Late Ming Dynasty: Summoning players from Liaodong to support the Ming Dynasty

Chapter 177 Forced Entry into the Capital, Officials Terrified!

The air inside the corner tower seemed to freeze.

The silver charcoal in the brazier was still crackling, and the heat was blowing onto people's faces, but everyone present felt a chill seeping from their bones.

Wen Tiren pressed himself against the wall. The back of his head was pressed hard against the cold brick surface. He pressed so hard that his scalp was chafed raw by the rough brickwork, and a few beads of blood seeped out, but he was completely unaware. His left eyelid was twitching wildly, and the muscles on that side of his face were spasming along with it. His mouth was pulled and twitched, and his whole face was contorted.

Just a moment ago.

The moment Chu Ze looked up.

Those eyes peered over the towering city wall, through the half-open window, and locked onto Wen Tiren's face with perfect precision and without any deviation.

It wasn't a sweeping shot. It wasn't a chance glance. It was a straight, perfectly straight, pinpoint shot. The person on horseback, from that great distance, through the smoke and snow, found his hiding place in an instant.

Those are not human eyes.

Wen Tiren lived for sixty-three years. From a poor, pedantic scholar to the position of Grand Secretary, he had climbed over countless bones and trodden upon countless lives. He had witnessed all the open and covert battles in the court and the intrigue and backstabbing in officialdom. When Wei Zhongxian held absolute power, he could smile and kowtow to that eunuch; when the Donglin Party was at its peak, he could suppress his disgust and call those Confucian scholars brothers.

But he had never been driven to this point by anyone's gaze before.

There was no anger in those eyes. No murderous intent. Not even a flicker of emotion.

There was only one kind of pure, bone-chilling indifference.

When Wen Tiren was a child in his hometown of Wucheng, Zhejiang, he went with his neighbors to watch the slaughter of a pig for the New Year in the twelfth lunar month. The butcher was a big, burly man. He first tied the pig's four legs tightly with straw rope, then turned to the stove to sharpen his knife. Water was poured onto the whetstone, and the blade rubbed back and forth against the stone, making a rhythmic swishing sound. The pig screamed and struggled desperately on the ground, but the butcher didn't even turn his head. His expression was excessively calm, and he was even humming a little tune. Occasionally, he would stop and blow on the blade, testing its sharpness with his thumb.

No rush. No annoyance. Even a touch of boredom.

Because the outcome is already predetermined. The rope is tied, the pig can't escape, the knife is sharpened, and when to act depends entirely on the butcher's mood.

The way Chu Ze looked at him was the same look a butcher sharpening his knife would give him.

"Wen—Lord Wen—"

The sound came from the floor, intermittent, extremely suppressed and difficult.

The Left Censor-in-Chief of the Censorate slumped onto the wooden floor of the corner tower. This high-ranking official of the second rank, the iron-faced censor in charge of investigating and punishing wrongdoing throughout the land, now looked extremely disheveled. His official hat was askew above his left ear, one of the brims broken off and drooping over his shoulder. His gray hair fell loose from under the brim, a few strands clinging to his forehead and skin with cold sweat.

The puddle of urine in his crotch had long since cooled, the dark stain running from his groin down to his knees. The charcoal brazier in the corner burned brightly, and the heat amplified the pungent, foul odor, swirling and spreading throughout the enclosed corner tower, causing everyone to wrinkle their noses and turn away. The Vice Minister of Rites even covered his mouth and nose tightly with his sleeve, his face turning pale.

"He—he's really gone?" The Left Censor-in-Chief's voice was filled with extreme urgency.

Wen Tiren did not answer.

He lowered his head and looked at his hands.

His right hand still clutched the blue-and-white porcelain teacup. Spilled tea stains trickled down the back of his thin hand, soaking the silk cuffs and leaving a large, dark watermark. His ten fingers trembled violently, knuckles white and protruding, causing the remaining tea in the cup to splash out continuously. Each drop added another watermark to the back of his hand.

He tried to tighten his grip on the teacup. He wanted to maintain some semblance of the Prime Minister's dignity.

I can't hold on to it.

Snapped.

The blue-and-white porcelain teacup slipped from his loosened fingers and shattered on the wooden floor. It split in three pieces. A shard bounced twice on the floor, one of which spun and slid to the corner, hitting the baseboard with a barely audible tinkling sound. A small puddle of tea spread on the floor, steam rising gently.

