Transmigrating to the Chongzhen era, I started by confiscating the Donglin Party.

On the 27th day of the tenth month of the sixteenth year of Chongzhen's reign, the city walls of Shanhaiguan gleamed with a cold, bluish-gray light in the morning mist.

Wu Sangui did not sleep all night.

Three letters lay open on the table, like three knives held to his throat. The first was from Nanjing, handwritten by his father, Wu Xiang—it made no mention of urging surrender, only saying that the house by Xuanwu Lake in Nanjing had been repaired, and that there was an old plum tree in the courtyard that had blossomed exceptionally early this year. The last sentence read: "My son guards the nation's gate, while his father in Jiangnan looks northwards every day, wishing only for peace."

The second letter was from Dorgon, and its words were filled with a sense of war: "If you surrender the pass, I will enfeoff you as the Prince of Pingxi and grant you the permanent jurisdiction over Yunnan. If you remain obstinate, on the day the pass falls, not a blade of grass will be left."

The third letter… arrived this morning. It was a plain handkerchief sent by Liu Rushi, embroidered with a plum blossom and the following words: “The north is bitterly cold; I hope the general takes care. Women in the south weave cloth and make clothes day and night, all saying, ‘When the clothes are finished, they will be sent to Shanhaiguan.’ I do not know the general’s name, but I know that the general is guarding the country’s gate.”

Wu Sangui stared at the plum blossom, his fingers tracing the handkerchief. The embroidery wasn't top-notch; the stitches were a bit messy, as if it had been rushed.

But it is precisely this roughness that makes it seem genuine—this is not an elegant gift from a famous courtesan on the Qinhuai River, but an embroidery made stitch by stitch by a woman from Jiangnan whom I have never met before, under the light of an oil lamp.

She might be a widow whose husband died in the north; she might be a weaver who spins yarn for ten hours a day just to make ends meet; or she might just be an ordinary peasant woman who heard there was a war in the north and wanted to do something about it.

She didn't know who Wu Sangui was, nor did she know that he was facing the biggest decision of his life at that moment.

All she knew was that someone was guarding the country's borders.

"General," a guard whispered outside the door, "another messenger has arrived from Nanjing, saying... it's an imperial edict from His Majesty."

Wu Sangui took a deep breath: "Please."

---

On the same day, in a side hall of the Wenhua Hall in Nanjing.

Li Ce didn't sit behind his desk, but stood by the window, looking at the ginkgo tree in the courtyard. The leaves were golden, and they fell in a gust of wind, carpeting the ground with a thick layer.

"Your Majesty," Li Ruolian stood at attention, "Wu Sangui has sent a third group of people. This time they didn't bring an imperial edict, but rather plum blossom handkerchiefs embroidered by the workshop's female workers, and... a battle report just delivered by Sun Chuanting."

"What battle report?"

"The reorganization in Guide is complete, and Zuo Liangyu's vanguard of 15,000 men has already marched to Xuzhou." Li Ruolian paused. "The battle report is public; Wu Sangui should have received it by now."

Li Ce smiled.

This is true strategic maneuvering—not forcing you to take a stand, but simply showing you the situation. Zuo Liangyu has surrendered, the Northern Expeditionary Army is gathering, and production in Jiangnan is booming day and night. You, Wu Sangui, are a smart man; you should know which way the wind is blowing.

"Your Majesty," Li Ruolian hesitated, "Dorgon has also made a move. According to our scouts, Hauge has led the Plain Blue Banner south to Yongping Prefecture, which is only two hundred li from Shanhaiguan. It seems... he wants to force Wu Sangui to make a statement."

"Then let him force it." Li Ce turned around, walked to the sand table, and pointed to the location of Yongping Prefecture. "How many men did Hauge bring?"

"The main force of the Zhenglan Banner has about 8,000 men, plus the Mongol vassals, totaling around 15,000."

How many people does Sun Chuanting have in Xuzhou?

"The new army numbers 30,000, plus Zuo Liangyu's troops, totaling 45,000."

