The Chongzhen Emperor did not truly wake that night. He surfaced from sleep the way a drowning man breaks water, gasping not for air but for clarity.
The dream clung to him.
His elder brother's face, pale beneath candlelight. That faint, almost teasing smile that did not belong to a dying man. And those words.
Do your best. That is enough.
Zhu Youjian sat upright on the edge of the bed, his long sleeves sliding down his arms. The palace chamber felt colder than usual, though braziers still burned in the corners.
"Have I truly done my best?" he murmured to himself.
The question did not accuse him. That was the cruel part. It simply existed.
He stood and walked slowly across the chamber, hands clasped behind his back, the polished floor reflecting his thin silhouette. For years he had believed that diligence alone could repair a collapsing realm. Rise before dawn. Review memorials. Slash corruption. Punish incompetence. Demand loyalty.
Yet the realm still bled from a thousand unseen cuts.
"From this day forward," he said quietly, as though swearing to the darkness itself, "I will be even more diligent."
The doors burst open before the vow had fully settled in the air.
A eunuch stumbled inside, face streaked with tears, hat askew, breath ragged from running through corridor after corridor.
"Your Majesty!" he cried, dropping to his knees so fast his forehead struck the floor. "Calamity. Calamity beyond words."
Zhu Youjian felt his stomach tighten. When had there not been calamity?
"Speak clearly," he ordered, though his voice had already gone dry.
"The Manchu forces have burned the Dexin Mausoleum. The tomb of the Tianqi Emperor has been opened. The burial treasures are gone."
For a heartbeat, the world made no sound at all.
Zhu Youjian's fingers trembled.
He did not shout. He did not rage. He simply stepped backward as if struck, and slowly lowered himself onto the bed.
"No wonder," he whispered. "No wonder he came to me last night."
The eunuch dared not lift his head.
"His Imperial Majesty Tianqi… his tomb desecrated. The ancestral rites violated."
The emperor pressed a hand to his brow.
"My brother came to settle accounts," he said hoarsely. "He came because I failed to protect even his resting place."
The eunuch's voice cracked again as he forced out the next report. "The enemy vanguard has reached the West Zhimen Gate."
That finally shattered the fragile composure.
"They stand at the gates of the capital," Zhu Youjian roared, rising to his feet, "and where is the Minister of War? Where are the garrison commanders? Where are the relief armies stationed across the provinces? Has the realm grown so empty that no one remains to answer when We call?"
The eunuch trembled. "This servant will go immediately. I will summon them. I will assist in repelling the invaders."
"Then go," the emperor snapped. "Spare me further wailing."
The eunuch fled as if chased by executioners.
Before dawn had fully broken, appointments were made in haste. Eunuch Gao Qiqian was named supervising censor. Minister of War Zhang Fengyi was pushed forward as governor-general. Young nobles who had spent more time practicing calligraphy than archery were dragged from their mansions, handed weapons, and marched toward the walls.
By midmorning, the West Zhimen Gate was crowded with an army that looked more like a ceremonial parade gone wrong.
Some gripped spears backward. Others whispered nervously about whether their silk boots would be ruined by mud. Armor straps hung loose. Helmets sat crooked.
One veteran guard muttered under his breath, "Bandits would laugh at this lot."
Outside the walls, the Qing Grand General Ajige surveyed the scene from horseback.
He had expected resistance. He had expected pride. Instead he saw confusion.
Ajige threw his head back and laughed, the sound carrying easily across the open field.
"So this is the heart of the Central Plains," he said to the generals at his side. "A city full of trembling scholars and pampered sons."
A subordinate cleared his throat carefully. "General, the walls themselves are formidable. However weak the defenders, those fortifications will not fall easily."
Ajige shot him a sharp glance. "Do you think I cannot see stone and mortar with my own eyes?"
The general bowed.
Ajige gestured toward the countryside. "We hold position here. The rest of you disperse. Sweep the surrounding districts. Seize grain, seize livestock, seize people. If they hide behind walls, we will starve the land around them."
The Qing banners spread outward like ink dropped into water.
