Chief Armaments Master of the Ming Dynasty

June 22, Shanhaiguan.

Zu Dashou stood on the city wall, gazing at the winding official road inside the pass. On the road, a messenger from the Embroidered Uniform Guard arrived, travel-worn and his flying fish robe soaked with sweat.

"The commander-in-chief has ordered... to send the head of Yuan Chonghuan to the nine border regions... please General Zu... to examine it..." The messenger reined in his horse at the city gate, panting heavily, and unloaded a wooden box from his back.

The wooden box was carried up to the top of the city wall and placed on the crenellations.

Zu Dashou's hands were trembling. He reached out his hand, then pulled it back, then reached out again. His lips were trembling, his eyes were trembling, his whole body was trembling.

Then he opened the wooden box.

Inside was Yuan Chonghuan's head.

He had seen that face countless times on the battlefield—lean, angular, with eyes as sharp as an eagle's. Now, those eyes were closed forever. His face was covered with countless knife marks, and his lips were bitten raw.

Zu Dashou held the wooden box and slowly knelt down.

Behind him, hundreds of Guan Ning soldiers knelt down in unison.

"Commander-in-Chief—!"

Zu Dashou let out a long roar, like a wounded beast. He clutched the wooden box, his forehead pressed against the cold ground, his whole body trembling violently, as if he were about to cry out his internal organs.

"Commander...you said...you would lead us to recover all of Liaodong..." His voice was as hoarse as sandpaper, "You said it...you said it..."

No one answered him.

That night, Zu Dashou locked himself in his room and drank all night long, facing the wooden box. His personal guards stood watch outside the door and heard suppressed sobs, murmurs, and the sound of wine jars shattering coming from inside.

The next morning, he opened the door, his eyes red and swollen, but his gaze had hardened like iron.

"Pass down the order," he said to his personal guards, his voice hoarse but each word clear, "From this day forward, the entire Guan Ning Army shall wear mourning for the Commander-in-Chief."

"General, the Imperial Court..."

I said, "Wear mourning clothes."

The guard opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing. He clasped his hands in a fist salute, turned around, and went to relay the order.

Guan Ningjun's hair has turned white.

---

Late June, Dengzhou.

Sun Yuanhua sat in the main hall of the governor's office, with the official report of Yuan Chonghuan's execution in front of him.

The report clearly stated: Yuan Chonghuan, who colluded with the enemy and plotted rebellion, was executed by slow slicing and his head was sent to the nine border regions.

Sun Yuanhua had been staring at the report for a full hour. The tea in his cup went cold and was refilled again and again, but he didn't drink a drop.

Zhang Tao stood to the side, watching his master's face flicker in the oil lamplight, and couldn't help but call out softly, "General..."

"Huo Dong," Sun Yuanhua began, his voice frighteningly hoarse, "you've read history books. Tell me, since the founding of the Ming Dynasty, how many military commanders have been executed by the court itself through slow slicing?"

Zhang Tao opened his mouth, but couldn't say a word.

"I'm telling you. Not a single one." Sun Yuanhua picked up his teacup, his hand trembling, the lid making a soft clattering sound against the rim. "Yuan Yuansu was the first. He was sliced ​​three thousand five hundred and forty-three times, and his Guan Ning cavalry became orphans. And what did the court say? They said he colluded with the barbarians, that he plotted rebellion. They said he killed Mao Wenlong, which is why the Jurchens dared to break through the pass."

He suddenly slammed the teacup to the ground. Porcelain shards scattered everywhere.

"Absurd! I was in Liaodong when he killed Mao Wenlong! Did Mao Wenlong deserve to die? Yes! He embezzled military pay, colluded with the Jurchens, and was arrogant and domineering. It was the Ming Dynasty law that ordered his death—it was Yuan Yuansu who used the imperial sword to enforce military law on behalf of the court! He killed an arrogant border general according to the law, but in the end, this became one of the pieces of evidence against him for colluding with the Jurchens?"