Li Ce's finger slowly moved from Xuzhou to Yongping Prefecture, and then to Shanhaiguan: "Send word to Sun Chuanting that there's no need to wait until March of next year. Before November 15th, lead your troops north to Hejian Prefecture and make a show of force against Beijing."

"Your Majesty, this..." Li Ruolian exclaimed in surprise, "The grain supplies are probably..."

"I'll figure out the supplies." Li Ce looked out the window. "Tell Zheng Sen that we don't need to wait for the ice storm at sea. We must head north within three days and harass the Liaodong coast so that Dorgon won't dare to launch a full-scale southward attack."

He paused, his voice soft, yet each word clear:

"What is Wu Sangui waiting for? He's waiting for a signal—whether the court has the ability to protect him. Then I will show him that the court can not only protect him, but also lead him back to Beijing."

---

The study of the General's Mansion at Shanhaiguan.

The messenger from Nanjing was a young man in his early twenties, dressed in a slightly worn scholar's robe, with a composed demeanor and an air of scholarly refinement. He handed over an unsealed letter and bowed, saying:

"General Wu, His Majesty says that this letter need not be replied to. Just read it and then burn it."

Wu Sangui accepted it. The letter was very short, containing only three lines:

"General, you have worked hard guarding the pass. This winter, on our northern expedition, if you wish to serve as the vanguard, I will grant you the title of Duke of Liao, with your estate in Liaodong to be held for generations. If you do not wish to serve, simply guard the pass well, and I will not hold you accountable."

There were no threats, no promises, and not even a statement that "you must submit."

I only gave you two choices: either join me in the Northern Expedition, and Liaodong will still be yours after we succeed; or you continue to defend it, and I won't force you.

Wu Sangui stared at those three lines of text for a long time.

This was far more sophisticated than Dorgon's letter offering him the title of king upon surrendering the pass—Dorgon treated him as a pawn, a tool, a commodity to be traded. The emperor in Nanjing, however, treated him as a person, as a general with options.

"What else did Your Majesty say?" he asked.

The messenger smiled slightly: "His Majesty also said that your father, General Wu, was boating on Xuanwu Lake the day before yesterday and caught a three-pound carp. He was so happy that he ate half a bowl more rice that night. The imperial physician said that the old general is in good health and will live another ten years without any problem."

Wu Sangui's Adam's apple bobbed.

This was telling him: Your father is doing well in Nanjing, don't worry. But the subtext was also: Your father is in my hands, you'd better watch yourself.

He used both soft and hard tactics, striking the perfect balance.

"Please convey my gratitude to Your Majesty for your concern," Wu Sangui said slowly. "And please also tell Your Majesty that the 30,000 soldiers of the Guan Ning Army are ready to be deployed at any time."

He didn't say "I am willing to surrender," nor did he say "I am willing to be the vanguard." He only said "I await your command."

This was a clever answer—it expressed a stance while leaving room for maneuver.

The messenger bowed deeply: "I will certainly convey your message."

After the messenger left, Wu Sangui held the letter up to the candlelight. The flames consumed the paper, turning it to ashes and falling to the ground.

He walked to the window and opened it. The cold wind of late October rushed in, carrying the distinctive smell of withered grass from the grasslands beyond the Great Wall. In the distance, on the city wall, the garrison was changing shifts, and commands could be faintly heard in the morning mist.

"Give the order," he said to his personal guards, "that the entire army be on high alert. Not a single bird shall be released beyond the pass without my command."

"General, what about Hauge over there..."

"Delay," Wu Sangui uttered. "Just say the snowstorm is too severe and the roads are difficult to travel, and ask him to stay in Yongping temporarily. As for provisions... let's 'lend' him some, so he doesn't go hungry, but don't let him eat his fill either."

The guards understood, clasped their hands in greeting, and withdrew.

Wu Sangui stood alone by the window, gazing at the gray sky to the north.

He knew he was standing on the edge of a precipice. One step forward meant the abyss, and one step back meant the abyss as well. The only way out was to wait—to wait for the emperor in Nanjing to prove he was capable of winning, to wait for Dorgon's side to show weaknesses, and to wait for the storm to pass on its own.