Dingxing burned. Fangshan fell. Zhuozhou fought and lost. Gu'an was stripped. Wen'an collapsed. Baodi was breached. Magistrate Zhao Guoding died defending his post. Shunyi, Huairou, Hexiwu, Miyun, Pinggu, one by one the names were added to the tally.
Within a single month, twelve cities had been taken. Fifty six engagements fought. Every official report recorded victory.
One hundred seventy nine thousand eight hundred people and animals seized.
In Ajige's tent, scribes recorded these triumphs carefully.
There were, however, inconvenient lines that disrupted the perfection.
On a certain date, Wang Pu, Regional Commander of Datong, led the Shanxi relief army and slew a number of Qing troops outside Changping.
Ajige frowned and struck a bold line through the entry.
Another report followed days later. Wang Pu again engaged Qing forces northeast of Changping and inflicted losses.
Another decisive stroke of the brush erased it.
History, Ajige believed, was a matter of proper editing.
When the official chronicle of the Great Qing was written, it would speak of unbroken victories. It would speak of unstoppable banners. It would not dwell on minor setbacks caused by some obscure regional commander.
He was still contemplating phrasing when a rider galloped into camp, nearly collapsing from exhaustion.
"General. The right flank skirmishers have been scattered by Wang Pu. The right side is exposed. If the enemy presses forward, they may strike toward the main camp."
Ajige's hand tightened around his brush.
In his mind, the terrain unfolded instantly. The capital to the south. His main force centered. The right flank now weakened.
If Ming forces surged from the gate while Wang Pu advanced from the northeast, even a disorganized mob could become dangerous when attacking from two directions.
"Who is this Wang Pu?" Ajige demanded.
The officers exchanged uncertain looks. "An unremarkable man, by reputation. However, he commands a peculiar firearms unit. Their weapons fire rapidly and with alarming precision."
Firearms.
The word irritated him.
He remembered the emperor's earlier covert plan, the one codenamed Jiang Gan Steals the Letter. A spy team had been sent deep into Ming territory to gather intelligence on these new weapons and disrupt their production.
They had vanished.
Most likely captured, tortured, executed.
Ajige allowed himself a brief moment of regret.
If that operation had succeeded, this so called firearms unit would pose no threat.
He sighed inwardly. "What a waste of capable men."
At that exact moment, in a bustling cafeteria inside the Chang'an Automobile Factory, Bin Sheng sneezed so violently that he nearly dropped his bowl.
"Someone must be thinking of me," he muttered, rubbing his nose.
Yanzi, seated beside him, narrowed her eyes. "Oh? Some other girl is thinking of you now?"
Bin Sheng nearly choked. "No, no. I was only joking."
"You were not listening to me," she said, arms folding.
"I was listening," he protested earnestly.
"Then repeat what I just said."
Bin Sheng straightened as though facing inspection. "You said that since I gave up my housing allocation to a fellow worker last time, I still do not have a marital home. But that is acceptable because you have been allocated a small house, and we may use yours first. In the future, I will continue striving for recognition as an advanced worker and labor model, and when the next housing allocation comes, we will apply for a larger home. Then we will have two children, one boy and one girl."
Yanzi's cheeks flushed.
"You did not need to say it so loudly," she whispered, glancing at the surrounding tables.
Too late.
The cafeteria workers were already smiling.
Some giggled. Others nodded approvingly.
"Yanzi is fortunate," one of the older women murmured. "Workshop head, steady income, promising future."
"Hardworking and upright," another added. "Not many like him."
Bin Sheng scratched his head awkwardly, unaware that far away a Qing general was mourning the imagined death of a spy team that had not only survived, but was currently debating housing plans and future children.
Ajige stared at the map in his tent and sighed.
"Our spies must have suffered terribly," he said quietly. "If only they were still alive."
In the factory cafeteria, Bin Sheng took another bite of his meal and sneezed again.
Yanzi pushed a handkerchief into his hand. "Wipe your nose. Workshop heads should maintain dignity."
He grinned.
Somewhere between imperial strategy and factory gossip, history continued moving, indifferent to who believed themselves victorious.