While the youngsters of Gao Family Village were laughing themselves breathless over camera angles and exaggerated death scenes, Beijing was living in a completely different world.
Outside Xizhimen Gate, beyond the cold stretch of winter earth, Ajige had planted the Qing main force like a nail driven into the heart of the capital. Banner camps stretched across the plain, smoke rising in disciplined columns. Horses stamped. Armor glinted. Cannons sat silent, but not harmless.
In a small cluster of trees north of the encampment, three figures crouched low among the shadows.
Wang Er lowered his spyglass first.
Beside him, Bai Mao squinted through his lens, while Ma Shouying shifted impatiently, his breath forming faint mist in the cold air.
"Their main force really is here," Ma Shouying muttered. "Tens of thousands. Siege gear, artillery, Mongol riders everywhere."
He paused, then said the thing that had clearly been sitting in his chest for a while.
"So why are we even trying? Why not just pull back and let them take the capital? Let them chop off that old emperor's head for us. Wouldn't that solve everything cleanly?"
The suggestion did not shock Wang Er.
In fact, the corner of his mouth curved slightly.
"I would enjoy watching that," he admitted honestly. "More than enjoy it."
Ma Shouying raised an eyebrow. "Then what's the problem?"
Wang Er did not answer immediately. He continued staring through the trees at the distant Qing formations, rows upon rows of soldiers who were not here for justice, not here for reform, but for plunder.
"If they entered the capital and killed only the emperor and those corrupt officials," Wang Er said slowly, "I would clap for them with both hands."
His voice lowered.
"But they won't stop there."
Silence settled.
Ma Shouying frowned. "You think they'll massacre civilians?"
"I don't think," Wang Er replied. "I know."
His gaze grew distant.
"In the seventh year of Tianqi, when Zhong Guangdao, Zheng Yanfu, and I rose up, what did we say? We said we would kill Zhang Yaocai. Just him. Just the corrupt officials who squeezed the villagers dry."
Bai Mao shifted uncomfortably.
"We stormed the county seat," Wang Er continued. "I went straight to the yamen. I found Zhang Yaocai. I cut him down myself."
His jaw tightened.
"But outside, things did not go the way we imagined."
Bai Mao exhaled heavily.
"I saw it," he said quietly. "The wealthy district. The houses with carved beams and painted doors. Our men rushed in. They told themselves they were seizing spoils from the rich."
He swallowed.
"There was a maidservant. Young. Maybe fifteen. She had been sold into that house because her family couldn't survive the famine. She was poor, just like us. But that did not save her."
Ma Shouying's eyes widened, horror creeping into them.
No one spoke for a while.
The Qing banners fluttered in the distance, indifferent to their memories.
Finally, Wang Er clenched his fist.
"We can tear the emperor and his corrupt officials apart," he said. "That I do not hesitate about."
He looked at Ma Shouying directly.
"But if we allow foreign soldiers to flood the capital, they will not distinguish between emperor and beggar. They will not ask who deserved punishment. They will take grain, silver, women, children. If we stand aside and let that happen, then what are we?"
His voice hardened.
"Not rebels with a cause. Not men correcting injustice. Just bandits waiting for someone else to dirty their hands."
Ma Shouying lowered his head.
"Righteous uprising," he murmured.
There was a character for righteousness in that phrase. Yi.
And that single character was heavier than any banner.
The decision settled between them without further debate.
They withdrew deeper into the woods where several horses waited. A few Qing scouts lay motionless on the ground, silent proof of the effort it had taken just to approach this close for reconnaissance.
Mounting up, they spurred northward.
After several li of hard riding, they rejoined their forces. Wang Pu, Regional Commander of Datong, stood with the Datong border army, his armor dusty, his expression tense.
"Well?" Wang Pu demanded.
Bai Mao answered first. "The Qing are fully prepared. Siege weapons. Cannons. Shield-wagon formations thick as walls. Mongol cavalry in large numbers. Even with our flintlocks, charging them head-on with a few thousand men would be suicide."
Wang Pu's jaw flexed. "But they are already pressing against Xizhimen. If the capital falls…"
He did not finish.
Ma Shouying spoke instead. "We do not attack the center. We harass the flank. Wave banners. Stir dust. Strike their scouting parties. Make them believe their rear is unstable."
Wang Pu's eyes lit up. "Force them to choose between siege and security."
"Exactly."
Days passed.
The harassment grew bolder. Qing scouts disappeared. Small patrols were wiped out. Captured civilians were rescued. Looted livestock was reclaimed. Fires appeared unexpectedly along the Qing right flank.
Ajige stood over his map, frowning.
This campaign had already yielded abundant plunder. Grain, silk, livestock, silver. Yet the longer they remained, the more unstable their position became. Ming territory was hostile ground. Guerrilla tactics flourished here like weeds.
After long consideration, Ajige made his decision.
"Enough," he said. "We withdraw."
The officers bowed.
"But," Ajige added, a faint smirk touching his lips, "we do not leave quietly."
Orders spread through the camp.
The Eight Banners soldiers dressed themselves in the most flamboyant garments they had looted. Multicolored silks became cloaks. Emerald cloth wrapped around helmets. Flowing sleeves trailed from armored shoulders. What should have been an army looked more like an opera troupe performing a mocking farce.
Drums and gongs thundered not as signals, but as jeers directed toward the capital walls.
Only after parading in full view did they finally turn northeast toward the passes beyond the Great Wall.
From atop Xizhimen Gate, eunuch Gao Qiqian watched them depart.
Instead of anger, relief flooded him.
"They are retreating," he breathed. "Inform His Majesty immediately."
Inside the palace, Zhu Youjian felt a surge of vindication.
"Is my Great Ming a place where barbarians come and go at will?" he declared. "Their morale is broken. This is the moment to pursue."
He ordered Minister of War Zhang Fengyi to lead the chase.
Zhang Fengyi received the command in silence.
Unlike the emperor, he did not observe war from within palace walls. Unlike Gao Qiqian, he did not survive by pleasing imperial ears. He understood numbers. He understood terrain. He understood traps.
We barely survived, he thought. And now you want pursuit?
Still, he bowed and obeyed.
The army marched out.
Not far beyond the gate, they found a large signboard planted beside the road where the Qing camp had stood.
One line was written upon it.
"All officials, no need to see us off."
The commanding general's face paled.
"Minister, this is a provocation. They dressed in gaudy robes, made noise deliberately, and left this sign. They want us angry. They want us reckless."
Zhang Fengyi stared at the words for a long moment.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Which is why we will not give them what they want."
He turned to his officers.
"We advance cautiously. Scouts wide and frequent. We show pursuit, but we do not gamble the capital's final army on wounded pride."
Behind him, Beijing's walls stood silent.
War was not only fought with swords and cannons.
Sometimes it was fought against one's own impulse to prove something.
And that, Zhang Fengyi knew, was far more difficult.