But can he afford to wait?

---

October 28th, Xuzhou Camp.

Zuo Liangyu looked at the new military uniform before him, his expression complex. The dark blue cotton-padded jacket was thick and tightly stitched, with a small "Ming" character embroidered on the collar. Beside it was a cotton armor, with iron plates embedded in the cotton fabric, lightweight yet warm.

"These were just delivered from the workshop," Sun Chuanting said, standing beside him. "Five thousand pieces. Your department should change into them first."

Zuo Liangyu reached out and touched it. The fabric was sturdy, and the cotton filling was thick; it was definitely not a cheap, low-quality product. During his twenty years in Huguang, what were the winter clothes of his soldiers like? A thin layer of cotton, easily penetrated by the wind, and many soldiers developed sores on their hands from the cold.

"The imperial court... is truly willing to give up so much," he murmured.

"It wasn't the court that was willing to give, it was the people who were willing," Sun Chuanting said calmly. "Five thousand female workers in Nanjing's workshops worked day and night to produce this batch of winter clothes. There was a widow surnamed Zhao whose son died in Beijing. She said, 'If I can't make clothes for my son, I'll make them for the surviving soldiers so they can avenge him.'"

Zuo Liangyu's hand trembled.

"Try them on." Sun Chuanting picked one up and handed it to him.

Zuo Liangyu took off his old armor and put on a new one. The cotton-padded coat clung to his body, and warmth spread from his chest. He moved his arms; they weren't tense, and there was even padding at the joints.

"fit."

"Of course they fit perfectly," Sun Chuanting picked up a booklet from the table. "The workshop has everyone's measurements, and we'll make them accordingly."

Zuo Liangyu was taken aback: "Where did you get the measurements?"

"When your unit was reorganized, the military doctor measured everyone—ostensibly a 'physical examination,' but in reality, it was taking measurements." Sun Chuanting smiled. "His Majesty said that the soldiers should know that the court remembers each and every one of them."

Zuo Liangyu remained silent.

This is a ruthless tactic. It's not the cold, hard kind of bribery like giving you food and pay; it's like tailoring a well-fitting garment, remembering your height and shoulder width. It makes you feel like you're not just a number, but a living, breathing person.

People's hearts are won over little by little in this way.

"Commander-in-Chief," Zuo Liangyu suddenly knelt on one knee, "this humble general... is willing to serve as the vanguard of the Northern Expedition!"

This kneeling was completely different from the forced kneeling he was forced to do at the Guide Prefecture government office last time.

Sun Chuanting helped him up and said only one sentence: "His Majesty is waiting for your good news in Nanjing."

---

October 29th, Bohai Sea, night.

Zheng Sen's fleet sailed north under cover of night. Without torches or signal lights, the thirty warships glided silently across the sea like a group of black whales.

"General," Lin Cha lowered his voice, "Lushun is just ahead. The scouts say that the Qing army has added twenty cannons on the shore and also set up iron chains to block the river."

Zheng Sen observed through his binoculars. In Lushun Bay, the outlines of more than a dozen grain transport ships were vaguely visible, their drafts deep, clearly indicating they were fully loaded. The shore was brightly lit, with many figures moving about, indicating a tight security presence.

"A direct approach won't work," he said, putting down his binoculars. "We'll have to find another way."

Chen Hui leaned closer: "What method?"

Zheng Sen was silent for a moment, then suddenly asked, "What do you think the Qing army feared most?"

"Afraid of our artillery?"

"No," Zheng Sen shook his head, "they're afraid...of the fire ships."

The two were taken aback.

The fire ship tactic was not new; it had been used to fight Japanese pirates during the Jiajing era. But that required a suicide squad, favorable timing and location, and luck.

"We won't use real fire ships," Zheng Sen's eyes flashed with a sharp light, "we'll use fake ones."

He quickly made arrangements: ten Cangshan ships were dispatched, piled high with hay and sulfur soaked in kerosene, but only a few sailors were left to operate them. The main warships were hidden behind an island five miles away, waiting for the Qing army to be drawn to the fire ships before launching a surprise attack on the granary from the flank.

