Chapter Two: Advance, My Great Ming

When he finished speaking, Zhu Cilang bowed deeply to the Chongzhen Emperor and said, “Every time I see you, Father, I am filled with worry for your exhaustion, wishing I could take your burdens upon myself. I think over the troubles that weigh on your mind: the bitter lack of revenues in the realm, leaving us unable to quell internal unrest or secure our borders. I worry that there are too few capable ministers and diligent officials to bring peace and prosperity to the people. What I hope for is that the people no longer suffer under the ills of governance, and that your officials are not beset by corruption at court. But whenever my thoughts come to this point, I realize that as your son, as Crown Prince, I have nothing with which to truly assist you. My heart aches for your toil, yet I am powerless to help. With such thoughts, how can I pay heed to these lofty discourses on the classics? If I were to follow my own inclinations, I would rather hear the learned gentlemen and ministers instruct me on how to command armies, govern the people, manage finances, and handle common affairs. Even if I become nothing more than an ordinary man, I would not fear, for this is the path I wish to walk.”

At first, Liu Zongzhou listened, eyes wide with anger as Zhu Cilang dismissed his teachings. Yet, as he heard the prince’s heartfelt words, he was deeply moved and said with feeling, “The Crown Prince’s filial piety is unsurpassed. I offer my congratulations to Your Majesty.”

Liu Zongzhou was a man of the highest virtue, his words always sincere. Though his own teachings had been set aside, he genuinely praised the prince’s rare filial devotion. The other ministers voiced their agreement but kept their true thoughts hidden.

Among the military officials, Concubine Tian’s father, Tian Wan, who also stood in attendance at the Hall of Literary Splendor, gave a cold laugh to himself. “The empire is in dire straits. Even His Majesty, clever and diligent as he is, cannot restore it. Of what use is mere filial piety? The Crown Prince is so dull he can barely recall events from a month ago, forgetting everything he learns. If only he isn’t led astray by those ministers and eunuchs, what does it matter who lectures him?”

The Chongzhen Emperor ignored the ministers, gazing intently at the Crown Prince. With a trace of emotion, he said, “Cilang, your heart is true—I know this well. You are still young, and whether in martial or scholarly pursuits, there is much you can achieve. If you wish to learn new things, you may turn often to the tutors of the Eastern Palace; if that does not suffice, I will bring in teachers from beyond the palace walls. In the future, during our study sessions, we might speak more often of such matters as managing finances and commanding armies—these are indeed the foremost concerns of state.”

Feeling the Emperor’s sincere love and care, Zhu Cilang’s heart filled with warmth and he answered firmly.

Since the Emperor had spoken, the ministers refrained from pressing their own views, and harmony returned to the hall. As the Emperor wished to hear of finances and military affairs, the Minister of War, Chen Xinjia, and the Minister of Revenue, Li Shiwen, were summoned to speak. It was not that they were the most learned, but among the Confucian ministers, there were plenty who could discourse endlessly on the mysteries of the heart, yet few truly understood the workings of daily governance.

His Majesty’s wish to hear of military and fiscal matters was swiftly carried out, and Wang Cheng’en soon went to summon them.

News from Minister Li Shiwen had not yet arrived, but after only a few moments, Wang Cheng’en returned with two men: one was Chen Xinjia, whose face was pale with anxiety, and the other a military man, his face bloodless and eyes red with fatigue.

This unusual pairing made the assembled ministers uneasy, and a sense of foreboding filled their hearts.

Zhu Cilang looked at the soldier, then at Chen Xinjia’s shifting gaze, and a sudden dreadful suspicion seized him.