Zhang Tao had never seen his master so out of control. He quickly stepped forward and whispered, "General, watch your words! Walls have ears!"

Sun Yuanhua gasped for breath and slumped back into his chair. His eyes were bloodshot as he stared at the shattered porcelain on the floor.

"Huo Dong, do you know what I'm most afraid of?" His voice lowered, so low that only the two of them could hear it.

"I fear that one day, those of us who risk our lives on the front lines will suffer the same fate as Yuan Yuansu. If you win a battle, the court will suspect you; if you lose a battle, the court will kill you. Either way, you will die."

Zhang Tao remained silent for a long time.

Then he said, "General, that's precisely why you must train the new army well."

Sun Yuanhua raised his head.

"In the future, when your artillery unit has distinguished itself on the battlefield, and when the court has witnessed the power of firearms, you will no longer be carrying the burden alone. You will have three thousand new soldiers behind you, these Portuguese instructors, and real military achievements."

Sun Yuanhua looked at Zhang Tao, the fierceness in his eyes slowly fading. After a long while, he nodded, stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the new army training on the drill ground.

The cannons roared, and smoke filled the air. Teixeira was personally demonstrating how to adjust the gun's elevation, while the new recruits gathered in a circle, watching intently.

He looked for a long time, then he called out, "Huo Dong."

"The students are here."

"Send the order: the entire Dengzhou and Laizhou army shall wear mourning for Governor Yuan for seven days. Set up an altar on the drill ground. In addition," he paused, "intensify troop training. I want this new army to be combat-ready by next spring."

Zhang Tao clasped his hands in a fist and said, "Yes."

---

The grief at Shanhaiguan had not yet subsided when the wooden box embarked on another long journey.

Guangning, Jinzhou, Ningyuan.

These three important towns in Liaodong were recovered by Yuan Chonghuan. Back then, he built cities and trained troops here, wounded Nurhaci with cannon fire, repelled Huang Taiji, and became a powerful force in Liaodong. Now, all that remains of him is his head, which is being tossed around in a wooden box, retracing the path he once walked, station by station.

Upon arrival at each city, the garrison commander would open the box to inspect the contents, verify the identity, sign a reply, and then reseal the wooden box before handing it over to the messenger at the next station.

Most of the guards silently inspected the box, silently signed the document, silently closed the wooden box, and said, "Send it to the next station."

There were no superfluous words, no superfluous expressions. They were all former subordinates of Yuan Chonghuan, many of whom had been promoted by him, fought alongside him, and respected him as their commander. Yet at this moment, they didn't even have the courage to glance at him.

Because they were afraid. Afraid they would cry, afraid others would see, afraid the Imperial Guards would report their reactions, afraid the Emperor's suspicious blade would fall on their necks in the next moment. Fear is contagious, and silence is the best armor to protect oneself.

As they passed Ningyuan, an old soldier also saw Yuan Chonghuan's face. He was a gunner in the Battle of Ningyuan, the one who had personally lit the cannon that had wounded Nurhaci. He knelt before the wooden box, wailing and crying, his forehead hitting the bluestone slab until it bled profusely.

"Commander! Commander!" he cried hoarsely, his voice echoing in the empty city gate like the whimper of an abandoned old dog.

The garrison commander ordered his men to drag him away. The old soldier continued to shout as he was dragged, his voice hoarse and his face blurred with tears. The garrison commander stood there, watching as the wooden box was resealed, loaded onto a horse, and gradually disappeared at the end of the road.

He never looked back.

The wooden crate continues its journey.

Xuanfu, Datong, Shanxi.

The garrison commanders in these areas had little personal relationship with Yuan Chonghuan. They inspected, signed, and handed over the wooden box according to regulations. In their hands, the wooden box was nothing more than an official document, a mere formality in officialdom.

Some people felt sorry for him, lamenting, "Yuan Yuansu's lifelong reputation has come to such an end"; some felt a secret sense of satisfaction, muttering, "Arrogance leads to this day"; and many more remained expressionless, hoping that this job would end quickly so they wouldn't get into trouble.

