In the winter of the third year of Chongzhen, Zhu Ciyi woke up from a fatal illness and became the most miserable prince in the Ming Dynasty.
The mother clan was executed and trapped behind a high wall. The only way to survive is a fragmented but clear memory of death in the mind about the next fourteen years.
There is no system, no magic, no meteorites falling from the sky.
There is only a cold prediction of the direction of history, and a thorough understanding of the technology, finance, and people's hearts in the late Ming Dynasty.
He walked out of the high wall and started weaving a web from a restaurant.
Use the double-entry accounting method to penetrate the account books of corrupt officials, use local chili noodles to open the gap in the general flag, and use the flaw of a privately minted copper coin to set a fatal trap.
Will Yan Yin be demoted? I sold short early.
Conversion of water transport to sea transport? I hoard.
Hongyi cannon? I dug my own grave.
He opened a restaurant to control intelligence, established a bank account to control the world, and practiced firearms to work for relief. In the pool of blood of the Eunuch Party and the Donglin Party, in the roar of the refugees and the cavalry, we climbed up through the gaps in history.
Until one day, he stood in front of the charcoal torture rack at the Meridian Gate, looking at the once arrogant Jiu Qiang, and ignited the flames that burned him with his own hands.
Beside him, the woman who followed him out of the Qinhuai River threw the bloody banknotes into the fire one by one, her side face reflected in the firelight, and she said softly:
"Master, it's time to proclaim yourself emperor."
