BSI Chapter 12 Thunderclap - New
Chapter 12 Thunderclap - New
On the 16th day of the 10th month of the 15th year of Chongzhen's reign, at the third
The west warm pavilion of the Qianqing Palace was brightly lit by candlelight.
Li Ruolian knelt before the emperor, presenting with both hands a summary of confessions and evidence compiled overnight.
His eyes were bloodshot, and the flying fish robe on his shoulders was still damp with night dew, clearly indicating that he had not slept all night again.
"Your Majesty, Shen Maocai has confessed." His voice was exceptionally clear in the silent hall. "The plot in Jiangnan goes far beyond cutting off the Grand Canal and robbing sea transport."
Li Ce didn't take the document, but simply raised his eyes and said, "Speak."
"Shen Maocai is not the only agent of the Jiangnan gentry in the capital. The real mastermind is in Nanjing." Li Ruolian took a deep breath. "The former Right Vice Minister of the Ministry of Personnel, Zhao Qichang."
The candlelight inside the hall flickered slightly.
Li Ce tapped his fingers lightly on the imperial desk.
Zhao Qichang.
In his memories of his previous life, this name was just a vague shadow—a student of Zhou Yanru, who was dismissed from his post in the fourteenth year of the Chongzhen reign and was not recorded in historical books after that.
But in this life, that shadow is turning into a poisoned knife.
"After Zhou Yanru fell from power, Zhao Qichang ostensibly went into seclusion in Nanjing to recuperate, but in reality he was networking with gentry in various prefectures in Jiangnan and had already gained considerable influence."
Li Ruolian continued, speaking steadily but with each word like a nail: "Shen Maocai confessed that Zhao Qichang convened a secret meeting in June of this year. The attendees included representatives from the Shen family of Suzhou, the Xu family of Songjiang, salt merchants from Yangzhou, as well as two retired generals and three local gentry."
"Demands?"
"Four words: Change the world to preserve the foundation." Li Ruolian raised his head. "They believe that His Majesty's new policies have violated the very foundation of the gentry—the crackdown on corruption has cut off bribery, maritime transport has cut off the profits from the canal, and the next step will inevitably be to survey the land and collect the back taxes. If this continues, the century-old foundation of Jiangnan will be destroyed in an instant."
Li Ce smiled.
His laughter was cold.
"So they want to 'change the government'?" he asked. "Change whom?"
"Prince Fu," Li Ruolian uttered two words. "Zhao Qichang believes that Prince Fu is weak and greedy. If he were to ascend the throne, he would rely heavily on the gentry and restore the old system of 'governance by scholar-officials.' Moreover, the fiefdom of the Prince of Fu is in Luoyang, which has fallen to bandits. Prince Fu himself is currently seeking refuge in Nanjing, making him the easiest puppet to manipulate."
A brief silence fell over the hall.
Wang Chengen stood by his side, even his breathing became soft. He knew that if those four words—"support the Prince of Fu"—were confirmed, it would be a heinous crime that would lead to the extermination of nine generations of one's family.
Li Ce stood up and walked to the window.
The sky outside the window was still dark, the outline of the Forbidden City hidden in the deep blue of late autumn. In the distance, the faint sound of the night watchman's drum could be heard; it was almost dawn.
"To unite with the barbarians and quell the rebellion." He said these four words suddenly, with his back to Li Ruolian.
Li Ruolian was taken aback: "How is Your Majesty...?"
"It was written in Zhao Qichang's secret letter." Li Ce turned around, his gaze sharp as a knife. "Tell me, how do they plan to 'ally with the barbarians'?"
Li Ruolian took out a transcribed confession from her bosom and unfolded it:
"Shen Maocai confessed that on August 15th, Zhao Qichang secretly met with five key figures at his residence in Nanjing and devised three strategies: First, to cut off the grain transport in Jiangnan and force the court to concede; second, to bribe pirates to rob maritime transport and cut off the capital's grain supply; third, if the first two strategies fail..."
He paused:
"Then, 'borrowing from the enemy to quell the rebellion'."
"specific."
