My father is Chongzhen? Then I have no choice but to rebel.

Grand Secretary Fan Wencheng, dressed as a civil official but with a sinister gaze, stood with his hands behind his back beside a wooden observation platform about twenty paces from the firing position, intently watching the soldiers' every move.

His face was thin, and his brows were furrowed, showing great concern and pressure.

"Load the gun!"

An officer from the Han Banner Army in command gave the order.

A soldier in white armor skillfully poured pre-weighed gunpowder from a leather pouch at his waist, poured it into the muzzle of his gun, and then gently tamped it down with a tamping rod.

Next, add lead pellets and tamp it down again.

Finally, he switched the hammer to the ready-to-fire position, opened the powder tank lid, and poured in a small amount of ignition powder.

The entire loading process was much simpler than using a matchlock musket, but it was still slow and clumsy compared to the well-trained archers of the Ming army.

More importantly, they only received the guns, not the paper-cased ammunition technology that the Ming army had begun to use on a small scale, so the loading process was not fundamentally simplified.

"Aim! Fire!"

The officer gave another order.

"boom!"

A slightly muffled loud bang was heard, and a plume of thick smoke spewed from the muzzle.

A small cloud of dust rose from the ground about a foot away from the wooden human-shaped target, which was fifty paces away.

"One foot to the right!"

The observing officer reported the results.

Fan Wencheng's brows did not relax, but a barely perceptible glint of relief flashed in his eyes.

It doesn't matter if it's off-target, the important thing is that it fires!

If it can be successfully tested, it means that the imitation has achieved a breakthrough in the core mechanism!
It should be noted that just over three months ago, the first "successful" replica presented by the Imperial Workshop exploded during a test firing, nearly injuring the craftsman who was testing the gun.

The second shot was completely unusable, with a misfire rate of eight or nine out of ten.

Although the accuracy of this one is questionable, at least it can launch projectiles stably, which is already a huge "improvement".

"Continue! Speed ​​test!"

Fan Wencheng gave the order in a deep, somewhat hoarse voice.

He knew that the terror of the Ming army's flintlock muskets lay not only in their ability to withstand wind and rain, but also in their astonishing rate of fire. He wanted to see just how fast his own imitation could be.

"Whoo!"

The officer received the order and urged the soldiers to reload.

Sweat dripped from the soldier's forehead as he test-fired the weapon. He took a deep breath and repeated the tedious loading steps: pour the powder, tamp it down, load the bullet, tamp it down again, add the gunpowder, and pull the hammer.
Every movement was made with great care and precision, but the speed was noticeably slow.

"boom!"

The second shot was fired, but it still missed the bullseye.

"boom!"

The third shot went even further off course.

The soldiers gritted their teeth and persevered, trying to increase their speed.

However, the lack of fixed ammunition and the muscle memory developed through long-term training prevented him from improving his reloading speed.

In one minute, he managed to fire only five shots.

Just as he was preparing to load for the sixth time, forcefully ramming the ram—

"boom!!!"

A deafening and terrifying explosion, far louder and more terrifying than the previous shots, suddenly erupted! Accompanied by a cloud of smoke and flying sparks, the barrel of the replica flintlock musket shattered violently in the middle! Twisted pieces of wrought iron and scorching hot bolt parts flew everywhere!

"what!"

The soldier who fired screamed. Although he managed to dodge the main shrapnel by instinctively turning his head, face, and gun-wielding arm to the side at the last moment, the blast wave and some debris still knocked him to the ground. His arms and cheeks were slashed with several bloody cuts that stung painfully.

The broken gun in his hand flew out, its barrel twisted, and it was completely destroyed.

"Protect your lord!"

The guards reacted quickly, immediately drawing their swords and stepping forward to protect Fan Wencheng behind them.

Startled by the sudden explosion, Fan Wencheng took two steps back, his face instantly turning extremely pale.

He disregarded his manners and hurried forward to check.

The soldier was covered in blood and was being helped to his feet. He was not in mortal danger, but he was clearly badly injured. The replica musket that had held so much of his hope was now just a pile of scrap metal.

"It exploded again."

Fan Wencheng felt a surge of anger rush to the top of his head, his temples throbbed, and his head throbbed with pain.

Poor accuracy and slow rate of fire are bad enough, but now even the most basic safety cannot be guaranteed! If this thing is equipped by the troops, it could explode at a critical moment on the battlefield, not only failing to kill the enemy but also killing their own people and potentially causing a mutiny!

"Trash! A bunch of trash!"

Fan Wencheng couldn't help but mutter a curse under his breath, though it was unclear whether he was cursing the gun-making craftsmen or the disappointing "result."

He spent countless sums of money and grain, mobilized Han Chinese craftsmen and even paid a lot of money to "invite" a few Western missionaries who were supposedly knowledgeable, and the result was such a useless thing.