After traveling through Xuanda and Shanxi, the wooden box turned southwest and entered the Yansui area.

On the day the wooden box arrived in Yansui Town, Yansui Governor Hong Chengchou was reviewing military reports in the main hall.

"Commander, the document from the Ministry of War has arrived," Zhao's advisor reported in a low voice.

Hong Chengchou put down his pen and remained silent for a moment. He certainly knew what was inside the wooden box.

"Check it," he said.

The advisors exchanged glances, none daring to step forward. In the end, it was Zhao who steeled himself and opened the wooden box. He glanced at it, then his face turned ashen as he closed the lid, signed the reply, and hurriedly handed it over.

"Commander-in-Chief," after the wooden box was handed over, Zhao's advisor dismissed everyone and asked in a low voice, "Commander-in-Chief Yuan... just like that, gone?"

Hong Chengchou did not answer. He gazed at the gray sky outside the hall and remained silent for a long time. He and Yuan Chonghuan were complete strangers; one was the military governor of Jiliao, and the other the governor of Yansui, and they kept to themselves. But as both governors-general of the Ming Dynasty and commanders of their respective regions, they felt a sense of shared fate and sympathy.

He thought about many things. He thought about Yuan Chonghuan's triumphant spirit when he wounded Nurhaci with a cannon on the walls of Ningyuan, his bold statement of "pacifying Liaodong in five years", his autocratic decision when he killed Mao Wenlong, and his fierce courage in supervising the battle outside Guangqumen.

Then I thought of him being led to the execution platform in his prison uniform, of the scorn and cheers of the onlookers, and of the three thousand five hundred and forty-three cuts.

He suddenly felt a chill down his back.

"Issue the order," Hong Chengchou's voice was hoarse, "all battalions must intensify their training and not slacken. Cao Wenzhao's troops, prepare for troop redeployment."

Zhao's advisor paused for a moment, then asked, "Commander, where are we being transferred to?"

Hong Chengchou did not answer immediately. He simply picked up his pen and resumed reviewing the military reports. His pen moved steadily, but his heart was in turmoil.

Yuan Chonghuan is dead. Who's next?

He dared not think.

The wooden box is still on its way.

Ningxia, Guyuan, Gansu. Then it turned back, returning to Beijing along the same route. When the wooden box finally arrived in Beijing and was sent to the Ministry of Justice for filing, more than a month had passed since it left the execution ground in Xishi.

"Yuan Chonghuan's head, in a wooden box, traveled across the entire northern border of the Ming Empire."

His flesh and blood had long since become part of this land, or rather, part of the stomachs of those who cannibalize people.

Who was Yuan Chonghuan? Why was he executed by slow slicing? Did he actually collude with the enemy?

None of that matters anymore.

---

By the time news of Yuan Chonghuan's execution reached Ziwu Ridge, it was already July.

Gu Jun'en hurriedly entered the central command tent, carrying a copy of a report that had been sent from Xi'an Prefecture. Li Zicheng was discussing the preparation of autumn grain with several leaders. Seeing Gu Jun'en's solemn expression, he waved for everyone to disperse.

"Jun'en, what is it?"

Gu Jun'en placed the report on the table. "General, Yuan Chonghuan is dead."

Li Zicheng unfolded the report, read it from beginning to end, and then slowly put it down. The report clearly stated: Yuan Chonghuan, for colluding with the enemy and plotting rebellion, was executed by slow slicing, his head was sent to the nine border regions, his family property was confiscated, and his wife and children were exiled three thousand miles away.

"Lingchi..." Li Zicheng murmured, repeating the two words over and over again. "The Ming Dynasty used lingchi on a military commander."

He paused for a moment, then picked up the report again, read it from beginning to end, and put it down. His voice was as calm as if he were talking about something very distant: "When I was a courier at Yinchuan Post Station, I heard passing officials talk about Yuan Chonghuan. They said that there was a cannon on the city wall of Ningyuan that killed the old Khan with a single shot. At that time, I thought that if the Ming Dynasty had someone like that, it might still be able to hold on for a while."

