Chapter One

When the fighting in the inner city gradually quieted, an uncanny silence fell over the entire metropolis. Lin Feng and his men seized the precious lull to gasp for breath, replenishing their spent strength, while the common folk prayed in silence for a fate yet unknown. That night, the heavens’ myriad deities were offered a wealth of incense and devotion among mortals.

The downpour ceased at dawn.

After tallying up the losses, it was found that over four hundred soldiers had fallen in the night’s ambush, with about six hundred more wounded—most only lightly so. Nearly a fifth of Lin Feng’s forces were lost; by all rights, the unit should have been teetering on the edge of collapse. Yet, contrary to expectation, quite the opposite was true.

As soon as the battle ended, Lin Feng honored his promise. Every survivor who had fought received a reward of five hundred taels of silver. Moreover, these soldiers—peasants by birth—were given the gravest assurance: they would be granted land from the royal inheritance. Soon after, deeds stamped with bright crimson seals were distributed, and to their astonishment, the men found themselves vaulted overnight into the ranks of the landed class, representatives now of advanced productive forces. The force, too, swelled in number; though many had fallen, even more local rogues had been conscripted. By the final count, Lin Feng’s army now stood at nearly seven thousand.

That morning, the people of the capital witnessed a bizarre spectacle: countless top officials of the court were paraded in disgrace along the main thoroughfares, flanked by soldiers. Judging by their tattered finery, many ranked highly—some even wore the yellow sashes of princes and nobles. Countless imperial relatives were among them; in such a dazzling lineup, even grand secretaries and ministers seemed like mere minor functionaries. These men, once the giants of the realm, now cut the most abject figures—hair disheveled, faces ashen, many barefoot and staggering.

After the first shock, the populace noticed something even stranger: the escorting soldiers all lacked the mandatory queues. With this revelation, the rumors of mutiny and “cleansing the emperor’s court” suddenly lost their currency. Just as the people began to grasp the empire’s true demise, the severed and carefully adorned head of the Kangxi Emperor was displayed to the crowd. In truth, few had ever seen the emperor’s face; thus, Lin Feng hung many of the late sovereign’s personal items beside the head for identification. Once the commoners were convinced their emperor had been beheaded, a collective terror swept through the city, which soon dissolved again into chaos.

In the midst of this tumult, mass executions began in earnest. Custom dictated that such killings be conducted in the wilds beyond the city, accompanied by grand ceremonies—sacrifices, proclamations of guilt, and the like. But the organizers, woefully inexperienced, overlooked all this. Lin Feng, misled by the fearsome legends of Caishikou in Beijing, intended a display of terror, and his subordinates believed this was to cow the citizenry and assert their new authority. The result: these poor wretches would meet their ends on the busiest streets of Beijing.

Most of the condemned were upper-crust Bannermen, many from the Aisin Gioro clan. After the city’s fall, capturing them was all too easy; the Imperial Clan Court had kept meticulous records of every member. Armed with these lists, the arrest squads swept them up with little effort. According to the registers, apart from Prince An in Jiangxi, Prince Kang in Fujian, and Prince Jian in Nanjing, all the men of the Aisin Gioro were now assembled here for execution, along with the women and children of other illustrious families—Niohuru, Guwalgiya, and the like.

The executioners were partly surrendered magistrates and petty officials of Shuntian Prefecture, but mostly comprised of last night’s conscripted underworld figures. These men, once street toughs who survived on their fists and camaraderie, now became—if one were to put it politely—the true lumpen proletariat. In this moment, they exhibited extraordinary revolutionary fervor; eager to prove themselves to their new master, they passionately declared their hatred for the Manchu regime and vied for the honor of serving as headsmen. Their zealous performance deeply moved Lin Feng’s men, but also left them puzzled: how had these fellows survived all these years under Qing rule?

Such a large-scale massacre had not been seen for many years; soon, all adult male nobles were put to the sword, and then it was the turn of the hapless women and children. Although Lin Feng had argued vehemently against this, under the shocked gazes of his strategists, he was forced to yield. Only now did he grasp that the so-called “extermination of entire clans” was not an idle threat or mere rhetorical flourish; when these innocent women and children were executed in the name of justice, the atmosphere at the scene grew chillingly grim. Even Beijing’s famously boisterous crowds fell silent; in that vast gathering of thousands, only the helpless sobs of women and the terrified wails of children could be heard. The executioners, faces ashen, called out names with icy detachment, their emotionless voices sending shivers down every spine.