"But what about those brothers who sail the fire ships..." Chen Hui hesitated.

“Use prisoners, not brothers,” Zheng Sen said.

Lin Cha and Chen Hui exchanged a glance, both seeing the shock in each other's eyes.

Zheng Sen said expressionlessly, "Those three hundred Korean sailors captured in last month's naval battle are a waste of food if they're kept locked up. Tell them: sail your fire ships ashore, those who survive will be released and sent home; those who die will still receive compensation to their families."

"This...is too cruel, isn't it?"

"Ruthless?" Zheng Sen looked at the firelight in Lushun Bay. "When the Qing army massacred Beijing, no one complained about their ruthlessness. In war, you have to achieve the greatest results with the least cost."

He paused, then lowered his voice: "Tell those Koreans that this is their chance to atone. Their king helped the Tartars transport grain to fight the Ming Dynasty; their hands... are stained with blood too."

The order was given. Half an hour later, ten fire ships were ready. Each ship carried three Korean prisoners, their hands and feet bound, but their mouths were not gagged—Zheng Sen wanted them to scream, the more pitiful the better.

At midnight, the northeast wind begins to blow.

Zheng Sen waved his command flag.

Ten fire ships were set ablaze simultaneously, like ten fiery dragons, propelled by the wind towards Lushun Bay. The screams of the Koreans on board carried on the wind, shrill and piercing.

The Qing troops on the shore were thrown into chaos. Cannons roared, but their aim was greatly diminished in the darkness. Even more fatal was that the fire ships did not rush straight for the dock, but instead scattered and charged towards the grain transport ships anchored in the bay!

"Fire! Fire!" the Qing general roared.

It was too late. The fire ship collided with the grain ship, the oil and sulfur exploded, and flames instantly engulfed the three large ships. The fire, fueled by the wind, spread to the ships nearby.

Just as the Qing army was fighting the fire, Zheng Sen's main fleet attacked from the flank. Thirty cannons fired simultaneously, with the shells specifically aimed at the forts and granaries on the shore.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Lushun Bay was engulfed in flames.

Zheng Sen stood at the bow of the ship, watching the towering flames, his face expressionless. Lin Cha and Chen Hui stood behind him, wanting to say something, but ultimately remained silent.

"Give the order," Zheng Sen turned around, "to retreat in fifteen minutes. Tell all ships to forgo all spoils of war, and only seek maximum destruction."

"General, those Koreans..."

"Give the survivors a small boat and let them row back themselves." Zheng Sen paused. "The dead... write down their names and send compensation to their families through a caravan after the war."

After he finished speaking, he went into the cabin. As the door closed, Lincha saw the general's shoulders slump slightly.

In that instant, this 21-year-old general looked like an old man.

---

October 30, Nanjing.

Li Ce received three urgent reports at the same time.

The first report came from Shanhaiguan: "Wu Sangui agreed to 'await orders,' but did not explicitly pledge allegiance. Haoge was stationed in Yongping, and Wu's troops delayed borrowing grain."

The second report came from Xuzhou: "Zuo Liangyu's troops have completed their re-equipment and are in high spirits. Sun Chuanting has requested permission to march north to Hejian on November 15th."

The third report came from the sea, written by Zheng Sen himself: "The burning of grain at Lushun was successful, destroying nine Qing army grain transport ships and three grain warehouses on shore. Our army suffered 27 casualties and lost two warships. Eighty-six Korean prisoners died, and the survivors have been repatriated."

After reading it, Li Ce remained silent for a long time.

Ni Yuanlu whispered from the side, "Your Majesty, Zheng Sen's use of prisoners as bait may offend the will of Heaven..."

"Tianhe?" Li Ce smiled, a cold smile. "Where was Tianhe when the Qing army massacred Beijing? That's how war is—if you don't want to dirty your own hands, you have to use other people's lives to pay for it."