He paused, then shook his head.

Gu Jun'en remained silent. He knew that Li Zicheng had not finished speaking.

"Now the court has executed him by dismemberment. They would rather dismember their most capable commander-in-chief than let him live to fight the Jurchens." Li Zicheng suddenly smiled, a faint smile, yet carrying a desolate air of having seen through something. "Very well. Let the world see what happens to those who serve the Ming Dynasty."

He stood up, walked to the tent entrance, and gazed at the new army drilling in the valley, remaining silent for a long time. Then he turned to Gu Jun'en and said, "Send a letter to Hong Chengchou. Tell him that Yuan Chonghuan's fate today is his fate tomorrow. He racks his brains to serve Chongzhen, but sooner or later he will be executed by Chongzhen."

Gu Jun'en hesitated for a moment: "General, this letter... I'm afraid it will anger Hong Chengchou."

"I want to provoke him," Li Zicheng said. "When people are angry, they make mistakes."

Gu Jun'en nodded and turned to draft the letter.

Inside the blacksmith's shop, Lin Fan was squatting by the furnace, inspecting the quality of a new batch of steel billets. Han Jinhu walked in from outside, his face looking as if he had swallowed a fly.

"Brother Lin, have you heard? Yuan Chonghuan was executed by slow slicing."

Lin Fan's hand paused. He slowly put down the steel billet, turned around, and looked at Han Jinhu. "When did this happen?"

"Last month," Han Jinhu swallowed, "the court said he was colluding with the barbarians, and sentenced him to death by slow slicing, with his head sent to the nine border regions. He was sliced ​​3,543 times, and the slicing took three whole days."

Lin Fan remained silent for a long time. In his previous life, he enjoyed reading history books in his spare time and was very familiar with the wars that changed history. The cannon wounds that wounded Nurhaci in the Battle of Ningyuan, the defeat of Huang Taiji in the Battle of Ningjin, the bloody battle outside Guangqumen—Yuan Chonghuan's name was repeatedly written in history books.

Then he recalled the historical records: In the third year of the Chongzhen Emperor's reign, Yuan Chonghuan was executed by slow slicing, and the citizens of the capital fought to eat his flesh. He remembered those scrambling people, their numb faces, their reddened eyes, their bloodstained fingers. Suddenly, he felt a tightness in his chest, and he couldn't breathe.

What kind of world is this? A general who fought desperately to protect them was devoured piece by piece.

Seeing that his expression was off, Han Jinhu quickly asked, "Brother Lin, has Yuan Chonghuan... really colluded with the enemy?"

Lin Fan looked up at him. Han Jinhu's eyes held confusion, resentment, and a hint of fear.

"I don't know," Lin Fan said. "Maybe it was connected, maybe it wasn't. But he defended Ningyuan, Jinzhou, and the capital, repelling the Jurchens time and time again."

"Why is the imperial court—"

"Perhaps it's because he killed Mao Wenlong, perhaps it's because his achievements threatened the emperor, perhaps it's because Chongzhen needed a scapegoat." Lin Fan stood up, his voice not loud, but every word clear, "Brother Han, remember this: Yuan Chonghuan risked his life for the court for half his life, and the court had him sliced ​​three thousand five hundred and forty-three times."

Han Jinhu fell silent. This man, a blacksmith by trade, had never considered such a complex question. He simply felt something was amiss—why would a capable general be killed by his own people? If he were killed, who would defend against the Jurchen invaders?

Lin Fan didn't say anything more. He turned around and continued to inspect the steel billet, but the pliers in his hand were trembling slightly.

It wasn't out of sadness, but out of anger. A man who risked his life for the court was executed by the court.

He, Li Zicheng, and the thousands of men on Ziwu Ridge—they weren't even qualified to risk their lives for the imperial court.

They were thieves. And the fate of thieves was even better than that of Yuan Chonghuan.

He put down the pliers, walked to the workshop entrance, and looked at the New Army's artillery practicing firing in the distance.