The process went as follows: Zhou Peigong led a group to a neighborhood, summoned the locals, and read out the latest orders. Then, accompanied by magistrates and soldiers, they entered each home, first brandishing steel blades to terrify, then producing several sacks of grain and one hundred taels of shining silver, commanding the able-bodied men to choose. Naturally, almost all chose to serve their country, given the circumstances.

Given the city’s population of over a million, a conscription quota of ten thousand was hardly felt; what began as an act of suppression under Lin Feng became, in the end, a coveted opportunity. Word spread, and the compensation for lost labor—grain and silver—grew ever more exaggerated. With poverty rampant, the lure proved irresistible; soon, even bachelors flocked to enlist. The forced drafting by Shuntian Prefecture’s officials quickly turned into voluntary recruitment. Lured by silver and food, some even fought for a chance to join. Witnessing this, the new conscripts who had been reluctant now felt fortunate and began to willingly accept orders. Zhou Peigong, overjoyed with this unexpected bounty, immediately appointed experienced officers to maintain standards, raising the bar from numbers to quality.

While Zhou Peigong busied himself with this, Lin Feng led his main force out of the capital. In truth, his strength was meager—apart from his own personal guard of over a thousand, the rest were newly conscripted rabble. Yet he could not delay, for two reasons: first, the Fengtai Camp, which guarded the imperial approaches, had to be dealt with; second, the granaries of Tongzhou, which controlled the grain supply, had to be secured. Both matters were vital to his survival—if the Viceroy of Zhili moved first, the consequences would be dire. Thus, Lin Feng set out once more with his weary troops.

The previous night had been a sultry, thunderous one, yet amid the storm, he had slept soundly and in good spirits. But at dawn, he heard seditious talk—rumors that something was amiss in the capital. In wartime, anything contrary to the main narrative was strictly forbidden, especially in the army. After sharply rebuking some rumor-mongers, Keqibu considered tightening discipline to teach these greenhorn Manchu boys what a military camp truly was. While this idea was still forming, a sentry burst into the command tent, panic-stricken and wild-eyed.

“Report—report… Sir…”

“What has you so flustered? Look at you! What a disgraceful sight!” Keqibu scolded the young soldier, visibly irate.

“Sir…” the sentry stammered, “It seems… an enemy force has arrived outside!”

Enemy troops? Keqibu’s first thought was that the fellow was mad. He glared, “What nonsense is this?!”

“It’s true, sir, truly! They… they have no queues!”

Keqibu started, dropping his teacup—the documents on his desk instantly soaked. By Qing law, anyone without a queue in Han territory could be presumed an enemy. He tensed, “How many are there? Where are they?”

“Just outside the camp…” the sentry swallowed, “And… they have many cannons!”

Because the front lines lay hundreds of miles away, Fengtai Camp’s defenses were lax; they lacked the scouts of a field army. Thus, Lin Feng’s force was only discovered when they reached the camp itself. As the enemy swarmed to block the approaches, the Fengtai garrison slowly recovered from their panic, and, under the frantic orders of their officers, began chaotic preparations for battle.

Keqibu now stood on the ramparts, his face ashen at the sight of the battery of giant cannons. As a senior officer, he recognized the red-painted artillery—the enemy was using firepower fit to batter down city walls against his mere few hundred men. Such firepower could breach even Beijing’s mighty walls with ease.

What puzzled him even more was the army’s appearance: their uniforms resembled government troops, but none wore queues. The ranks were disorderly, as if untrained, and yet they possessed so many cannons. They seemed neither bandits nor regular soldiers. Keqibu decided to attempt communication.

As soon as the dispatch rider left the camp, a volley of gunfire erupted from the enemy lines, white smoke billowing. Keqibu, horrified, saw that the enemy also had large numbers of musketeers. The distance was too great for any real threat, so the messenger was unharmed, but his horse bolted in terror. After this display of merciless intent, Keqibu abandoned all thoughts of negotiation—their identity no longer mattered.

At that moment, Lin Feng, mounted on horseback, was furiously berating his military advisers. The volley had been unauthorized—one of Rick’s men, nervous, had fired on his own, and the shot set off others, resulting in a ragged, panicked fusillade. Such disorder was expected, but this mistake was unforgivable, as it only emboldened the defenders. Yet, now was not the time for anger. Lin Feng shook his head and waved his hand, sending his cavalry forward.

A squad rode out under a white flag, loosing signal arrows at the ramparts. Recognizing the gesture, Keqibu restrained his men from firing back; though illiterate, he understood the custom. But when the enemy’s message was delivered, he was immediately bewildered.