Sure enough, as soon as Chen Xinjia entered the hall, he fell to his knees and, forcing calm, reported, “News from the Liaodong front: Hong Chengchou has fought a decisive battle with the Manchu forces at Songshan and Jinzhou. Huang Taiji secretly ordered Ajige to make a surprise attack on Tashan, and during low tide, seized twelve granaries our army had stored at Bijia Mountain. Our troops, short of rations, resolved to retreat to Ningyuan for provisions, and decided to attempt a breakout in two columns at dawn. Upon returning to camp, General Wang Pu led his men to flee under cover of night, prompting chaos as other commanders competed to escape, infantry and cavalry trampling each other. In the confusion and darkness, our army fought and retreated, scattering in all directions. Generals Wu Sangui and Wang Pu fled to Xingshan, while Generals Ma Ke and Li Fuming made for Tashan. Hong Chengchou’s breakout failed, and he was besieged in Songshan city. Several attempts to break the siege ended in failure. Soon, supply lines were cut, the city’s food was exhausted, and Vice General Xia Chengde secretly negotiated surrender to the Qing, becoming their inside man. On the eighteenth day of the second month, the city fell. Commander-in-chief Hong Chengchou, Generals Qiu Minyang, Wang Tingchen, and Cao Bianjiao were killed. Zu Dale was defeated and captured. Jinzhou remains besieged, and Zu Dashou has again pleaded for reinforcements. This soldier brings the urgent report.”

When Chen Xinjia finished, the hall was plunged into silence.

The ministers stared in shock, unable to comprehend how Songshan, after two years of bitter struggle, could fall so suddenly. Chongzhen, who had just risen to his feet, now collapsed back into his seat. He forced himself upright to appear strong, but for a long while, no words would come.

At that moment, Zhu Cilang felt a crushing wave of despair, a terror as if the heavens themselves were pressing down upon him.

Yes, this was the fifteenth year of Chongzhen’s reign. The Songshan-Jinzhou campaign had ended in utter disaster for the Ming.

With this, Ming’s entire defensive system in Liaodong collapsed. Only the solitary city of Ningyuan remained, and aside from Shanhai Pass, there was nothing left to stop the Qing from advancing from the east.

With the defeat at Songshan and Jinzhou, the finest troops of the Nine Border Garrisons, and the last reserves of China’s grain and fodder, were lost in a single throw. The Ming’s final effective fighting force was utterly destroyed, leaving no hope of waging war against the Qing.

Soon, the defensive line built around Ningyuan and Jinzhou—maintained at great cost by the Ming—would be completely shattered by the Manchus. Beyond Shanhai Pass, only the solitary fortress of Ningyuan would remain. The strategic situation had become completely passive.

As for Zhu Cilang himself—how bitter his fate! He had transmigrated to the late Ming, and worse still, into the body of the dynasty’s last crown prince.

What had become of him in history?

Two years later, Li Zicheng would storm the capital, and he would become the crown prince of a fallen nation. His loving father, the Chongzhen Emperor, would first force his mother to take her life, then personally slaughter his concubines and children, and finally hang himself on Coal Hill, attended only by a lone eunuch.

Three years after, Zhu Cilang, having wandered the streets for a year, would be betrayed by his own grandfather, Zhou Kui, surrendered to Dorgon and condemned to death for impersonating the crown prince. By luck and the help of loyal Ming survivors, he would escape to the south, but after only a few days’ rest, Prince Fu would “invite” him to Nanjing. No sooner had he arrived than the treacherous Prince Fu would accuse him again of impersonation and have him thrown in prison.

Even when the Qing troops besieged Nanjing and righteous men within the city rescued him, Zhu Cilang could do nothing to turn the tide. Soon after, the city would fall, and he would suffer further humiliation.

Perhaps the only solace was that, in the end, he finally died by the hand of Dodo, the Qing general.

Such was the great current of history that, even as crown prince, he was reduced to utter helplessness.

Zhu Cilang shut his eyes in pain. Though he was crown prince, he bore the stigma of stupidity, and, being young, his words carried no weight. It seemed there was nothing he could do!

Now, only two years remained until that dreadful future!

What awaited him—was it a frantic flight down a doomed path, or would he draw his sword and let the clash of steel ring out a furious symphony of defiance?

“Is this truly my fate? No... I will never accept it, nor will I submit!” A voice rose ever louder in Zhu Cilang’s heart: “Now, I have come. The Ming will never have a last crown prince!”