A Slice of Southern Ming History, One Bottle of Blood Pressure Pills
The Manchu hooves trampled the Huai River, while court officials drowned Jinling in spittle.
Foreign invaders were practically gnawing at their bones, yet people at home were still shouting themselves hoarse over “who counted as the rightful successor.” The Southern Ming was collapsing more pathetically than anyone else.
That was until a soul from a later age crashed into the chaos of the southeast, and Zhu Cilang gripped his weapon and made his way through the dark into Gao Jie’s camp.
He didn’t so much as furrow his brow when a blade was held to his neck. He only fixed his gaze on the dusty European cannons in the camp, his voice striking the ground hard enough to throw off sparks:
“Gao Jie! Where are my cannons?!”
“Get every last one of them up to the front line! I don’t care what secret identities those Eight Banners soldiers are hiding behind. Today we’ll blast the Manchus to kingdom come and show them that this land belongs to the Han, not the barbarians!”
