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

Before the smoke of battle had completely cleared, Dorgon, unable to contain his excitement, abruptly stood up, clapping his hands vigorously, his face beaming with undisguised elation, and repeatedly exclaimed:

"Excellent! Excellent! Excellent! Excellent! Excellent! Mr. Fan, you have indeed lived up to my expectations! Success is in sight! This is a blessing for the military of our Great Qing Dynasty and a boon for our nation! Reward! A generous reward is warranted! All the craftsmen and soldiers present today who participated in the imitation and demonstration will be rewarded! Mr. Fan has made outstanding contributions in overall coordination, so his reward will be doubled!"

"Your servants are deeply grateful for the Regent's grace! Long live Your Highness!"

Upon hearing this, Fan Wencheng felt a great weight lifted from his heart. He quickly bowed to express his gratitude, a relieved smile appearing on his face.

The anxious craftsmen and equally tense soldiers who had just finished firing also knelt down and kowtowed in gratitude for the reward.

"Thank you for the Regent's gift! Long live the Prince!"

For a moment, the firing range was filled with the joy of surviving a disaster and the overwhelming gratitude of those who were flattered.

Dorgon was smug and laughed heartily, as if he already had the key to victory.

However, Prince Li, Daishan, standing beside him, did not show much joy on his face. Instead, his brows were slightly furrowed and his gaze was deep.

He slowly stood up, patted the non-existent dust off his knees, and looked again at the straw targets with sparse bullet holes, then at the flintlock pistols in the soldiers' hands, which were emitting wisps of smoke. He shook his head inwardly.

Insufficient power, poor accuracy, and while the rate of fire is acceptable, it's difficult to sustain...

Daishan quickly made an assessment in his mind. He had fought against the Ming army equipped with flintlock muskets many times on the front lines and still vividly remembered the terror of those weapons.

The Ming army's flintlock muskets could penetrate armor within fifty paces, and their dense bullets often created gaps in the formation of charging cavalry with a single volley.

The gunshots were crisp and continuous, and the smoke was relatively light. But these bullets in front of us... at a distance of thirty paces, the hit rate was only 50%, and the force of the bullets didn't seem to be able to penetrate the fine cotton armor.

The gunshots and smoke also had a sense of "false fire" and "too much impurity".

The gap is obvious.

This imitation only has the form, but not the spirit, let alone the soul.

It might be effective against unarmored or lightly armored targets, but it would be far from sufficient to counter the Ming army's numerous musket formations.

However, Daishan was ultimately a mature and prudent person.

He was very clear about the current situation. Dorgon was no longer the fourteenth brother who needed to be mindful of his and Hauge's feelings, but a regent who held the reins of the Qing Dynasty and whose authority was growing stronger every day.

Although he was the elder brother and the head of the "Four Great Beile," he still needed to handle his relationship with the regent brother carefully in the current political situation.

Moreover, Fan Wencheng had ultimately achieved some success, at least proving that this path was viable. Directly pouring cold water on his efforts would not only dampen Dorgon's enthusiasm but also make him appear insensitive and could potentially thwart the nascent firearms imitation work.

Thinking this, Daishan swallowed back the words he was about to say, forced a reasonably polite smile, nodded to Dorgon and Fan Wencheng, and calmly echoed:

"This is indeed a rare find, Mr. Fan, thank you for your hard work. With this, our army will have more to rely on in future battles against the enemy."

His words were quite measured, acknowledging the achievements while implicitly reserving confidence in their actual effectiveness.

Dorgon was currently immersed in the excitement of his "flintlock gun dream" coming true for the first time, and did not understand Daishan's implied meaning, or rather, he did not care.

He laughed and patted Fan Wencheng on the shoulder, then eagerly began to ask the most crucial question—production volume.

"Mr. Fan, now that this gun is a success, the next step is to manufacture more and equip our army! Tell me, how many of these flintlock guns can be produced in a day and night, given the scale of this workshop?"

The blush of excitement on Fan Wencheng's face hadn't faded yet, but upon hearing the question, his expression stiffened slightly, revealing a hint of shame and embarrassment. He carefully chose his words and cautiously replied:
"In response to the Regent, this gun... has a complex structure, requiring high levels of craftsmanship and materials, especially the forging of the barrel, the drilling and grinding of the bore, and the creation of small parts such as the spring and anvil of the flintlock mechanism, which are extremely time-consuming."

"Currently, the Imperial Workshops have gathered the best craftsmen in the capital, working day and night to eliminate defective products. In one day and night... they can produce about one hundred qualified finished products. This... this is under the condition that there are sufficient materials, however..."