Wen Tiren stared at the few pieces of broken porcelain.

The white porcelain with blue decoration depicts landscapes, fishermen, and woodcutters. The bottom of the cup bears the mark "Made in the Xuande period of the Ming Dynasty." This was a tribute-grade porcelain piece he acquired from a salt merchant, which he treasured greatly; he would even scold a maid for touching it.

Now that it was broken on the ground, he couldn't even muster the thought of bending down to pick it up.

It’s over.

It's completely over.

The emperor's carefully orchestrated show of force, Wen Tiren's carefully planned deterrent, the three thousand elite troops of the capital garrison, the three cannons of the Red Barbarians, the tightly closed city gates, and the high drawbridge—this entire elaborate drama failed utterly, even more tragically, in front of Chu Ze.

Chu Ze not only refused to bow his head, dismount, or obediently enter the barbican for a body search, but instead lashed out with a whip, turning half of the capital garrison commander's face into mangled flesh in front of the entire city's soldiers and civilians.

That whip wasn't used on Zhang, the military officer.

It's a slap in the face of the emperor. It's a slap in the face of Wen Tiren. It's a slap in the face of the entire civil service. It's a slap in the face of the prestige and decorum accumulated by the Ming Dynasty over 260 years.

And they.

The Grand Secretary of the Cabinet, the Left Censor-in-Chief of the Censorate, the Vice Minister of Rites, and the Academician of the Hanlin Academy—the most outstanding group of scholars in the Ming Dynasty—huddled in this corner tower, not even daring to peek out the window.

He didn't dare utter a single word.

Wen Tiren closed his eyes. Beneath his eyelids, those cold, indifferent eyes were still staring at him. Their stare sent chills down his spine, making his internal organs feel like they were sinking.

"Walk."

He forced the word out through clenched teeth. His voice was dry and hoarse, his tongue stiff, and even his lips wouldn't obey him; he almost couldn't utter the word "walk" properly.

He used the wall for support to stand up. His legs were still trembling, and his kneecaps clattered together. His right hand gripped a protruding brick edge on the wall so tightly that his fingernails dug into the cracks, barely managing to keep his balance.

"Return to the palace." Wen Tiren gritted his teeth, enunciating each word clearly, "Return to the palace immediately."

The Vice Minister of Rites scrambled to his feet. His official hat was askew, the tassels sticking out of his ears. He didn't bother to straighten it, or even to brush off the dust and tea stains from his robes. He stumbled and crawled after Wen Tiren. His steps were unsteady, his legs tripping over each other, and he almost fell headfirst onto the threshold.

The Hanlin Academy scholar fared even worse. This learned and erudite scholar, now his legs were weak and powerless, his toes dragging on the floor, utterly unable to muster any strength. Two attendants, one on each side, supported him by the arms, practically lifting him off the ground, their toes leaving long scratches on the wooden floor. His head slumped, his chin resting on his chest, a dribble of saliva at the corner of his mouth, his eyes unfocused—he looked exactly like a terrified, demented old man.

A group of people emerged from the back door of the corner tower.

The back gate was extremely narrow, allowing only one person to pass sideways. Outside the gate was a narrow passageway on the inner side of the city wall, flanked by two high walls, with only a sliver of leaden-gray sky visible overhead. Snowflakes drifted down through that gap, settling on their shoulders and hats, accumulating a thin layer of white.

The civil officials behind him followed suit, each shrinking back more shrugging than the last. These were high-ranking officials of the imperial court, dressed in official robes embroidered with cranes and pheasants, wearing black gauze hats, yet they were now walking along the wall, showing absolutely no dignity befitting an official of the imperial court.

No one dared to use the main entrance.

No one dared to go down from the front of the city wall.

No one dared to appear in any angle that Chu Ze might see.

Wen Tiren walked at the front, his pace quickening. What started as small, quick steps turned into a brisk walk, and finally almost a jog. The hem of his mink cloak swung wildly between his legs, causing him to stumble. He ripped off the ties and threw the priceless fur coat to the ground.

No, that's not necessary. Running fast is more important than anything else.

At the end of the alleyway led to a dark alleyway into the inner city. The moment Wen Tiren stepped into the alleyway, he couldn't help but look back.

The outline of the city gate tower was faintly visible in the wind and snow. The Guangqumen gate, which was half blown apart, was still emitting wisps of smoke, and the smell of burning flesh drifted in on the north wind, filling our nostrils.

