In the fourteenth year of the Zhengtong era of the Great Ming, the disaster at Tumu Fortress wiped out the capital’s 200,000 elite troops. The emperor was captured and taken north, and the dynasty nearly crumbled.
On the third day after Zhu Qiyu was appointed regent,
ministers beat Ma Shun, commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, to death before the Meridian Gate, splattering blood across the steps.
The young Zhu Qiyu was so terrified that he promptly died.
In his place stood a young man from the twenty-first century.
He stood there, hands trembling.
He knew that in twenty-two days, the Oirat cavalry would be at the gates of Beijing.
And he would be imprisoned until death, his imperial title erased from history.
The history books gave Yu Qian eight words: “On the day he died, all the realm mourned his injustice.”
His brother gave him the most vicious posthumous title: “Cruel.”
But this time, he knew everything.
Those who know the ending have the right to rewrite it.