He paused, glanced furtively at Dorgon's expression, and continued:
"However, within the territory of our Great Qing, the reserves of high-quality iron, steel wire for making springs, copper for some special parts, and rare ores are not abundant, and mining and smelting will take time."

"If the raw materials cannot be supplied, the output... I'm afraid it will be greatly reduced. This servant... this servant has already done his best."

"One hundred a day?"

Dorgon's smile faded, and his brows furrowed.

This number sounds like a lot; that's three thousand a month, and over thirty thousand a year.

However, in the context of large-scale wars involving tens of thousands or even hundreds of thousands of people, this output is simply a drop in the ocean! Just think of the Battle of Songjin, where the Ming army could mobilize tens of thousands or even nearly a hundred thousand musketeers at once.

Now, several years later, given the vast territory and abundant resources of the Ming Dynasty, with its numerous artisans, the quantity and quality of its flintlock muskets had probably reached a terrifying level.

We've put in tremendous effort, yet we can only produce 30,000 counterfeit products a year, and the quality isn't even that great. How can we bridge this gap?
A heavy pressure instantly replaced the ecstasy that had just occurred.

But Dorgon was, after all, a shrewd and ambitious man, and he knew that he must not show any fear at this time, nor could he dampen the enthusiasm of those in charge.

He quickly adjusted his expression and said to Fan Wencheng firmly:
"Production must be increased! Mr. Fan, you don't need to worry about the raw materials. Leave it to me to figure out! Although the territory of our Great Qing is not as vast as that of the Southern Ming, we can still trade with Korea, Mongolia, and even the Russians further north. Korea has coal and iron, Mongolia has fine horses that can be exchanged for goods, and the Russians covet furs and ginseng, which can also be traded."

"Even if we have to travel across the ocean to buy fine iron and firearm parts from the Western barbarians, it's not a problem! It'll just cost more money and involve more trouble! I'll take care of the money! You just need to keep a close eye on the craftsmen, improve the technology, expand the scale of the craftsmen, and make sure to increase the daily output for me as soon as possible! Two hundred, three hundred, the more the better! Just give me a list of how many people and materials you need!"

His voice was filled with an unwavering determination, as if he would do anything, even dig three feet into the ground or sell his pots and pans, to increase the production of flintlock muskets.

Upon hearing this, Fan Wencheng felt both moved and overwhelmed with pressure. He quickly bowed and replied, "Yes, Your Majesty! This servant will obey Your Majesty's command! I will do my utmost to supervise the craftsmen and improve their skills, and I will certainly live up to Your Majesty's trust!"

He knew that the Regent had placed an enormous burden and expectation on his shoulders, but at the same time, it also meant that he would receive unprecedented resource support.

Seeing that Dorgon didn't blame him for the low yield, but instead took on the responsibility of solving the raw material problem, Fan Wencheng, while grateful, felt he should frankly tell him about some potential problems and shortcomings, lest he be unable to explain himself if bigger issues arose later. He hesitated for a moment, then steeled himself and added in as tactful a tone as possible:

"Your Highness... there is one more thing I need to report to you. Although this batch of new guns is already usable, it is still a first-run imitation and inevitably has some minor flaws. In addition to the fact that the accuracy and range are not as good as the original Ming army guns as seen in the demonstration, the toughness of the barrel steel is still slightly lacking. It is prone to overheating after continuous firing and needs to be cooled and checked frequently. Otherwise, there is still a risk of the barrel exploding."

"Furthermore, the flint wears out relatively quickly, and although the misfire rate has been reduced, it still occurs from time to time. These... all require the craftsmen to gradually improve them in the future, and the soldiers also need rigorous training to become familiar with the gun's characteristics..."

As he spoke, he carefully observed Dorgon's expression.

To Fan Wencheng's surprise, Dorgon, upon hearing these words, not only showed no displeasure but also waved his hand rather "magnanimously" and said in a relaxed tone:

"Hey, Mr. Fan, there's no need to be so demanding. This is only natural. Think about how many generations of craftsmen, how much gold and silver, and how many failures the Ming Dynasty spent developing such a powerful weapon before it achieved its current prestige. Our Qing Dynasty started late, and it's already quite remarkable that we were able to imitate it to this extent! Some minor flaws are inevitable."

"As long as there is no large-scale barrel explosion causing injuries, misfires and poor accuracy are acceptable. Let the craftsmen continue to study and improve, and let the soldiers practice more to become familiar with the characteristics of the firearms. Everything is difficult at the beginning. With this first step, we can strive for excellence in the future and eventually catch up with or even surpass the Ming Dynasty!"

His words were quite "reasonable," showing both understanding of the difficulties of imitation and expressing confidence in the future. Fan Wencheng felt a surge of warmth in his heart, as if a "scholar would die for one who understands him" sentiment had flowed through his body, and his eyes even became slightly moist.