The cannons roared, shells whistling through the air, leaving a row of neat craters on the hillside. Zhang Nai stood beside the gun emplacement, rangefinder in hand, loudly announcing correction parameters. This eighteen-year-old was already capable of independently commanding the entire artillery unit.

"Zhang Nai!" Lin Fan called out.

Zhang Nai jogged over and stood ramrod straight: "Leader!"

Lin Fan looked at his young face, thought for a long time, and finally said only one sentence: "Practice hard."

Zhang Nai paused for a moment, then answered loudly, "Yes!"

---

The news of Yuan Chonghuan's execution by slow slicing did not cause much of a stir in the court. A dead man whose crime had already been proven guilty was not worth further discussion. The cabinet ministers' attention was focused on another person—Sun Chengzong.

That year, Sun Chengzong commanded the army to recover the four cities of Yongping, driving the Jurchens out of the pass, achieving great merit. However, the price of recovering the four cities was the undercurrents in the court. After the great victory of Zunyi and Yongping, memorials impeaching Sun Chengzong for appointing his cronies and for his arrogance and autocracy were submitted to the cabinet one after another.

Those who attacked him accused him of appointing his own people, of exaggerating his military achievements, and of abusing his military power. These accusations were exactly the same as those leveled against Yuan Chonghuan when he was impeached.

Liang Tingdong suppressed all the impeachment memorials and only reviewed the truly urgent military reports each day.

Some people didn't believe Sun Chengzong would follow in Yuan Chonghuan's footsteps, saying that Commander Sun was a veteran of three reigns and had made great contributions in recovering four cities; even if there was a great uproar in the court, the emperor wouldn't cut off his own arm. Others sneered: Yuan Chonghuan also made many contributions. But what was his fate?

Ultimately, how many of the military commanders of the Ming Dynasty actually met a good end?

---

The Forbidden City, the Qianqing Palace.

Emperor Chongzhen sat before his desk, a memorial laid out before him. The memorial, submitted by the Ministry of Justice, reported that Yuan Chonghuan had been executed, his head had been sent to the nine border regions, his family property had been confiscated, and his wife had been escorted away.

He stared at the memorial for a long time.

Several days had passed since Yuan Chonghuan was executed. The commander-in-chief whom he had personally sent to the execution platform had his head circulated throughout the nine border regions, and his body had long since turned to dust. Chongzhen thought he would no longer think about it. In these days, he reviewed memorials, summoned ministers, and handled military affairs, everything as usual.

But every night, when he sat alone in the empty hall of Qianqing Palace, watching the candlelight flicker in the night wind, that thought would crawl out from the bottom of his heart like a snake—was killing Yuan Chonghuan the right thing to do or the wrong thing?

He recalled Yuan Chonghuan's words, "Pacify Liaodong in five years." He believed it then, as did the entire court. However, the Jurchen cavalry didn't wait five years. They breached the pass at Jizhou, burning and killing their way in, advancing straight towards the capital. At that moment, everyone's backbone was broken, everyone's dignity trampled to shreds. Someone had to pay the price. Not the corrupt and exploitative civil officials, not the deserters in the face of battle, but the very man who had sworn to defend the nation's borders.

A weary glint flashed in his deep-set eyes, then he slowly picked up his vermilion brush and wrote a single word on the Ministry of Justice's memorial: "Approved."

The moment the vermilion brush touched the paper, his hand trembled slightly, and the vermilion left a faint red mark on the last stroke of the character "可" (kě). He stared at the red mark, his brows furrowing, then slowly relaxing.

He put down his pen, pushed the memorial aside, and picked up the next one.

Outside the window, night deepened. The glazed tiles of the Forbidden City gleamed coldly in the moonlight, like a sheet of solidified ice. Eunuch Cao Huachun stood outside the hall, glancing through the crack in the door at the emperor who was still reviewing memorials. He sighed silently, waved his hand, and signaled the young eunuch who was about to go in to add candles to move more quietly.

The candles in the Qianqing Palace burned brightly night after night, from dusk till dawn.