Zhu Youjian had always possessed a stubborn streak that bordered on pathological, and the more others tried to push him in a certain direction, the more he would dig in his heels and refuse to move, as if resistance itself had become his final proof of authority in a world that increasingly refused to obey him.
On top of that, he carried an almost fragile arrogance, the kind that could not tolerate even the slightest criticism, so the moment he sensed that others viewed him in a negative light, his mind would spiral, his emotions would ignite, and he would deliberately choose the opposite course, not because it was correct, but because it allowed him to assert control in the only way he still could.
Such a temperament rarely emerged in a vacuum, because it was often the product of limited education, a lack of emotional support in childhood, and a deeply rooted insecurity that masked itself as pride, and in Zhu Youjian's case, he embodied every single one of these traits to an almost textbook degree.
Under normal circumstances, a ruler like this might have been tempered by wise ministers or constrained by a functioning system, yet in the late Ming court, those safeguards had long since eroded, leaving behind a fragile structure that could not withstand the weight of a single man's contradictions.
Thus, what had once been a promising situation for the Ming dynasty began to unravel at an alarming pace, not due to external invasion or natural disaster, but because of the emperor's own refusal to move in step with reality, a slow but relentless descent triggered by something as intangible as temperament.
Across the realm, scholars and students grew more agitated with each passing day, their protests louder, their arguments sharper, their frustration no longer something that could be contained within classrooms or essays, but something that spilled out into streets, gatherings, and public discourse, forming a tide that continued to rise.
…
At the same time, Shengjing remained shrouded in gloom, the atmosphere heavy with anxiety as if the entire city were holding its breath, waiting for a blow that had not yet fallen but was certain to arrive.
Hong Taiji sat alone, flipping through Romance of the Three Kingdoms so many times that the pages had begun to curl and tear, yet despite revisiting every stratagem, every deception, every brilliant maneuver recorded within its covers, he could not find a single plan that could solve the crisis he now faced.
Finally, he let out a long breath and set the book aside, the gesture carrying both frustration and resignation.
Fan Wencheng entered at that moment, his expression carefully composed, though there was a flicker of anticipation in his eyes. "Your Majesty, the great iron vehicle has finally been completed."
Those words immediately lifted Hong Taiji's spirits, his fatigue replaced by a sudden surge of hope as he leaned forward. "Bring it here at once, let me see it with my own eyes."
Yet even as he spoke, he noticed the hesitation in Fan Wencheng's face, a hesitation that did not belong to good news.
"It has been completed," Fan Wencheng said slowly, as if choosing each word with care, "but there is a problem."
Hong Taiji's brows tightened. "Speak plainly."
"It does not move," Fan Wencheng admitted, the awkwardness now impossible to conceal. "In every visible aspect, it is identical to the enemy's machine, yet no matter what we attempt, it remains completely still, as though it were nothing more than a hollow shell."
Hong Taiji fell silent.
The reason lay hidden in what they did not possess, because although they had managed to replicate the exterior structure with meticulous precision, the core mechanism that powered the machine had never been revealed to them, leaving them with a body that lacked a beating heart.
A vehicle without its engine could never move, no matter how perfect its outer form might be.
"There must be something inside that drives it," Hong Taiji said at last, though even he sounded uncertain. "Have you examined every possibility?"
"We have exhausted every method we could think of," Fan Wencheng replied. "And still, nothing."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush words before they could form.
At length, Hong Taiji tilted his head upward, staring at the ceiling as though demanding an answer from the heavens themselves. "Dorgon is gone, Ajige is gone, I have lost two pillars of my army, the Mongols watch from the north, Joseon stirs in the south, and the Ming army could strike Shenyang at any moment, yet they do not come. They should have come already. Why have they not come?"
Fan Wencheng lowered his voice. "The only reason is Zhu Youjian's stubbornness. The louder the voices within Ming calling for an attack, the more he resists."
Hong Taiji blinked, then let out a hollow laugh that carried more disbelief than amusement. "So the survival of our state rests entirely on the temper of one man?"
"Yes," Fan Wencheng answered without hesitation.
For a long moment, ruler and minister stood facing each other, their shared understanding too absurd for comfort, too real to deny.
Then, suddenly, Fan Wencheng's expression shifted, a spark of clarity flashing in his eyes. "Your Majesty, I have devised a plan."
Hong Taiji leaned forward immediately, urgency replacing fatigue. "What is it?"
"If his stubbornness is the obstacle, then we shall strengthen it," Fan Wencheng said, his voice dropping as he outlined his idea in rapid succession. "We will activate our agents within Ming, have them join the voices demanding war, amplify the pressure, push him further, until he refuses to yield under any circumstance."
As the plan unfolded, Hong Taiji's expression transformed, first to surprise, then to admiration. "Such a strategy… even the ancients did not record such a thing."
"It will only buy us time," Fan Wencheng said, though there was a faint smile on his lips.
Hong Taiji laughed, a genuine sound at last. "Then let it be done. This plan surpasses even the schemes of Wolong himself. I will name it Operation Surpass Wolong."
…
In the Ming capital, a group of Manchu agents quietly completed their preparations.
They wrote their final letters without hesitation, each stroke steady, each word final, because they all understood that what lay ahead was a path from which none would return, and yet not a single man wavered, for they had long since chosen loyalty over life.
White cloth was tied around their heads, bold red characters declaring "Foolish ruler ruins the nation" standing out starkly against the pale fabric, turning each of them into a walking accusation.
When everything was ready, they armed themselves and stepped out.
Their destination was the Forbidden City.
Even before they acted, their mere presence in such a heavily guarded space drew attention, as patrol soldiers began to approach, intent on dispersing them before trouble could take root.
The agents exchanged a brief glance, a silent affirmation, then raised their voices in unison.
"Foolish ruler, you have squandered the chance for victory and endangered the nation!"
"We demand a self-criticism edict, a correction of errors, and immediate deployment of troops to attack Shenyang!"
"Drive out the Manchu and restore our lands!"
Their voices rang across the square, echoing against the walls, drawing more soldiers, more civilians, more attention with every passing second.
The patrol captain rushed forward, alarm written across his face. "Silence! Do you wish to die? Stop this at once!"
Instead of stopping, the agents raised their voices even higher, pushing the tension to its breaking point.
Then, in a single decisive motion, one of them drew a dagger and plunged it into the captain's side.
At that exact moment, all of them drew their weapons and charged.
"Foolish ruler, we will fight to the death!"
"Kill Zhu Youjian, install a worthy ruler, and march on Shenyang!"
Their cries were fierce, passionate, convincing enough to blur the line between performance and belief.
The battle that followed erupted instantly.
The agents, all elite warriors, cut through the initial patrol with brutal efficiency, their skill far surpassing that of ordinary soldiers, turning the first clash into a one sided slaughter.
But this was the Forbidden City.
Reinforcements arrived almost immediately, then more, then more again, until the square was flooded with soldiers from every direction, including the elite palace guards whose training far exceeded that of common troops.
Even the most skilled fighters could not withstand such numbers.
One by one, the agents fell.
Some were cut down mid strike, others were pierced by multiple spears at once, and still others were overwhelmed before they could even retreat a step.
In the end, only a few remained standing.
They stopped fighting.
Raising their blades to their own throats, they shouted one final time, their voices echoing with a deliberate intensity meant to linger in every ear that heard it.
"Foolish ruler, rise up, all heroes under heaven, rise up against him!"
Then, without hesitation, they drew their blades across their own necks.
Blood sprayed outward, and their bodies collapsed where they stood.
The square fell into stunned silence, but the echoes of their words did not fade.