"Send three things to the Later Jin: a detailed map of the defense of the capital region, marking the troop strength, food reserves, and weak points of each pass;
"The troop rotation schedule for the nine border garrisons; and—" Li Ruolian's voice lowered slightly, "a secret agreement: if the Later Jin breaks through the pass and marches south, they will only plunder wealth and not occupy land, and afterwards the Ming Dynasty will pay an annual tribute of one million taels of silver and open trade. The gentry of Jiangnan are willing to act as inside agents."
The candle flame crackled and popped.
Wang Chengen's hand trembled, and he almost knocked over the lamp.
Li Ce's face remained expressionless, but something sank deep into his eyes, sinking into a bottomless, icy pool.
In my previous life, I lived in the Southern Ming Dynasty.
Hongguang court.
The delusional dream of "allying with the barbarians to quell the bandits".
Zuo Liangyu, Ma Shiying, the Donglin Party... those noisy faces, those who were still vying for power and profit when the Qing army's iron hooves had already broken through Yangzhou, those "scholar-officials" who handed over the country to foreign invaders...
So that's where the root of the problem lies.
It was already buried in the fifteenth year of the Chongzhen reign.
"What a fine 'borrowing the enemy to quell the rebellion'!" Li Ce's voice was eerily calm. "What will we offer as a gift?"
"The messenger has been chosen," Li Ruolian said. "Zhao Yong is the head of the household guards in Zhao Qichang's residence. He is a Han Chinese from Liaodong who fled to the pass in his early years. He is highly skilled in martial arts and familiar with the terrain in the north. The plan is to pass through the Chaohe River pass and bribe the garrison commander to let him pass."
"time?"
"The premiere was originally scheduled for October 20th. However, with Shen Maocai arrested, Jiangnan may have become alerted, and the premiere date may be brought forward."
Li Ce walked back to the imperial desk and sat down.
He picked up a vermilion pen, wrote a few words on the blank memorial, and then stopped.
"Have you checked Zhao Qichang's residence?"
"The Nanjing Embroidered Uniform Guard has been secretly monitoring the situation, but has not dared to take any action," Li Ruolian said. "Three days ago, after receiving His Majesty's secret decree, Han Zanzhou sent someone to infiltrate the Zhao residence as a servant."
Current report: The Zhao residence's study is heavily guarded; no one except Zhao Qichang himself and Zhao Yong is allowed to enter.
"Where's the copy of the defense map?"
"Shen Maocai confessed that Zhao Qichang was cautious and kept two copies of all confidential documents. One was carried with him, and the other..." Li Ruolian looked up, "hidden in the lining of the Mencius book in his study."
Li Ce nodded.
"Have your men keep a close watch on Zhao Yong. Once he leaves Beijing..." He paused, "...capture him in Chaohechuan. The man must be alive. The goods must be all intact."
"Yes."
"Who were Zhao Qichang's accomplices in Beijing?"
"We're investigating," Li Ruolian said. "But Shen Maocai has implicated someone—Li Banghua, the former Right Vice Minister of the Ministry of War."
This man had a past relationship with Zhao Qichang and was known for his upright character. Zhao Qichang had tried to win him over, but was firmly rejected. Shen Maocai suspected that Li Banghua might have already discovered the conspiracy or was making unusual moves.
Li Banghua.
In Li Ce's memory, the image of a lean and upright old minister emerged. In his previous life, when Li Zicheng captured Beijing, Li Banghua hanged himself in the Wen Tianxiang Shrine, sacrificing his life for his country.
He was a loyal subject.
But it could also be a variable.
"Send someone to Li Banghua's residence," Li Ce said. "No need for overt investigation, just observe discreetly. If he really makes a move..."
He paused for a moment:
"Protect him."
A hint of surprise flashed in Li Ruolian's eyes, but she immediately lowered her head: "Your subject understands."
"Over in Jiangnan," Li Ce looked at him, "Han Zanzhou alone isn't enough. You pick two capable men and send them south to Nanjing."
You're not part of the Embroidered Uniform Guard system; you're directly responsible for this. Your mission is singular: uncover Zhao Qichang's entire network—which officials, gentry, and merchants were involved. The list must be complete.
"Yes."
"Remember this," Li Ce's voice deepened, "This matter concerns the foundation of the nation. It's better to be slow than to make a mistake. It's better to let the small fish go than to alarm the big fish."
