In the winter of Chongzhen’s sixteenth year, the end was near.
The soul of Zhu Cilang, from a later age, became the last helmsman aboard this giant ship on the verge of sinking. He had no System and no foreknowledge. All he faced was a lifeless Beijing, a father whose spirit had been crushed by seventeen years of politics, and one desperate report of defeat after another.
Li Zicheng’s army had already crossed Tong Pass. Beyond the frontier, the Manchu invaders were sharpening their weapons.
The officials were still arguing over whether to “move south” or “hold the capital to the death,” while the treasury didn’t even have enough silver to give the soldiers of the Capital Garrisons one full meal. Everyone knew that Great Ming’s fortunes had run out.
Then, on a snowy morning, the usually gentle crown prince carried the spirit tablet of Emperor Gao, Taizu of Great Ming, Zhu Yuanzhang, in both hands and climbed the cold jade steps of the Imperial Ancestral Temple, one step at a time.
Amid wind and snow, his voice was calm, yet rang louder than the despair that had engulfed the city:
“Bring me the Imperial Sword of Emperor Gao, Taizu!”
The sword flashed like snow, illuminating his young yet resolute face.
“From this day forward, anyone within the palace who speaks of moving south, making peace, or abandoning our land, ”
The blade suddenly pointed downward, tracing a cold arc before the horrified eyes of the officials.
“Will be struck down by this sword.”
That day, everyone thought he was merely a young man driven mad beneath Taizu’s legendary authority.
No one knew that the prince descending from the Imperial Ancestral Temple would become the most formidable crown prince in Great Ming’s three-hundred-year history.
Good, good, good, good, good, good