Raising a Rebel Army in the Late Ming to Beat Dorgon

The rout at Songjin left mountains of corpses and rivers of blood.

The Eight Banners cavalry formed up before the pass. Dorgon sat astride his horse, whip raised, and pointed at the remnants of the Ming: “Your fate is sealed. Why not surrender now?”

Before the words had even left his mouth

A dull boom rang out from the ranks, and the commander’s banner exploded.

No one saw what happened. They only saw the “Greatest Warrior of Manchuria” clutch his shoulder and tumble from his horse, blood pouring from the wound. The elite Eight Banners troops stood stunned. Their three-hundred-year legend of invincibility was shattered in a single blast.

As the smoke cleared, a Ming soldier, covered in blood and carrying a “fire stick,” rose from a heap of corpses.

No one knew that the body held a soul from four hundred years in the future.

The fleeing soldiers fell to their knees, crying, “A divine being has descended!” The grandees at court sent urgent messages asking, “Who is this man?”

Only he knew the truth:

There was no divine being. He was simply a modern man, long accustomed to the overwhelming advantage of firearms, redefining the rules on a battlefield of cold steel.

From then on, Liaodong was home to an army of volunteers who worshipped no gods, believing only in gunpowder.

From then on, a Chinese face haunted Dorgon’s nightmares.

Their score to settle went far beyond Shanhaiguan.

As for the rules, I make them.