The Ming army's flintlock muskets were like the Grim Reaper's scythe on the battlefield, so why are our own imitations so inadequate?
Just as Fan Wencheng was anxiously pondering how to explain things to the Regent and how to improve the situation, a series of steady and powerful footsteps came from the entrance of the shooting range.

The guards immediately noticed and turned around, their hands on their swords, but then relaxed and bowed.

Fan Wencheng turned around upon hearing the sound and saw a middle-aged man dressed in a dark blue casual robe, with a pipa-shaped jacket over it and a warm hat on his head, slowly walking into the shooting range, surrounded by a group of elite Bayara soldiers.

The newcomer had a sharp, piercing face and piercing eyes like an eagle. Although he appeared to be walking leisurely, every step he took carried the imposing aura of someone who had long held a high position. He was none other than the de facto ruler of the Great Qing Empire.

Prince Rui of the First Rank, and Regent Dorgon.

Dorgon's gaze swept indifferently over the messy shooting range, the wounded soldiers, and the shattered gun, finally landing on Fan Wencheng, whose face was grim.

Coincidentally, this morning, after handling a few minor official matters in the palace, Regent Dorgon suddenly felt a sense of unease.

Perhaps it was the reports of slow food supplies being delivered to Korea in recent days, or perhaps it was the inexplicable pressure brought about by the unusual quietness of the Ming army's defenses in the south, or perhaps it was that name in the distant border town, which felt like a bone stuck in his throat: Hauge.

In short, he felt very uncomfortable.

He then dismissed most of his entourage, taking only a squad of his personal guards, and strolled out of the palace. He wandered aimlessly through the streets and alleys of Shengjing's inner city to get some fresh air and sort out his chaotic thoughts.

Although Shengjing was the "capital city", its scale and structure were far inferior to those of the capital city of the Ming Dynasty, and its architecture was mostly rough.

Before he knew it, Dorgon had strolled to the area near the west gate.

This place was relatively secluded, containing several government offices and workshops, including the weapons manufacturing plant. He hadn't intended to specifically inspect this place and was about to turn elsewhere when—

"boom!!!"

A muffled and abrupt explosion suddenly came from inside the high walls of the Imperial Workshop, startling several crows on the nearby treetops, which fluttered into the sky.

"Protect the prince!"

The guard commander, Ahachu, reacted swiftly, stepping in front of Dorgon. The other Bayara drew their swords with a "whoosh" and quickly formed a protective circle, their hawk-like eyes scanning the surroundings with expressions of high tension.

Such a loud noise within the city of Shengjing could not help but make them suspect an assassination attempt or an attack.

Dorgon frowned, but being a seasoned warrior, he instantly realized that the sound was not the crisp sound of a bow or musket firing, but rather a muffled thud from something bursting inside.

He raised his hand to stop the guards' overly tense reaction and said in a deep voice:

"Don't panic. Judging from the sound, it sounds like a firearm has exploded. Let's go take a look."

The two guards immediately obeyed the order, and since they were nearby, they returned shortly to report:
"Your Highness, the sound did indeed come from the firing range of the Imperial Workshop. It seems that something went wrong during the test firing of the new firearm."

"Oh? New firearms?"

A strange light flashed in Dorgon's eyes. He recalled Fan Wencheng's report a few days ago on the progress of replicating the Ming army's flintlock muskets.

It seems that progress is not going well.

He hesitated for a moment, then instructed Ahachū:

"Let's go in and take a look."

"Whoo!"

The group headed straight for the gate of the Imperial Workshop.

When the guards saw that it was the regent, they were so frightened that they hurriedly knelt down and opened the door.

Dorgon walked steadily through the front yard, following the faint sounds of voices and the faint smell of gunpowder, and went straight to the shooting range at the back.

When he stepped into the firing range, he saw Fan Wencheng with a livid face, frowning silently at the shattered guns and wounded soldiers on the ground, while a group of craftsmen and officers were filled with anxiety.

Everyone's attention was originally focused on the accident scene, until a sharp-eyed Goshha spotted the person coming from the entrance and exclaimed, "Your Highness!" Everyone turned around in surprise and saw that it was Dorgon himself. They immediately knelt down in a clamor.

"This servant greets Your Highness!"

"Your subjects pay their respects to the Regent!"

The moment Fan Wencheng turned his head and saw Dorgon's figure, his mind went blank, his face turned deathly pale, and cold sweat instantly beaded on his forehead.

He was the one who strongly advocated for and personally supervised the project of replicating firearms. The prince placed high hopes on it and allocated a considerable amount of money and grain.

Not only has it failed, but such a serious barrel explosion has occurred during the prince's "accidental" pilgrimage, injuring people! This is simply a case of incompetence, a waste of national funds, and could even be considered a crime of "delaying military operations"!