He bowed deeply, his voice choked with emotion:
"Your Highness... Your Highness is so understanding and trusting of me. I... I can only repay Your Highness's kindness by serving you with all my heart and even unto death!"

Dorgon nodded with a smile and personally helped him up.

The ruler and his ministers got along well, and the atmosphere was harmonious.

Dai Shan watched silently from the side, but his heart was filled with a different feeling.

He acknowledged that Dorgon was decisive, willing to commit, and knew how to win people's hearts.

But seeing the emperor and his minister so excited about this "usable" replica, as if they had truly grasped the key to defeating the Ming Dynasty, Daishan felt a vague sense of unease and absurdity rising in his heart.

They seem to have forgotten, or deliberately ignored, that the battlefield is brutal and that technology is constantly advancing.

The Ming army had possessed flintlock muskets for quite some time. Given their emphasis on and investment in firearms, who knows if they hadn't developed something even more powerful?

Even without it, given the huge gap between the imitations and the originals on both sides, it would be by no means easy for the Qing army to gain the upper hand in a firearms confrontation.

This replica flintlock musket might slightly mitigate some of the disadvantages, but to expect it to reverse the tide and recreate the glory of the Eight Banners' invincible field battles of yesteryear is probably just wishful thinking and a mirage.

However, seeing Dorgon's determined expression and Fan Wencheng's grateful look, Daishan ultimately did not utter these discouraging words.

He simply turned his gaze into the distance once more, as if trying to penetrate the walls of Shengjing and see the colossal Ming Dynasty, a powerful nation across the sea, which was booming and whose military might had already made another leap forward.

The "achievements" that they are so excited about now may already be outdated and obsolete in the Ming Dynasty, or even more backward.

However, these "frogs in a well" trapped in a corner of Liaodong are unaware of their own limitations and are still complacent about finally touching the edge of the well.

In October of the sixteenth year of the Chongzhen reign, the harsh winter had arrived.

It was only mid-October, but in the harsh years of the late Ming Dynasty, known as the "Little Ice Age," the chill of the north had already eagerly taken over everything, completely driving away the last trace of mildness in late autumn.

The sky is always gray, like a huge, lifeless lead plate, pressing heavily on people's heads.

A cold wind howled from the Bohai Bay, carrying a biting damp chill that cut like a knife on the face and seeped into the collar and cuffs of clothing.

The trees lining the official road had long since lost all their leaves, leaving only bare, twisted branches that trembled helplessly in the cold wind, emitting a mournful sound.

The fields were desolate, with withered yellow grass lying lifeless on the ground.

A dry, cold, and bleak smell permeated the air; inhaling it felt like breathing in ice crystals. Pedestrians had already donned thick cotton-padded coats, yet their faces were still pale with cold, and their breath turned to frost.

This is the prelude to the long and harsh winter that is common in the North China Plain during the Little Ice Age. According to past experience, this kind of cold will last from October to March or April of the following year. During this period, it is common for heavy snow to block roads and rivers and seas to freeze over.

The scene shifts to the coast of the Bohai Sea, at the Dagukou Wharf in Tianjin.

Before dawn, the entire dock was awakened from its slumber and plunged into an unprecedented state of tension and busyness.

Countless figures, like ants, scurried about the docks in the dim light of dawn and the glow of scattered torches. Tianjin naval officers and soldiers, dressed in mandarin duck battle jackets, armed with long spears and swords at their waists, lined up and deployed under the commands of their officers, clearing a wide passage from the docks to the main road.

The dockworkers and conscripted laborers, under the foreman's command, wielded brooms and wooden shovels, diligently sweeping away the sand and debris brought by the cold winds of the previous days. They also repeatedly splashed clean water drawn from a well in the distance onto the main roads and the dock front, striving to prevent dust from rising.

Various vessels anchored in the harbor were also ordered to temporarily move to make room for the large fleet that was about to arrive.

The air was thick with the smells of sweat, moisture, and the stench of the sea, as well as a heavy atmosphere as if a great battle was about to begin.

Everyone's busyness was all for one thing—to welcome the current emperor, Chongzhen, who was about to return to the capital!
Under a makeshift reed mat shed not far from the dock, used for shelter from the wind, Cao Youyi, the commander-in-chief of the Tianjin Navy, was wearing a heavy cotton armor and a worn blue cloth cloak. He stood with his hands behind his back, his brow furrowed, and his eyes anxiously gazing at the gray, surging sea.

A biting sea breeze kept pouring into the tent, making his short beard and the hem of his cloak flutter incessantly, but he seemed oblivious to the chill, his entire attention focused on the distant horizon where the sea and sky merged into one. (End of Chapter)