"Your subject will remember this."
Li Ruolian kowtowed, rose, and left the hall.
Li Ce was left alone in the hall again.
He picked up the confession and read it again.
"Support the Prince of Fu...ally with the barbarians to quell the rebellion..."
Eight words, like eight needles, piercing my eyes.
In the previous life, it was this foolish, selfish, and short-sighted strategy that caused the Southern Ming Dynasty to collapse within a year.
Those scholar-officials who spout benevolence and morality can, for their own selfish interests, unhesitatingly invite wolves into their homes, and can stand by and watch the Yangzhou Massacre and the Jiading Massacre, and then continue to compose poems and enjoy the moon on the banks of the Qinhuai River in Nanjing.
In this life, they began planning ten years in advance.
it is good.
well.
Li Ce held the confession up to the candlelight.
Flames licked at the corner of the paper, spreading rapidly and devouring the ink stains, the conspiracies, and the sordid deals into curled ashes.
The ashes fell into the inkstone, like a small clump of black snow.
He looked out the window.
The sky was already beginning to lighten with the first hint of dawn.
Dawn arrived on October 16th.
On the same day, at 9:00 AM, in Nanjing.
On the banks of the Qinhuai River, on Chaoku Street.
This place is neither as bustling as Confucius Temple nor as elegant as Gongyuan Street. It consists mostly of deep courtyards with high walls made of blue bricks and silent stone lions in front of the gates, exuding a sense of aloofness and seclusion.
One of the three courtyards had no plaques or couplets above the gate, only a small "Zhao" character carved at the side gate. The character was faded and could not be noticed unless you looked closely.
In his study in the backyard, Zhao Qichang was practicing calligraphy.
He was in his early fifties, with a lean face and three neatly trimmed long beard. He wore a slightly worn gray silk robe, and a string of sandalwood prayer beads was wrapped around his wrist. He was writing "Memorial on Dispatching the Troops" on wolf-hair small regular script brush, on Xuan paper made of mature Xuan paper, and with Huizhou pine soot ink.
"...The reason why the Former Han Dynasty prospered was because it favored virtuous ministers and kept away from petty men; the reason why the Later Han Dynasty declined was because it favored petty men and kept away from virtuous ministers..."
The brushstrokes are steady and the structure is upright.
One word at a time, spread out on the paper, like rows of solemn soldiers.
Suddenly, the pen stopped.
"When the late emperor was alive, he often discussed this matter with me, and he never failed to sigh and feel deep resentment towards Emperor Huan and Emperor Ling..."
He couldn't write anymore.
The pen hovered in mid-air, the ink condensed into a round bead, and dripped onto the character "灵" (spirit), spreading into a smudge.
Zhao Qichang stared at the stain for a long time before slowly putting down his pen.
Outside the window, autumn rain is drizzling.
The music and singing on the Qinhuai River, after passing through several courtyards, only reached this place as a faint sob, like some distant, dying lament.
The door was gently pushed open.
The man who came in was a butler in his forties, surnamed Zhao. He was a distant relative of his from his hometown and had been with him for twenty years.
"Master," the butler whispered, "there's news from the capital."
Zhao Qichang did not turn around: "Speak."
"Shen Maocai... has disappeared. Three days ago, his hideout in Tongzhou was surrounded by the Imperial Guards. They didn't catch him, but the people we arranged to meet him at the dock saw the Imperial Guards search a house and find a box of letters."
Zhao Qichang's fingers twirled a rosary bead.
"And another thing," the steward's voice lowered, "Cheng Guogong Zhu Chunchen was stripped of his title and imprisoned yesterday, and his property was confiscated. Grain prices in the capital have collapsed, and coarse rice has dropped to one tael and two mace."
The speed at which the prayer beads were turned increased slightly.
"The grain ships from Tianjin have unloaded all 40,000 shi of grain and are now being transported to the capital. Hun Hailong has been captured and is being escorted to the Northern Garrison Command."
Snapped.
The string of the rosary broke.
Eighteen sandalwood beads rolled to the ground, bouncing on the blue bricks and making a soft, messy sound.
