I Pose as the Son of Heaven in the Great Ming

In the autumn of the fourteenth year of the Zhengtong reign, the flames of war at Tumu Fortress reduced the backbone of the Great Ming to ashes, while the imperial palace trembled beneath the iron hooves of the Oirat.

Zhang Qi opened his eyes to find himself an official slave in the household of Zhang Fu, Duke of England.

Because of the rebellion of the Prince of Han in the first year of the Xuande reign, he had fallen into the lowest and most despised class of the Great Ming. He could not take the civil service examinations, do business, or marry a free person. His family was condemned to slavery for generations, with no hope of reprieve.

But fate is fickle. When the dreadful news that the Yingzong Emperor had been captured in the north tore through the dawn in Shuntian Prefecture, when Zhang Fu’s silver armor shattered into starlight beyond Juyong Pass, and when word of Prince Cheng’s sudden death spread like a blood mist across the Golden Water Bridge...

Yu Qian strode through the palace gates, carrying the dying embers of the frontier beacons, and personally draped a bloodstained twelve-symbol imperial robe over Zhang Qi’s slender shoulders.

“The Great Ming needs a face like yours. Play three parts, and extend the dynasty’s mandate by two hundred years.”

The first act: denounce the move south at Fengtian Gate.

The second act: approve the execution of eunuchs in vermilion ink at the Qianqing Palace.

The third act: repel Esen in the defense of Beijing.

Once the three acts were over, the counterfeit emperor became a puppet of power, trapped on the stage of fate.

From Fengtian Hall to Desheng Gate, he played the role of “the wise ruler who saves the nation” for eight whole years.

Only when he heard knocking through the wall from the Southern Palace did he discover that the System task that could take him home was simply “redeem Yu Qian.”

On the night the bells of the Coup at the Gate rang throughout the Forbidden City, Yu Qian sat alone by the dying candlelight and unfolded an imperial decree whose ink was still wet.

The dragon-shaped handle of the imperial seal bled red. “The Zhengtong reign is buried. Is there still a Jingtai eighth year? Three questions for you: Is the people’s livelihood weightier than the Nine Tripods? Can a century of war be brought to an end?”

Candle wax rolled down the edge of the decree. “Grand Secretary, would you be willing to drink hemlock with me?”