Frankly, the letters were a jumble—absurd, even laughable. They were written on imperial edicts—bright yellow silk, embroidered with golden dragons, the finest material Keqibu knew. But the content was pure madness: the “false Qing” had been annihilated, the traitor Aisin Gioro Xuanye executed for defying heaven, and all his followers exterminated. The recipients, too, deserved death, but the enemy, with “heaven’s mercy,” would forgive if they surrendered—and those who joined would be showered with riches. The proclamations ended with confused quotations from sages and military treatises, the writing a chaotic patchwork.

Yet the calligraphy was neat, in both Manchu and Han, and the seals at the end were a sea of red, ranging from the imperial jade seal to the Ministry of War and every subordinate yamen. It was as if all the symbols of imperial authority had been wantonly stamped for effect—no one had ever seen such an abuse.

After reading these surrender letters, Keqibu truly understood his situation. Though not especially talented, he had served long enough to know the signs: when the emperor’s blank edicts were used like toilet paper, and all the official seals indiscriminately stamped, the symbols of imperial power trampled underfoot—there was only one explanation. The capital had fallen. The dynasty no longer existed. A feeling of emptiness washed over him; he was unsure whether to be shocked or outraged. Everything seemed so absurd as to be unreal. He gripped his saber unconsciously, torn between dying for his country or throwing himself into a final, hopeless battle.

Meanwhile, the entire camp was in an uproar over the surrender letters. The men, as the court’s most trusted sons, now yearned for nothing but to fight to the death. Beholding the chaos, Lin Feng gave a signal. The cannons, long prepared, opened fire. The thunderous barrage drowned out all other sounds, and the once-frenzied Fengtai Camp fell silent.

The bombardment was relentless. Lin Feng’s order was simple: “Fire.” No need to conserve ammunition, no need to aim—every inch of the camp was fair game. Not even a dog could walk without risk of being blown apart. For more than an hour, the guns roared, filling the air with choking smoke that drifted for miles. The areas closest to the batteries vanished in a fog of white. Only when Rick, drenched in sweat, reported the barrels glowing red and near failure did Lin Feng order a halt. He then commanded his guards to bring up the Banner women and children from the rear.

When the earth finally ceased to shake, the terrified Qing soldiers crawled from their hiding places. To their horror, the once-orderly stone ramparts had been leveled, half the stout houses reduced to rubble, dozens killed outright, their bodies blown apart, limbs scattered, entrails spilled—so gruesome that the pampered Bannermen retched uncontrollably. The will to fight had vanished; war, they now knew, was truly cruel—fatal, and in such horrific fashion.

The making of a soldier takes time, and adapting to war is a process. For these teenage boys, it was all too sudden—too much, too soon. As they slowly steadied themselves, another scene of unspeakable dread unfolded: on the open ground between the armies, the Banner women and children had been assembled. Some soldiers instantly spotted their relatives, now flanked by enemy troops wielding gleaming blades.

Though officers tried desperately to maintain control, the troops could not be contained. Their anguished cries echoed across the field.

“Father… that’s my father…”

“Mother… my sister, my brother…”

According to the seized records, the families of these soldiers had been selected by Zhou Peigong and brought to the front by Lin Feng. Surveying the scene, Lin Feng smiled grimly, his expression hardening. He signaled to Liu Fourth in the front row, miming a downward slash. With blood already on his hands, what was a little more?

The men assigned to this grisly task were the newly conscripted street toughs. As the most “revolutionary” class, they proved ruthlessly efficient. At the command, they swung their blades without hesitation. Keqibu’s family was the first to be dragged forward—no counting, no shouting for surrender—just a declaration of identity shouted toward the camp, and then the blade fell. Their ruthless demeanor made clear they cared nothing for Keqibu’s choice.

In an instant, the innocent were beheaded, blood pooling on the ground. The executioners ran back; the next batch of women and children were hauled forth, their identities bellowed, and the weeping, struggling hostages forced down, the blades rising and falling again.

The defenders broke. For these teenage boys, the bonds of kinship were stronger than any adult’s. Overcome with emotion, they surged forward; officers who tried to stop them were hacked to pieces in moments. In waves, soldiers fled the camp, threw down their weapons, and rushed into the crowd, embracing their loved ones and weeping openly.

The army’s resolve was broken; even the officers began to lay down their arms. Fengtai Camp was finished. On the ramparts, Keqibu, dazed, cast one last look at Lin Feng in the distance, then calmly slit his own throat.