Zhao Qichang bent down and picked them up one by one, placing them in his palm.
The beads are warm and smooth, carrying the warmth of my body.
"How many of our people in the capital..." he began, his voice still steady, "are left?"
"Those in the open have all been withdrawn. As for the hidden agents... Zhou Ming of 'Drunken Immortal Pavilion' has been targeted by the Embroidered Uniform Guard, but for the time being, things are still stable."
"The official in charge of the Ministry of War's Department of Military Affairs took sick leave yesterday and is hiding at home." The steward paused. "Master, perhaps we... should also go into hiding?"
"Escape?" Zhao Qichang laughed, a soft laugh that carried a chill. "Escape to where? Jiangnan? Jiangnan is our foundation. If our foundation is shaken, there is nowhere to escape."
He stood up and walked to the window.
The rain slanted down, and most of the sycamore leaves in the yard had turned yellow, shivering in the rain.
"How much does Shen Maocai know?" he asked.
"The core issue is something he doesn't know," the steward said. "Only you, sir, the two generals, and the three gentry know about the 'alliance with the barbarians.' Shen Maocai is only in charge of money and supplies; he doesn't know the specifics of the route or the personnel."
"But he knows Zhao Yong," Zhao Qichang said, "He knows Chaohechuan, and he knows Mencius."
The butler remained silent.
"Have Zhao Yong prepare." Zhao Qichang turned around. "We'll depart at midnight tonight."
The butler exclaimed in surprise, "Master, it was originally scheduled for the 20th, there are still four days left..."
"We can't wait any longer," Zhao Qichang interrupted him. "Now that the Emperor has taken action against Zhu Chunchen, Jiangnan will be next. Although Shen Maocai doesn't know the core of the matter, he knows my name. It's only a matter of time before the Embroidered Uniform Guard follows the clues and finds out about Nanjing. We must get the goods to Shenyang before they do."
"But... the garrison commander hasn't been properly appeased yet..."
"Add more money." Zhao Qichang walked to the desk, opened a hidden compartment, took out a palm-sized brocade box, and opened it.
Inside were ten silver notes.
Each one, one thousand taels.
"Here's ten thousand taels. Have Zhao Yong take it. Give it to whoever he deems appropriate when crossing the pass." He closed the box and handed it to the steward. "Tell him that once the goods have been delivered and he sees Huang Taiji, he'll receive another ten thousand taels."
The butler took the box, his hands trembling slightly.
"Master..." He hesitated, "...do we really have to do this? Using the enemy to quell the rebellion, this reputation...the historians of the future will hold it firmly..."
"Historical writings?" Zhao Qichang looked at him calmly. "Guan Zhong served as prime minister of Qi, respected the king and repelled the barbarians, and was praised as a sage by later generations. Li Keyong borrowed the Shatuo troops to quell Huang Chao, preserved the Tang dynasty, and was recorded in history. Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures."
He walked to the bookshelf, pulled out the copy of "Mencius," opened the book, and took out a roll of silk as thin as a cicada's wing from the inner lining.
Unfolded, it reveals a detailed map of the capital region's defenses, drawn in tiny, meticulous characters, with densely packed annotations. On another sheet of paper are the rotation dates for the nine border garrisons, the names of the generals, and the troop deployments.
There was also a secret letter, written in Zhao Qichang's name to Huang Taiji, bearing his personal seal.
"The world is on the verge of collapse." Zhao Qichang carefully rolled up the silk and letter and put them into a waterproof oilcloth tube. "The emperor is stubborn and indiscriminately kills his ministers; bandits are rampant and the Central Plains are in ruins; the morale of the troops on the nine borders is low and the iron cavalry of Liaodong is eyeing us covetously. If no extraordinary strategy is taken now, once the bandits break through the capital and the Jurchens enter the pass, the beautiful land of Jiangnan will also be reduced to ashes."
He turned and looked at the butler:
"We are not traitors. We are saving the country—saving Jiangnan, saving the gentry, saving the traditional Chinese culture."
The butler bowed his head: "I understand."