He could no longer see Chu Ze.

But he knew that Chu Ze had already entered the city.

That person, leading a hundred unkillable demons, stepped into this imperial capital that had been impregnable for two hundred and sixty years.

Wen Tiren suddenly turned around, took off running with his old legs, and sprinted desperately toward the Forbidden City.

The inner city of Beijing. Chongwenmen Street.

Chu Ze rode his horse along the long street paved with bluestone slabs. The iron hooves of the warhorse crushed the thin ice on the road, making a crisp clattering sound.

A hundred players followed behind, their formation scattered and haphazard. Some were rummaging through abandoned shelves of roadside vendors, some were tapping on the bases of stone lions with entrenching tools, and others were peering through the cracks in the closed shop doors.

"This is a silk shop! It's full of silk! A single bolt is worth at least thirty merit points!"

"Don't rush, don't rush. Let's finish the main storyline with the boss first, then we'll come back and clear the mobs!"

"Who the hell stepped on my foot? Oh, it's you, Brother Dali. It's nothing."

The entire Chongwenmen Street was eerily silent.

The shop doors on both sides were tightly shut, the sturdy wooden doors held firmly in place from the inside. Not even a stray dog ​​could be seen on the street. Occasionally, a few pairs of frightened eyes would peek down through the cracks in the second-floor windows, only to quickly retreat when they met the players' glowing green gazes, followed by the loud bang of the windows being slammed shut.

The people of the capital who had originally wanted to come and watch the spectacle of the Marquis of Pingliao's arrival in the capital are now all staying at home and dare not go out.

It wasn't because of Chu Ze.

It's because of the hundred people behind him.

The stench of blood emanating from that group was overwhelming. A thick, pungent stench, a mixture of gunpowder and burnt smells, lingered in the frigid air, spreading along the long street. It wasn't the smell of someone who had killed one or two people. It was the smell of someone who had rolled in the sea of ​​blood in Hushan, someone who had eaten beside a mass grave.

What's even more chilling are their expressions.

There was no ferocity. No hostility. Not even a hint of tension.

One hundred faces were filled with excitement, curiosity, and eagerness. Their expressions were no different from those of excited children, except that these children weren't carrying cotton candy, but rather ironware stained with human blood.

This contrast is a thousand times more terrifying than mere brutality.

Chu Ze sat on his horse, his back straight and his face calm.

At the edge of the retina, a series of data quietly popped up on the system panel.

[Event Triggered: The Guangqumen Stalemate Breaks Down]

[Prestige value change: +8700]

[Current Prestige Level: Renowned Throughout the Land (Capital Region)]

[Spiritual Energy Income: +103,000]

【灵蕴来源明细：势力威慑+62，000/历史事件偏转+31，000/军心震慑+10，000】

Ten thousand spiritual essences.

Chu Ze tightened his grip on the reins slightly.

He began orchestrating this whole drama at Guangqumen the moment he received the imperial edict. Sending Wang Chengen's messenger back to report was intentional. Allowing the players to spout nonsense recklessly on the road was intentional. Making Chongzhen and Wen Tiren believe that he, Chu Ze, was a naive fool who would obediently crawl into a cage was even more intentional.

He needs a stage.

A stage where he could completely establish his persona in front of the entire military and civilian population of Beijing.

Unruly and untamed. Not to be trifled with. Touch them and you're dead.

From this day forward, if those civil officials in the court want to use conventional means to control him—impeach, frame, cut off his supplies, or transfer him—they'll have to think twice before deciding whether they're tough enough.

General Zhang's half-bruised and mangled face was the best warning.

Chu Ze put away the system panel and looked up ahead.

At the end of the long street, the red walls of the imperial city can be vaguely seen.

Emperor Chongzhen.

Your first move was a failure.

Now it's your turn to make your second move.

The Forbidden City. The warm pavilion of the Qianqing Palace.

Snapped!

A fine Duan inkstone was smashed hard onto the gold-brick floor, shattering into seven or eight pieces. Thick ink splattered, creating a shocking black stain on the bright yellow carpet.

Zhu Youjian stood behind the imperial desk, his chest heaving violently. His face was ashen, the veins on his forehead bulging, and the blood vessels beside his temples throbbing so hard that even the stray hairs at his temples trembled.

"waste!"

He squeezed out two words through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

"A bunch of useless trash!"

