Chief Armaments Master of the Ming Dynasty

The fifth day of the fourth month of the third year of Chongzhen's reign.

Beijing, the Forbidden City.

Before dawn, the square outside the Wenhua Hall was already packed with kneeling people.

All the civil and military officials, from Grand Secretaries of the Cabinet to Secretaries of the Six Ministries, from Censors of the Censorate to Compilers of the Hanlin Academy, all the officials in the capital came.

They knelt on the cold stone slabs, their knees aching from the hard surface, but no one dared to move.

Emperor Chongzhen fasted for three days and today set up an altar in the Wenhua Hall to pray for relief from the drought.

This is a ritual that has existed since the founding of the Ming Dynasty—whenever a major disaster occurs, the emperor fasts, all officials reflect on their actions, offer sacrifices to Heaven and Earth, and pray for rain.

But this time, the atmosphere was more somber than ever before.

This drought is more severe than any other in previous years.

Xu Guangqi, the Right Vice Minister of the Ministry of Rites, who was kneeling in the crowd, raised his head slightly and glanced at the gloomy sky.

Not a cloud, not a breeze. The sky was like a giant blue slab, pressing down on the glazed tiles of the Forbidden City, and on everyone's heart.

From last autumn until now, Shaanxi, Shanxi, Beizhili... half of northern China has not seen a drop of rain.

Rivers have dried up, wells have run dry, and the land has cracked.

Spring seedlings cannot be planted, and those that are planted will not sprout.

Famine was rampant, and bandits rose up everywhere.

His memorial to the throne—which called for reforming the calendar, developing water conservancy, and planting sweet potatoes—has remained unanswered to this day.

Emperor Chongzhen sat on his throne in the Wenhua Hall, his face thin and his eyes sunken.

He is only twenty years old this year, and has been on the throne for only three years, yet his temples already have gray hair.

He was dressed in plain clothes, without a crown, and his long hair was casually tied up with a bamboo hairpin.

Before him lay an incense table, a eulogy, and a copy of his own handwritten "Edict of Self-Reproach."

"I, with my virtuous character, have inherited this great throne." His voice, hoarse, echoed in the empty hall. "Since my ascension, I have been diligent day and night, never daring to be idle. Yet, natural disasters have struck, and drought has ravaged the land. From last autumn until now, there has been no rain or snow, rivers have dried up, and wheat seedlings have withered. My heart is trembling with grief, as if I were treading on a tiger's tail, or wading through spring ice..."

His voice, word by word, was like a dull knife cutting into flesh, piercing the hearts of every kneeling subject.

"I have reflected upon my faults, and they are all my own. I appointed the wrong people, and my administration was flawed, which has angered Heaven and brought this severe punishment upon me. I will severely punish myself, reflect on my mistakes, and repent. I only pray that Heaven will have mercy on me, forgive my sins, and relieve the people's suffering..."

After reading the eulogy, he put down the imperial edict, stood up, walked to the incense table, and knelt down.

"Your subject Youjian dares to solemnly report to the Supreme God of Heaven."

His forehead slammed heavily against the cold stone slab.

Once, twice, three times.

Inside and outside the hall, there was complete silence.

Only the sound of the emperor kowtowing echoed dully, one kowtow after another.

Xu Guangqi's eyes welled up with tears.

He knew that the emperor was genuinely praying for rain.

This twenty-year-old has not had a single good day since the first day he ascended the throne.

The eunuch faction's misrule, the flames of war in Liaodong, the bandits in Shaanxi, the nationwide drought... each event felt like a mountain pressing down on his thin shoulders.

He worked tirelessly day and night, often reviewing memorials until late at night and summoning ministers until he forgot to eat or sleep.

He lived frugally, reducing the palace's expenses again and again.

He did everything he could. But it still didn't rain.

Xu Guangqi closed his eyes and prayed silently.

It's not about praying to God. If God had eyes, He wouldn't have allowed this tragedy of thousands of miles of barren land to happen.

He was praying to himself. He prayed that his body could hold on, that the memorial would be approved soon, that Johann Adam Schall von Bell would be safe in Shaanxi, and that the sweet potato vines would take root, sprout, and bear life-saving tubers in the land of Shaanxi.

I pray this damn drought will end soon.

Zhou Yanru knelt at the front, his forehead pressed against the cold stone slab, motionless.

As the prime minister, he understood better than anyone what this drought meant.

The starving people in Shaanxi have resorted to cannibalism. The starving people in Shanxi are spreading to Henan.

If it doesn't rain by late spring or early summer, this year's autumn harvest will be a complete failure.