"Have Zhao Yong leave through the back door. After he leaves, go to the Xu family in Songjiang and the Yangzhou Salt Merchants Association in person and tell them that the plan is to be moved up and that they should make their own preparations. If anything happens in the capital, the Jiangnan region should immediately cut off grain transport, close markets, and refuse to pay taxes."
"Yes."
"And one more thing," Zhao Qichang paused, "send someone to Li Banghua's residence to take a look."
The steward was taken aback: "Lord Li? Didn't he... refuse?"
"He refused," Zhao Qichang said, "but he's too upright. Upright gentlemen often can't stand intrigue. I'm afraid he... might do something foolish."
The butler's heart skipped a beat: "Master is worried about..."
"Just in case," Zhao Qichang waved his hand. "Go."
The butler bowed and withdrew.
In the study, Zhao Qichang was alone again.
He walked back to his desk and looked at the smeared "Memorial on Dispatching the Troops" for a long time.
Then, he reached out, crumpled up the paper, and threw it into the charcoal brazier.
The flames leaped up, devouring "be close to virtuous ministers and keep away from petty men," devouring "dedicate oneself to the cause until death," devouring that ink stain, devouring all the words of loyalty and ideals.
In the charcoal brazier, only a small clump of grayish-white embers remained.
Zhao Qichang turned around and looked north.
The rain was so thick that the Yangtze River, the Grand Canal, and even the distant city of Beijing were nowhere to be seen.
But he knew that there was a pair of eyes watching Jiangnan.
Looking at Nanjing.
Look at him.
"Your Majesty," he murmured to himself, as if speaking to the young emperor far away in the Forbidden City, "you are undergoing bone-scraping surgery, and we... have no choice but to amputate our arms to survive."
On the same day, at 1:00 PM, in the northern part of Beijing, at Li Banghua's residence.
This is a simple two-courtyard house located in a quiet alley in the northern part of the city. There is no plaque above the door, the walls are peeling, and moss grows in front of the steps, exuding the austere atmosphere of a poor scholar.
In his study, Li Banghua was writing a letter.
He was sixty-three years old, with white hair and beard, a thin face, and wore a faded blue cloth robe with patches on the cuffs. His hands trembled slightly, a symptom of a cold he had contracted while serving on the frontier in his younger years, which would flare up every late autumn.
The brush was an ordinary sheep hair brush, the paper was cheap bamboo paper, and the ink was the lowest quality soot ink on the market, yet the characters written were distinct and powerful, penetrating the paper.
"Your subject, Li Banghua, humbly begs for mercy, and respectfully reports to Your Majesty—"
He wrote very slowly, pausing every few words to think.
Outside the window, the autumn wind swirls fallen leaves, pattering against the window paper.
His son, Li Qian, stood to the side. The seventeen-year-old boy, dressed in the blue robe of a student of the Imperial Academy, had a furrowed brow and looked uneasy.
"Father..." he couldn't help but speak, "Shouldn't this matter... be reconsidered? Although Vice Minister Zhao is suspected of misconduct, there is no concrete evidence. If your secret memorial is submitted, what if..."
"What if what?" Li Banghua didn't look up. "What if I'm wrong? What if Zhao Qichang has no intention of rebelling?"
He put down his pen and looked at his son:
"Qian'er, remember this. A subject should rather be punished for his loyalty than lose his integrity for cowardice."
Li Qian lowered his head: "I understand, son. But... the Embroidered Uniform Guard is currently searching everywhere. How can this letter be delivered to the palace, Father? What if it is intercepted by Zhao Qichang's men..."
Li Banghua remained silent for a moment.
"You deliver it."
Li Qian looked up in surprise: "Me?"
"You often go to the Imperial Academy to study at night and don't return until 9 PM. The night watchmen all recognize you and won't suspect anything," Li Banghua said. "The Embroidered Uniform Guard headquarters is on Qipan Street. Go out from the back door of our house, through Doufu Alley and Jinyu Hutong, and you'll be there in a quarter of an hour. Give this letter to Lord Li Ruolian personally."
"But... what if there's an ambush along the way?"
"So you need to hurry." Li Banghua took out a small copper tube from under his desk, no thicker than a thumb. "The letter has been copied twice. One copy is hidden in this copper tube; keep it close to your body. The other copy..."