Wang Chengen knelt at the entrance of the warm pavilion, his forehead covered with gold bricks, his whole body huddled up. He had just rushed back from Guangqumen, not daring to ride in a sedan chair the whole way, riding a post horse at breakneck speed, almost falling off and breaking his neck.

Wen Tiren knelt beside Wang Chengen, his official hat askew but he dared not straighten it, his gray hair falling loosely over his forehead, looking utterly disheveled.

"Three thousand garrison troops! Three cannons!" Zhu Youjian paced frantically around his desk, the hem of his dragon robe sweeping across the ink stains on the ground, leaving black streaks. "They couldn't even hold out for an hour! That idiot, General Zhang! I gave him three thousand men to guard one city gate, and he couldn't even hold the gate! He was even whipped in public! He's completely disgraced the Ming Dynasty!"

Zhu Youjian suddenly stopped and turned to stare intently at Wen Tiren.

"Wen Tiren! Is this the brilliant idea you came up with for me? A show of force? A stern warning?" Zhu Youjian's voice suddenly rose, sharp and piercing. "Tell me, where is the intimidation? Where is the killing? All I see is a Beijing garrison officer, his face slapped raw, lying on the ground crying for his parents!"

Wen Tiren's forehead was pressed tightly against the gold brick, and cold sweat rolled down his temples and fell to the ground.

"Your subject—your subject deserves to die ten thousand times."

"Ten thousand deaths? What good would it do you to die ten thousand times!" Zhu Youjian kicked over the small rosewood table beside his imperial desk, scattering teacups, memorials, and pen holders all over the floor. "Chu Ze has already entered the capital! He's brought those hundred monsters into the capital! Tell me, what do we do now?!"

The warm room fell into a deathly silence.

Wen Tiren lay on the ground, his mind in turmoil.

He dared not speak. Because anything he said now would be wrong. His attempt to intimidate the emperor had failed; his plan had proven to be utter garbage. If he offered any further advice now, the emperor would only think he was talking nonsense.

But he dared not remain silent. The emperor was furious and needed someone to vent his anger on, and more importantly, a new solution. If Wen Tiren couldn't come up with something, his position as Grand Secretary would have to be taken over tonight.

"Your Majesty," Wen Tiren gritted his teeth and raised his head from the ground, "I am guilty. The strategy of intimidation was indeed a miscalculation. But—"

'

He paused, a venomous glint flashing in his cloudy old eyes.

"Chu Ze's entry into the capital may not be all bad."

Zhu Youjian stopped his furious stride and stared intently at him.

"He publicly attacked the Imperial Guard at Guangqumen, slapping the face of the Imperial Guard's adjutant to pieces. By tomorrow morning's court session, all the officials will know about this." Wen Tiren's voice was extremely low, and his speech was very fast. "Your Majesty, Chu Ze's actions are a slap in the face to the court. But from another perspective, he has also put himself in a very difficult position."

"The more arrogant and domineering he is, the more lawless he becomes, the louder the voices against him will be in the court. In the end, it won't be His Majesty who wants to take action against him, but the entire court will force His Majesty to do so. The hearts of the people, public opinion, and the moral high ground are all on His Majesty's side."

Zhu Youjian frowned.

Wen Tiren's words make sense. But a distant solution can't quench an immediate thirst. Public opinion needs time to ferment, but Chu Ze and those hundred monsters are in the capital tonight.

"I can't wait that long." Zhu Youjian gritted his teeth, his withered fingers clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. "I need a method that works immediately. A method that will keep Chu Ze obediently within the circle I've drawn for him, and prevent him from acting recklessly."

Silence fell again in the warm room.

Zhu Youjian stood there for a moment, then suddenly turned to Wang Chengen.

"Go. Summon Luo Yangxing, the commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, to me."

Wang Chengen trembled and quickly kowtowed, "This old servant obeys the decree!"

Zhu Youjian turned around and walked to the window. He pushed it open a crack, and the frigid north wind, carrying snowflakes, rushed in, lashing his withered face.

Outside the window, dusk was engulfing the red walls and yellow tiles of the Forbidden City. The leaden sky hung low, and large snowflakes fell from the clouds, shrouding the entire imperial city in a deathly white.

Zhu Youjian's lips moved twice.

"Chu Ze, do you think I only have one move?"

His voice was extremely soft, torn apart by the wind and snow, and dissipated into the twilight.

"I have plenty of ways to make you wish you were dead."

.