He got up and walked to the map, pointing from Lushun to Shanhaiguan, and then to Yongping Prefecture:

"Imperial decree: Zheng Sen is commended, promoted to General of Pacifying the Seas, and awarded 5,000 taels of silver. The pensions for fallen soldiers are doubled, and the pensions for prisoners of war... are also to be paid."

"Your Majesty, this..."

"Here you go." Li Ce said decisively, "I want the world to know that if you follow the Ming Dynasty, you'll receive compensation even if you die. If you follow the Tartars, you'll die in vain."

He paused. "Send another letter to Wu Sangui. Tell him—Zheng Sen burned down the granaries in Lushun, and Dorgon will have a tough winter. Hauge's 15,000 men won't last more than a month on provisions. If he's smart, he'll know which side to stand on."

The messenger accepted the order and departed.

Li Ce stood alone in the hall, gazing north. A light rain began to fall outside the window, pattering softly on the glazed tiles.

He knew the chessboard was already set up.

Zuo Liangyu sharpened his knife in Xuzhou, Sun Chuanting set up his net in Hejian, Zheng Sen locked his throat at sea, and Wu Sangui hesitated at Shanhaiguan.

Meanwhile, Dorgon, in Beijing, was watching the flames of war rising on all sides.

Next, it's a matter of who loses their temper first.

"Your Majesty," Li Ruolian whispered as she entered, "Mr. Liu requests an audience."

"Let her in."

Liu Rushi wore a plain-colored cloak, raindrops clinging to her hair. She held an account book in her hands, but her face showed worry.

"Your Majesty, the workshop produced seven thousand winter garments this month, but we are running out of cotton. The cotton fields north of the Yangtze River have had a poor harvest this year, and the reserves south of the Yangtze River are only enough for half a month."

Li Ce took the ledger, flipped through a few pages, and suddenly asked, "When will the cotton in Liaodong be harvested?"

Liu Rushi was taken aback: "Liaodong? That's the territory of the Jurchens..."

"That won't be the case for long." Li Ce closed the ledger. "Tell the workshops to produce at full capacity. I'll take care of the cotton."

"What does Your Majesty wish to do...?"

"War is all about logistics." Li Ce looked north, his gaze deep. "Dorgon is short of food, and I'm short of cotton. Let's see... who can't hold out first."

Liu Rushi seemed to understand but not quite, but she still bowed and withdrew.

Silence returned to the hall. Li Ce walked to the desk, picked up his brush, and wrote a line:

"November, the time to break the deadlock."

The ink was still wet when the sound of rain outside the window grew louder.

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away at Shanhaiguan, Wu Sangui had just received the third letter from Nanjing. The letter contained no words of persuasion to surrender, no promises, only a copy attached—a battle report on Zheng Sen's burning of the Lushun granary.

After reading the report, Wu Sangui handed it to his deputy general.

After reading it, the lieutenant gasped: "With the burning of Lushun, Dorgon will have a tough winter. Hauge's 15,000 men..."

"We're out of food," Wu Sangui replied calmly. "At most half a month. Either we retreat, or we seize the food."

He walked to the map and drew a line from Yongping Prefecture to Shanhaiguan:

"Order the entire army to begin tomorrow... 'fortify the city defenses.' Place all the old muskets and armor-piercing weapons in stock on the city walls. Also, send a team to Yongping to 'deliver grain' to Hauge—deliver old grain, the kind mixed with sand."

"Commander-in-Chief, this is...?"

"This is to tell Hauge: I have grain, but not much; I can give it to you, but it depends on your performance." Wu Sangui's lips curled into a cold smile. "It also lets the emperor in Nanjing see that I, Wu Sangui... am not a coward who only knows how to guard the pass."

He paused, then added:

"Also, send someone to Nanjing to tell my father... I will definitely go back to see him this winter."

The lieutenant respectfully clasped his hands in a fist salute: "This subordinate obeys the order!"

Wu Sangui looked south, where the rain fell like a curtain.

He finally made his choice.

It wasn't forced, nor was it lured.

It was he himself who, in this chaotic world, chose the path that seemed the most difficult, but also the one with the best chance of survival—

right way.