He looked at his son's feet:
"There's a lining in the sole of your shoe, which your mother sewed by hand the year before last, saying it would keep you warm in winter by stuffing in some cotton batting. Fold the other part and stuff it in."
Li Qian's eyes welled up with tears: "Father..."
"If someone tries to ambush us, the copper pipe can be discarded, but the sole of the shoe must be preserved."
Li Banghua stood up, patted his son on the shoulder, and said, "This matter concerns the foundation of the nation and the well-being of all people. If Zhao Qichang's scheme succeeds, Jiangnan will surely be in chaos, the northern barbarians will surely invade, and the Ming Dynasty... will truly be finished."
He paused, then lowered his voice:
"In my life, I have lived a mediocre and unproductive life, failing to serve the country. In my old age, if I can do this one thing, I will have lived up to the title of 'loyal minister'."
Li Qian knelt down and kowtowed:
"My son... will not fail in his mission."
Li Banghua helped him up, stuffed the copper tube into his arms, and watched as he folded another secret letter and hid it in the sole of his shoe.
"Go," he said. "Now."
Li Qian nodded, turned around and left the study.
Li Banghua stood by the window, watching his son's thin figure disappear at the gate of the courtyard, disappearing into the autumn wind and fallen leaves.
He stood there for a long time.
Then, he went back to his desk and continued writing the unfinished secret memorial.
"...Zhao Qichang is a remnant of Zhou Yanru's faction. He appears to have retired from public life, but secretly he gathers followers, colludes with powerful figures in Jiangnan, and intends to support the Prince of Fu and join forces with the barbarians to quell the rebellion. His intentions are despicable, and his schemes are utterly wicked..."
The pen strokes are like knives, carving each character onto the paper.
It is also etched in this late autumn afternoon.
October 16th, late afternoon, Nanjing Jinyiwei Thousand-Household Office.
Inside the secret room, Han Zanzhou looked at the newly translated secret letter. His usual smile was gone from his chubby face, replaced by a solemn expression.
The letter was sent from Beijing by express courier, signed by Li Ruolian, but stamped with the emperor's private seal.
The content is very simple:
"We are aware of Zhao Qichang's plot to rebel. Do not act or panic. Thoroughly investigate his network and secretly record the names. If any changes occur in Jiangnan, you have full authority to handle the situation; you may execute first and report later."
Han Zanzhou burned the letter over the candle flame.
The ashes fell into the incense burner and mixed with the sandalwood ash inside, making them indistinguishable.
He walked to the window and pushed it open a crack.
Outside the window, lights had already illuminated the Qinhuai River. Painted boats dotted the water, and the faint sounds of music filled the air. The scent of perfume mixed with the aroma of wine drifted on the breeze, sweet and intoxicating.
This city is too soft.
Soft to the bone.
So soft that people forget that the north is bleeding, the nine borders are collapsing, and the emperor is in the Qianqing Palace, fighting against the entire corrupt world alone.
"Zhao Qichang..." Han Zanzhou murmured the name, narrowing his eyes, "What audacity."
He turned to a foreman standing in the shadows and said:
"Has that servant from the Zhao household sent word yet?"
"The news came out half an hour ago," the foreman whispered. "Zhao Yong is preparing to set off, possibly tonight. Zhao Qichang has also sent men to the Xu family in Songjiang and the salt gang in Yangzhou."
"Keep a close watch," Han Zanzhou said. "As soon as Zhao Yong leaves the city, send men to intercept him. But don't take any action; wait for his message—"
He pointed north:
"Wait for orders from Beijing."
"Yes."
"And one more thing," Han Zanzhou thought for a moment, "send someone to patrol around the Prince Fu's residence. See who's been coming and going frequently lately."
A hint of surprise flashed in the foreman's eyes: "Does the eunuch suspect..."
"Prince Fu is a fool, but those around him aren't necessarily fools," Han Zanzhou sneered. "Zhao Qichang needs a pretext to 'support' someone. Let's see who's paving the way for him."
"clear."
The stall owner stepped back.
In the secret room, only Han Zanzhou remained.
He sat back down in his chair, picked up the now-cold tea, and took a sip.
The tea is very bitter.
Like this era.