By then, it won't just be Shaanxi and Shanxi anymore.

Henan, Huguang, Beizhili... half the country will become a living hell with corpses everywhere.

The imperial granaries were already empty.

He dared not think any further.

Wen Tiren knelt behind him, his eyes half-closed, his face expressionless.

He was thinking about something else—the bandits in Shaanxi.

Wang Jiayin occupied Fugu, Li Zicheng occupied Ziwu Ridge, Zhang Xianzhong fled into Henan, and countless smaller groups of people swarmed through the mountains and valleys of Shaanxi and Shanxi like locusts.

The imperial army's elite troops were divided into three groups: one group defended against the Jurchens in Liaodong, another group guarded the border wall in Jizhou, and the third group suppressed bandits in Shaanxi.

With troops deployed in three locations, the situation is tense at every turn.

The national treasury's silver slipped through their fingers like sand, impossible to hold onto.

Wen Tiren slightly raised his head and glanced at Zhou Yanru's back in front of him.

This position of prime minister is not easy to hold.

Should we ask someone else to sit here?

After kowtowing for the last time, Emperor Chongzhen slowly stood up.

His forehead was covered in bruises.

He didn't wipe it, nor did he ask anyone to help him up; he simply turned around and faced the kneeling officials.

"My ministers," his voice was hoarse and weary, "I have fasted and prayed to Heaven to ward off the drought. From this day forward, all officials shall reflect on their conduct, and all affairs of government offices shall be suspended for three days, except for matters of great military and national importance. All officials shall return to their offices, examine their faults and reflect on their mistakes, and strive to implement practical policies to appease Heaven's will."

"Your Majesty, we obey the decree." All the officials kowtowed in unison.

Emperor Chongzhen looked at them, his gaze sweeping across each face.

He couldn't distinguish between loyalty and scheming.

All he knew was that these people were the pillars of the Ming Dynasty, his right and left arms in governing the country.

Why couldn't these pillars hold up the sky? Why couldn't these arms stop this disaster?

He didn't ask. Because he knew there would be no answer.

"Step down." He waved his hand.

The officials filed out of the Wenhua Hall. No one spoke. Only the sound of footsteps and suppressed coughs could be heard.

Xu Guangqi walked last. He glanced back at the Wenhua Hall and at the young emperor standing alone before the incense table.

The palace doors slowly closed, isolating the emperor's figure within the deep, dark palace.

Xu Guangqi turned around and strode out of the palace.

He needed to return to the government office to expedite the processing of that memorial.

It's not raining, but he can't just sit idly by.

The emperor fasted to ward off the drought, and all officials reflected on their mistakes and repented.

All he wanted to do was grow sweet potatoes.

---

Thousands of miles away, in the eastern part of Yan'an Prefecture, Shaanxi Province.

A team of over a thousand people is making a hasty westward march through the Loess Plateau.

The line stretched out so long that no one could see the beginning or the end.

Some were riding horses, some were walking, some were pushing wheelbarrows, and some were carrying loads on their shoulders.

Men, women, young and old, were all dressed in rags, their faces sallow and their bodies emaciated.

In the middle of the procession, a tall man with a red turban on his head rode on a skinny black horse, occasionally looking back towards the west.

His name is Wang Zishun. He was originally a border soldier in Yansui Town. After being dismissed last year, he led dozens of his old brothers to start an uprising in the Mizhi area.

In just a few months, the group grew to more than two thousand people, roaming freely in the Yan'an and Qingyang areas, robbing the rich to help the poor, and the government was powerless to stop them.

But the good times didn't last long.

Hong Chengchou has arrived.

This Fujianese man is a shrewd and ruthless military strategist.

He not only began a vigorous campaign to suppress bandits, but also dispatched a large number of scouts to post notices everywhere, offering a reward for the capture of Wang Zishun.

The notice featured a picture of him—though it didn't resemble him at all—and below it read:

Whoever captures Prince Shun alive will be rewarded with five hundred taels of silver.

Whoever presents his head will be rewarded with three hundred taels of silver.

Five hundred taels. Three hundred taels.

In those years of widespread famine, how much grain could this money buy? How many lives could it save?

Some of Wang Zishun's subordinates began to waver.

First, a few newly recruited starving people secretly ran away, and then a few of the older brothers started to look at him with shifty eyes.

He knew that if he didn't leave soon, someone would trade his head for those few hundred taels of silver.

"Brother, Baijialing is ahead." A lean man rode up on his horse.

His name was Miao Mei. He was Wang Zishun's deputy and also his brother-in-law.