Chapter 69: Opening Time and Space in the Eighth Year of Jing Tai...

Within the camp of three thousand cavalry.

The ministers of the Chongzhen court stared in shock, beholding with their own eyes wave after wave of Ming soldiers appearing out of thin air all around them, the vast expanse stretching to the horizon with no end in sight.

“How many troops could there possibly be?” Shi Kefa, Gong Yonggu, and the others gaped in astonishment.

“Not many,” Zhu Yuanzhang lifted his proud head even higher, his tone nonchalant. “Merely 1.2 million.”

A million? No, one million two hundred thousand!?

After their initial excitement, Shi Kefa, Gong Yonggu, and the rest exchanged glances, their hearts suddenly left cold and empty. A sense of shame crept over them as they recalled their previous fear when facing the banners of their enemy.

One million two hundred thousand against sixty thousand—a crushing tide destined to overwhelm all in its path! How could the Manchus possibly hope for victory?

Old Zhu Di and Zhu, the Fourth Prince, pointed and gestured on the other side, each of them looking calm and composed, discussing matters with an air of ease, as if ready to drink the blood of the Xiongnu as in days of legend.

A buzzing filled the air.

Zhu Youjian, sweating profusely and gasping for breath, said, “Finally, it’s all set.”

“Grand Ancestor, and all revered forebears, please prepare yourselves. The noise will likely be tremendous in just a moment!”

…

Upon the walls of Ningyuan.

Hong Chengchou stood deep in thought, his gaze growing ever brighter.

At last, as the civil officials and patrolling Manchu troops grew panic-stricken and disoriented, his resonant voice rang out above the battlements of Ningyuan.

“This is the legendary mirage!” Hong Chengchou’s eyes glimmered with wisdom as he stroked his beard and smiled.

“Mirage?” The Manchu officials looked at one another in confusion. “May we ask, Lord Hong, what sort of unit is this ‘mirage’?”

“It is not a troop at all. A mirage is an illusion, not something that truly exists. Just like these endless ranks of soldiers outside—have you heard even the faintest sound?” Hong Chengchou stood with hands clasped behind his back, eyes gleaming with cleverness, every inch the master of the situation.

“Indeed, not a sound!” The Manchu officials wavered between terror and doubt, surprise giving way to a tentative calm. “So then, are these Ming troops outside nothing but a mirage?”

“Just so. Look for yourselves—do you hear any noise?” Hong Chengchou was praised by all: “You are truly of the ancients, Lord Hong! Had it been us, we would have been frightened out of our wits. None can match your cool in the face of crisis, your insight as clear as fire!”

Hong Chengchou smiled faintly, then grew grave. “But I cannot fathom why such a vision should suddenly appear outside Ningyuan…”

Suddenly—

From below the walls, the voices of Zhu Youjian and the other emperors rang out: “Power to the Ming army!”

Next came a terrifying spectacle.

“Mighty Ming!” The million-strong host responded as one, their thunderous roar rolling like tidal waves, shaking the heavens.

“Victory to the Ming!”

“Long live His Majesty!”

The scene before them was like an epic come to life: a million Ming soldiers, faces ablaze with fervor, their spirits soaring to the utmost. Each shout eclipsed the last, heard clearly for a hundred miles in every direction.

A great buzzing overtook the civil officials atop the wall; their ears rang, some rolling their eyes and fainting dead away—whether from the shock or the terror, none could say.

“These… these are real Ming troops!?” Hong Chengchou trembled in utter terror, barely able to steady himself. “Quick, quick, call Dorgon at once!”

In the rear courtyard of the residence.

One of the Eight Banner lords frowned at the absurd spectacle, offering cautious advice: “Dorgon, this will only fuel the Ming’s resentment and make the conquest of the Central Plains all the more difficult for Manchu.”

“We endured their defilement of our women, their desecration of our ancestors’ graves, their seizure of our lands and homes—why fear such wretches?” Dorgon, reveling upon his bed, flourished his riding crop amid wine and women, sweat streaming in excess.

Suddenly—

“Mighty Ming!”

“Long live His Majesty!”

The immense and lingering cry echoed from all sides, leaving Dorgon’s mind blank and his body limp. So shaken was he that he might never recover in this life!

He leapt up. “Who!? What is this commotion!” His eyes bloodshot, Dorgon screamed in hysteria, not even aware of himself.

The Banner lord’s expression changed at once. “Quick, dress yourself! Come with me to investigate!”

“Let’s go!” Not wasting another word, Dorgon pulled on his clothes with violence and strode toward the city walls, murderous intent in his gait.

Upon ascending, Dorgon immediately jabbed a finger at the noses of the civil officials and began to curse. “Which dog of a servant is responsible for this racket!? Find them for me—”

Abruptly, his arrogant voice cut off. He might not have understood the words of that resounding chant, but he was no blind man.

Terror-stricken, he stammered, “Th-those blocks down there look to be Ming formations… How many soldiers must there be!?”

“Speak, you dog! Speak!” he roared.

“At least ten times our numbers! We are finished!” Hong Chengchou’s veins bulged as he clenched his teeth in fury.

Dorgon’s eyes nearly burst from their sockets. He lunged forward, snarling, “It’s all your fault, you dog! If not for your greed for the Ming throne, how would I have ended up like this!?”

“You mangy brute!” Hong Chengchou could bear it no more. He, too, shouted in fury: “Either way, we’re dead men. Let us settle all grievances now!”

“Onward! Beat this swine-headed beast to death!” The civil officials, their shame boiling over, charged forth with howls of rage.

“What—what are you doing!? Stay back—!” came the shrieks.

After a long while—

Creak.

The gates of Ningyuan swung wide. A civil official astride a horse rode out, making straight for the camp of three thousand light cavalry.

“Your Majesty, a man claiming to be an envoy from the Manchu army has come from Ningyuan!” Wu Mengming reported with deference.

“Bring him here,” Zhu Youjian said with interest.

“Your Majesty!” Huang Heng entered, threw himself to the ground, and wept aloud. “Your unworthy servant Huang Heng bows before Your Majesty. May Your Majesty enjoy peace and health!”

Zhu Youjian glanced at him with a hint of recognition.

Huang Heng sobbed, “I was once a clerk in the Ministry of War, but after being captured by the Manchu army, I had no choice but to bend. I beg Your Majesty to understand.”

“Speak to the point!” Zhu Youjian said impatiently.

“Your Majesty, on behalf of Lord Hong and the others, I beg forgiveness. We are willing to surrender Ningyuan and only ask for a way to spare our lives!” Huang Heng pleaded, tears streaming down his face.

[The fortunes of the Chongzhen court rise; a new era, ‘The Eighth Year of the Jingtai Reign (First Year of Tianshun),’ has begun.]

So soon?

It seems someone couldn’t wait to throw open the gates!

Zhu Youjian was taken aback, then thought a moment before saying, “Very well. I grant you a road to life.”

Huang Heng was struck dumb with joy, dazed for a moment before expressing his gratitude. “Thank you, Your Majesty! I will not fail in my duty!”

Boom!

A bolt of lightning flashed and struck the ground before them.

Huang Heng froze, his body rigid. The acrid scent of scorched flesh filled the air.

“I said I’d give you a way out, but not the way you’re used to,” Zhu Youjian mused, estimating the lightning had cooked him to about eighty percent.

The emperors of previous dynasties, standing in the background, were dumbfounded.

What just happened?

That thunderbolt—?

…