the walnut shell, making a crisp "crack" sound.

He peeled it very slowly and with great focus, as if he were not dealing with a nut, but peeling the skin and flesh off a living creature.

Suddenly, half a walnut was suspended in mid-air by the tip of the knife.

He casually turned his head to look at the messenger beside him:

"What kind of nonsense were you reporting just now?"

"Report to the King!"

The messenger hurriedly stepped forward.

"This man surnamed Song said he was a grain merchant from Nanjing and had brought a thousand bushels of rice to seek refuge with him."

After saying this, the soldier suddenly pushed Song An into the hall.

He stumbled and almost fell, but when he managed to regain his balance, the ropes binding his hands had already dug deep into his flesh.

"This fellow claims to be on the orders of Minister Shi of Nanjing, saying he has important matters to report to Your Majesty. He is now bound and imprisoned here. Your Majesty, please make your decision."

A sudden gust of wind rose outside the window, and the sunlight was temporarily obscured by the rolling clouds.

At the boundary between light and shadow, Zhang Xianzhong didn't even raise his head, but slowly and methodically peeled walnuts, his face revealing neither joy nor anger.

Song Anqiang looked up and saw Wang Zhaolin turning the black iron prayer beads beside Zhang Xianzhong.

He steeled his resolve and shouted:

"Your Majesty, I am Song Sanlang from the grain shop in Chunxi Lane. I have been ordered by Minister Shi of the Southern Capital to prepare a thousand bushels of coarse rice to offer to Your Majesty, hoping to find a way to survive."

"A thousand stones?"

Zhang Xianzhong used the tip of his knife to pick up a piece of walnut kernel and put it in his mouth, the sound of chewing accompanied by a cold laugh:

"Do you think I'm a beggar?"

"Your Majesty reigns supreme in the land of abundance, and soars high above the world. Why would you care about such a humble servant's labor?"

Song An suddenly kowtowed heavily.

"But please allow me to presume to say something—the 100,000 Pixiu under Your Majesty's command consume at least 50,000 shi of grain every month."

Wang Zhaolin, who was fiddling with the prayer beads, suddenly tightened his knuckles and stepped forward:

"Your Majesty, this man didn't send grain earlier or later, but waited until we had conquered Chengdu before offering it."

His pale face suddenly tightened.

"Is this thousand-stone bag of rice meant to save Zeng Ying's life, or is it a trap to bewitch the King?"

"Let alone whether there was sand mixed in with the rice, even the word 'offering' is probably like a weasel paying respects to a chicken."

The air inside the hall suddenly froze, and only the howling wind could be heard outside.

Zhang Xianzhong finally stopped wielding his sword, raised his eyes, and there was no anger in them:

How do you know I'm short of food?

Song An took a deep breath and, forcing himself to remain calm, replied:

"Although I am a businessman, I can still understand the sound of cannons."

He struggled to lift his head.

"Once the flags on the walls of Chongqing fell, those officials in Nanjing couldn't even keep their beds warm at night."

"They knew perfectly well that the Eighth Prince's army was moving with lightning speed, and that Chengdu was already in their grasp. This thousand bushels of coarse rice was merely a stepping stone—"

"They all hope to find a way out under your protection..."

A mocking tremor emanated from his throat.

"Even the rats under the dragon throne in the Forbidden City are looking for new nests now."

"Ha ha--"

Zhang Xianzhong slammed his fist on the table and laughed wildly, causing the walnuts on the table to bounce around.

"Did those pedantic scholars in Nanjing really time their grain delivery perfectly? Why didn't they have such shrewdness when governing the country?"

He picked up another half-eaten walnut kernel, tossed it into his mouth, and chewed it fiercely.

"Tell me, are those old men from the Six Ministries in Nanjing still able to hold their shit in their pants?"

Before Song An could answer, he loudly mocked him.

"I bet they're so scared they're soiling themselves, their legs are cramping, and they can't even stand up straight."

Song An immediately followed up the conversation, speaking at a faster pace:

"It's not just that they can't hold the excrement. Those parasites from the Six Ministries in Nanjing have already devoured the granaries clean."

"Those nobles fight crickets at Yanziji, and one round is enough to buy 100,000 shi of military rations."

He straightened his posture, trying to appear more sincere.

"This thousand bushels of unpolished rice is a gift from Shi Kefa, the Minister of War, to Your Majesty, and it also includes a handwritten letter."

Before he could finish speaking, the one-eyed bodyguard locked Song An's collarbone with his left hand and reached into his front of his shirt with his large hand.

When the sweat-dampened envelope was presented, Zhang Xianzhong was using the tip of a knife to pick walnut crumbs from between his teeth.

Zhang Xianzhong picked up the letter, his gaze sweeping across the pages, wrinkles creeping into the furrows between his brows:

"Those damned intellectuals!"

"His heart is blacker than a prostitute's, and his bones are softer than tofu."

"They pretend to be saints on the surface, but their hearts are filled with thieves and prostitutes. They eat the people's blood and sweat, yet they hypocritically talk about the way of sages."

He slammed the letter on the table, looked up at Song An,

Do you know what I hate most?

Song An shook his head.

Zhang Xianzhong suddenly stood up:

"What I hate most are those corrupt officials in the two capitals who do nothing but eat and drink."

The blade in his hand pointed straight east.

"When I reach the Qinhuai River, I will stretch their skin into drums, grind their bones into powder, mix them with this thousand bushels of rice, and cook a pot of the most delicious soup in the world."

Song An touched the ground with his forehead:

"Your Majesty is right. Emperor Chongzhen certainly left Coal Hill with a strong will."

"The new emperor is still too young, much like... much like Emperor Xian of Han, who was easily manipulated. It's a pity that there isn't a Cao Cao who can truly take charge of the situation right now."

Zhang Xianzhong's gold-inlaid dagger was driven into the ground and nailed to the table, its hilt still trembling.

"Someone, untie Manager Song and offer him a seat."

These words were like a pardon, instantly easing Song An's tense nerves.

"Wait a minute!"

Wang Zhaolin suddenly stepped forward, abruptly stopping the rapidly spinning prayer beads. A shadow crossed his pale face as his sharp gaze fixed on Song An:

"Your Majesty, there are still some strange things about this matter."