He recalled the emperor's last words to him before he left the capital:
"Han Daban, Jiangnan is my treasury, but also my greatest concern. Go and keep a close watch on it for me. Kill those who deserve to die, and appease those who deserve to be appeased. But remember—"
The young emperor looked at him, his eyes unfathomable:
"What I want is not an obedient Jiangnan. What I want is a Ming Dynasty that can survive."
Han Zanzhou put down his teacup.
Looking out the window, the lights of the Qinhuai River are dazzling yet illusory.
"Your Majesty," he said softly, as if making a vow, "this servant... is watching."
October 16, night.
Zhao Yong led a black horse and silently slipped out of the back gate of the Zhao residence.
He was thirty-five or thirty-six years old, with a wiry build and a scar on his face, running from his brow bone to the corner of his mouth, a mark left from the Liaodong battlefield. He carried a long bundle on his back, containing a knife and a bow. In his bosom were an oilcloth tube and ten thousand taels of silver notes.
The rain has stopped.
Moonlight filtered through the clouds, illuminating the damp cobblestone path with a cool, clear glow.
He mounted his horse and glanced back at the Zhao residence one last time.
The light was still on in the direction of the study.
Like a lonely eye, open in the dead of night.
Zhao Yong gave the reins a flick, and the horse silently disappeared into the night.
Unbeknownst to him, three streets behind him, two dark figures mounted their horses and followed closely from a distance.
Little did anyone know what kind of shockwaves would be unleashed by the map of the capital's defenses, the troop rotation schedule for the nine border regions, and the secret letter to Huang Taiji hidden in the oilcloth tube in his arms.
All he knew was that he had to go north.
Head north, cross the Yangtze River, cross the Yellow River, and cross the Chaohe River valley.
Head north to Shenyang.
They delivered Jiangnan's ambition and despair to the Jurchen leader named Huang Taiji.
The sound of horses' hooves echoed a monotonous and persistent rhythm in the deserted streets.
Like the pulse of this era.
It's faint, but it's still beating.
On the same night, in the Qianqing Palace.
Li Ce stood before the enormous "Complete Map of the Ming Dynasty," his finger slowly tracing a path from Nanjing to Beijing, and then to Shenyang.
A line.
Jiangnan—Beijing—Liaodong.
This is also part of Zhao Qichang's conspiracy.
Wang Chengen quietly entered: "Your Majesty, Li Tongzhi requests an audience."
"Announce."
Li Ruolian entered the hall, bowed, and then said directly:
"Your Majesty, Eunuch Han from Nanjing has secretly reported that Zhao Yong has set off tonight. Our men have caught up with him."
"What about Li Banghua?"
"The Li residence is peaceful, but..." Li Ruolian paused, "an hour ago, Li Banghua's son, Li Qian, left the residence through the back gate, heading towards the Embroidered Uniform Guard headquarters. But before reaching the headquarters, he disappeared in Tofu Lane."
Li Ce turned around abruptly: "Missing?"
"Yes. The watchman witnessed that after Li Qian entered Tofu Alley, there was a brief sound of fighting inside, followed by silence. When the patrolling soldiers arrived, the alley was empty, except for bloodstains in the corners of the walls." Li Ruolian lowered his head. "I have already sent people to search the entire city, but... we have not yet found Li Qian or his body."
Inside the hall, there was a deathly silence.
Only the candlelight flickered uneasily.
After a long silence, Li Ce spoke, his voice as cold as ice:
"Zhao Qichang has made his move."
He walked to the imperial desk, picked up the vermilion brush, and wrote two lines on a blank yellow silk:
"The matter in Jiangnan can now be settled."
"Zhao Qichang, spare his life."
After writing, he handed the yellow silk to Li Ruolian:
"Send this to Nanjing by express courier, 600 li away. Tell Han Zanzhou—"
He paused:
"I want to see for myself what this 'savior of the country,' Vice Minister Zhao, looks like."
Li Ruolian accepted the yellow silk with both hands, bowed, and stepped back.
Li Ce stood alone in the hall, looking south.
Outside the window, the night was as dark as ink.
A thunderous event that will sweep across Jiangnan and the imperial court is finally about to explode.
The fuse was already burning.