Section Four

When Lin Feng turned his attention to matters of state, the issue of military discipline gave him a terrible headache. To be frank, his army was nothing more than a motley crew—calling it a proper military force was a stretch; it was closer to a band of brigands, only distinguished by the presence of regular troops forming its backbone, which elevated its military proficiency. When they stormed into Beijing, the entire force was driven by a fierce urge for revenge, their mood bordering on madness. Now, pulling them out for reorganization, Lin Feng realized the scars left by war on the capital were far deeper than he had imagined.

Initial statistics showed that the five inner districts of Beijing once housed more than 170,000 Eight Banner residents, but during the army’s entry, their numbers had sharply decreased to 150,000. This figure was not inflated, for militarily speaking, Lin Feng’s blitz tactics had been extremely effective, leaving little chance for escape. In this era, the Eight Banners had not yet fully integrated into the city, unlike later generations. As the foundation of Manchu rule, the Qing court maintained strict control over their living arrangements to preserve ethnic superiority; every detail from residence, customs, to marriage was meticulously regulated. Thus, once the army controlled the city walls, there was nowhere for them to flee.

Zhou Peigong was a man of integrity. The report he submitted to Lin Feng made no attempt to conceal the facts, so Lin Feng was confronted with figures that made him blush with shame.

The architecture of ancient Chinese cities was largely fortress-like. As a practical matter, should these structures be repurposed for civilian use, their most suitable roles would be warehouses and prisons. In the course of this transformation, Lin Feng was astonished to discover that Li Guangdi possessed a distinctly Nazi-like aptitude; under his coordination, the five inner districts of Beijing swiftly became a standard concentration camp. Somehow, witnessing these scenes left Lin Feng deeply unsettled, for he was reminded of the Japanese invaders of years past. Glancing at Li Guangdi’s self-satisfied expression, Lin Feng felt the man truly had the air of a Gestapo officer.

Under such measures, the formerly valorous Eight Banners were reduced to sheep, docile and obedient. Yet, history had taught Lin Feng that the power of the masses was limitless; he was unsure whether these oppressed people might suddenly turn and attack. Therefore, before launching the hairstyle reform, he prepared in meticulous detail to meet the worst possible outcome.

A dozen powerful Red-Haired cannons were mounted on the city walls. Over three thousand soldiers, trained in the basics of firearms, guarded every exit and thoroughfare. To guard against a counterattack, Zhou Peigong amassed more than a hundred thousand pounds of firewood and thousands of pounds of lamp oil, piling them in every corner of the inner city. This precaution was meant for the direst scenario: if the Eight Banners refused to accept the new hairstyle and clothing and rose up en masse, then a massacre would be unleashed. Rough calculations showed that the firewood and lamp oil could ignite the inner city in a quarter of an hour, and flames from all sides would reduce these 150,000 souls to ashes within a few hours.

Some thousand conscripted barbers worked tirelessly for a full day, finally shaving the heads of tens of thousands of men in the five inner districts. As for the women, Lin Feng showed a measure of respect, allowing them to alter their hairstyles themselves. Of course, checks would be made afterward; anyone daring to defy the order would face the execution of their entire family.

As Lin Feng’s main force withdrew from the inner city, its inhabitants could no longer suppress their anguish. Wails echoed through the city, every household mourning as if they had lost their ancestors. Lin Feng rode on horseback, listening to the cries behind him, and sighed inwardly. Was this his fault? If he didn’t deal with them, how could the million residents of Beijing be steadfast in their support?

After the forced hairstyle and clothing change for the Eight Banners, the city’s civilians also began reforming their hair under the supervision of regional chiefs Li Guangdi and Chen Menglei. Years later, many would find the event absurd—never before in Chinese history had so many people had their hair altered at once. Once, the Qing forced the Han to shave their heads; now, Lin Feng compelled all peoples to grow theirs. Politically, the two events were strikingly similar—an emblem of Eastern nations’ penchant for obsessing over minutiae, to the point of mobilizing large armies and imposing martial law over mere strands of hair.