Given the Regent's usual strictness, I'm afraid I won't escape a reprimand today, or even a more severe punishment!
Thinking of this, Fan Wencheng's heart sank, and his kneeling body trembled slightly.

However, to the surprise of Fan Wencheng and everyone present, Dorgon did not immediately react.

His sharp gaze, like a cold blade, slowly swept over the shattered musket, the bloodstains on the ground, the wounded soldiers, and the silent craftsmen, finally landing on the pale-faced Fan Wencheng.

In that gaze, there was scrutiny and deep thought, but not the expected thunderous rage.

Dorgon took a few steps forward, came to Fan Wencheng, and surprisingly bent down slightly, offering a helping hand to him. His voice was unusually calm, even carrying a hint of understanding and comfort.
"Mr. Fan, please rise. Gentlemen, please rise as well."

Fan Wencheng paused for a moment, then, with the careful support of his colleagues, he stood up shakily, still bowing deeply, not daring to look Dorgon in the eye, and replied in a dry voice:
"Your Majesty, I have failed in my duties and caused an accident, disturbing Your Majesty's presence. I deserve to die! Please punish me!"

Dorgon waved his hand, his tone remaining calm:

"Mr. Fan, there is no need to blame yourself too much. The development of firearms is a slow and steady process that cannot be rushed. Think about how those southern barbarians managed to develop this flintlock gun. It was not something that could be accomplished overnight. They must have gone through countless failures and spent countless amounts of money, grain, and craftsmen before they finally achieved what they have today."

"Our Great Qing Dynasty had no foundation in this field and relied entirely on imitation and exploration. It was inevitable that there would be more failures and a few explosions, which is understandable."

These words were like sweet rain falling on Fan Wencheng's anxious heart.

He suddenly raised his head and looked at Dorgon, his eyes filled with unbelievable gratitude.

He had expected a storm to break out, but instead he was met with such understanding and tolerance.

For a moment, this Han official, known for his profound wisdom and insight, felt his eyes well up with tears, his throat tighten, and he bowed deeply once more:
"Your Highness, Your Highness's compassion and magnanimity are deeply appreciated. I am moved to tears and have no way to repay you! I will do my utmost to overcome this difficulty as soon as possible to repay Your Highness's kindness!"

Dorgon nodded slightly, said no more, and turned to the soldier who had been helped aside, whose wounds had been simply bandaged, and who was still shaken from the test firing.

When the soldier saw the prince walking towards him, he was so frightened that he wanted to kneel down again, but Dorgon raised his hand to stop him.

"How badly are you injured? Can you still hold on?"

Dorgon looked at the blood-soaked strips of cloth on the soldier's face and arms and asked in a gentle tone.

That soldier was just an ordinary bannerman; how could he have imagined that one day the Regent would personally inquire about his injuries? He was so excited he trembled all over, and could barely speak:

"Replying to Your Highness! This servant... this servant is thick-skinned and tough, this little injury is nothing! Thank you for your concern, Your Highness! Thank you, Your Highness!"

He struggled to straighten his body to show that he was alright.

Dorgon reached out and gently patted the uninjured side of the soldier's shoulder, a simple gesture that made the soldier feel even more flattered.

"Well, it's good that you're alright. You were testing firearms for our Great Qing Dynasty. It was a meritorious deed, but also a risky one. You deserve a reward for your service."

He turned his head and instructed Ahachu behind him:
"Make a note of this, reward him with one hundred taels of silver, give him proper medical treatment, and after he recovers, assign him a good job."

"Whoo!"

Ahha responded.

"This servant...this servant thanks Your Highness for your divine grace! Long live Your Highness! Long live Your Highness!"

Upon hearing this, the soldier was so moved that tears welled up in his eyes. Despite his injuries, he tried to kowtow, but his comrades quickly stopped him.

One hundred taels of silver was a huge sum of money for him. What was even more valuable was this "consideration" and "recognition of merit" from the highest ruler, which was enough for him to boast about among his comrades for a lifetime.

The Regent is truly a wise ruler!

Soon, a special medical officer came forward and carefully helped him down to receive treatment.

After dealing with the soldiers, Dorgon's gaze turned once again to the group of Han Chinese craftsmen kneeling on the ground, trembling like leaves.

They were the craftsmen directly responsible for the manufacture, the "directly responsible persons" for the accident. The head craftsman, in particular, was ashen-faced, knowing that he was probably doomed today.

Seeing this, Fan Wencheng quickly stepped forward, his tone turning stern as he addressed the group of craftsmen. His words were both a questioning and a way of showing the prince that he was not entirely without authority:

"What's going on with you all? I have repeatedly ordered you to be cautious. What were your explanations after the last barrel explosion? Why did it explode again today after only six shots? If you don't give me a clear explanation today, don't blame me for being ruthless!"

It was obvious that Fan Wencheng was genuinely angry! (End of Chapter)