The massacres in Jiading, Yangzhou, Jiangyin, Sichuan, and the two Guang provinces had been whispered about over the years, their horrors softened by time, dismissed as myths. In this era, the Qianlong Emperor had not yet compiled the Complete Library of the Four Branches of Literature, and much original documentation remained intact. Thus, Lin Feng’s publication of these secret materials overturned all prior assumptions—the authenticity was verified, for military merit was calculated by the number slaughtered: the more lives taken, the greater the glory and rewards received. Comparing dates, names, and official positions, the evidence was irrefutable.

These figures—hundreds of thousands upon hundreds of thousands—accumulated into a terrifying truth. What does it mean to extinguish tens of millions of lives? Lining up the corpses could circle the globe.

The impact of this publicity campaign far exceeded Lin Feng’s expectations. People went from indifference to skepticism, from skepticism to astonishment, and from astonishment to intense fury. Many bookshops engraved and printed these materials, rapidly spreading them across the country with traveling merchants. The entire scholarly community from the Yangtze to the Yellow River was thrown into uproar.

Traditionally, the founding of a new dynasty by slaughtering hundreds of thousands was hardly remarkable in China. But Lin Feng’s campaign repeatedly invoked nationalism and executed all war criminals led by Kangxi and other suspects. This made the incident sensational—its news value aside, it sparked debate on the Confucian "Way of Hua and Yi." With such ironclad evidence, the academic atmosphere once forcibly suppressed by Qing military might and literary inquisition began to revive. The "traitor theory" resurfaced, Lin Feng’s proclamations sentencing the Eight Banner princes and nobles were widely copied and circulated throughout the country.

By rights, Lin Feng’s rebel army attacking Beijing would be considered an unforgivable crime by Confucian standards, especially with the execution of the emperor and ministers, violating the ancient tradition that punishment did not reach the nobility. The privileged had their own ways to die—beheading the emperor and displaying his head was the height of sacrilege. Yet Lin Feng’s propaganda wielded a trump card: nationalism. According to the Confucian Spring and Autumn principle of "expelling the barbarians," the execution of these criminal bandits was beyond reproach. His stance was uncompromising, a clear message: "This is how I do things—what can you do about it?" Thus, although some old scholars harbored doubts, Lin Feng unexpectedly won the support of many radical literati—mostly spirited young men who, undeterred by obstacles, sang "Man Jiang Hong" and gathered from all corners of the country, marching toward Beijing.

Despite the immense success of this campaign, Lin Feng remained oblivious. Since news of the capital’s fall had spread, provincial governors in the north were shocked but quickly entered a state of emergency. The shadow of war enveloped the entire north. Consequently, aside from major sensational events, other news spread slowly. At this moment, Lin Feng discovered a glaring flaw in his war machine: intelligence work had been entirely neglected.

No matter the era, this would be a colossal joke. Lin Feng suddenly realized he was in an awkward position: as the supreme commander, he possessed no more information than the innkeeper at the Yuelai Guesthouse by Beijing’s east gate.

While Lin Feng was agonizing in his study, the captain of his personal guard, Li Ergou, pushed open the door, his expression somewhat peculiar.

"Master!" Li Ergou hesitated slightly. "Master, you have visitors from the martial world!"

Lin Feng was taken aback, shooting Li Ergou a look of annoyance. This fellow really had no sense—he would announce anyone who showed up. Though Lin Feng was not overwhelmed with affairs, he had no time to meet random strangers.

"Master, it’s Yang Haisheng—General Yang brought them..."

"Oh? Who are they?" Lin Feng frowned in resignation.

"One’s named Chen Jinnan, another’s called Yang Qilong," Li Ergou scratched his head and grinned foolishly.

"Ah—?!" Lin Feng was startled, staring at Li Ergou for a long moment before suddenly realizing, and hurriedly standing up. Just as he reached the study’s threshold, he stopped, turned, and solemnly instructed, "Ergou, didn’t we recruit plenty of experts here in the capital? Have them prepare themselves—the Grand Helmsman Chen is no laughing matter!"