Song Dynasty: Yuan Dynasty, you didn't expect this, did you? I'm still alive.

In the autumn of the seventeenth year of Cheng'an, at the Fengtian Hall in Yingtian Prefecture.

When the Song envoy entered the palace, the entire court had been waiting for half an hour.

It wasn't that the Song envoy was late; it was that Zhu Di deliberately kept him waiting.

From the Meridian Gate to the Hall of Supreme Harmony, the Song envoy stood at each of the three palace gates for a considerable amount of time.

The Imperial Guards stood in a forest, their embroidered spring knives gleaming coldly in the sunlight. If it were any other foreign envoy, their legs would have gone weak long ago.

But Zhao Qian walked at a leisurely pace, his steps as steady as if he were strolling in his own backyard.

He stood in the center of the Fengtian Hall, cupped his hands in a bow, and moved with fluid grace, as if the Vice Minister of Rites who had been granted a seat years ago had never left.

"Zhao Qian, the envoy of the Great Song Dynasty, has delivered the official letter on the orders of the Emperor."

The hall was so quiet that you could hear the candlelight crackling.

Zhu Di sat on the dragon throne, looking down at him with a gaze as sharp as a blunt knife pressing down on Zhao Qian's shoulder.

"Read it." He uttered a single word.

Zhao Qian unfolded the official letter.

His voice wasn't loud, but every word fell clearly into the ears of all the officials, like nails driven into wood.

"The Emperor of the Great Song Dynasty decrees: Since the fall of Fuzhou, the Central Plains have been under the control of the barbarians, and the Song court has moved south for over 130 years. Now the barbarian dust has been swept away, but the Central Plains are without a ruler. I, by the mandate of Heaven, rule the land and cannot bear to see our homeland remain in the hands of usurpers for long. Therefore, I am sending a million-strong imperial army north to recover the Central Plains. You, the Zhu family of the Great Ming Dynasty, if you are willing to relinquish your imperial title, submit to the emperor, and pay tribute, you may retain your ancestral temples and govern a prefecture for generations. If you remain obstinate, then wherever the imperial army arrives, everything will be destroyed. This is the decree."

As the last word was uttered, the hall fell into complete silence.

Someone dropped their official tablet on the ground with a thud, but no one dared to bend down and pick it up.

Zheng Ci stood at the front of the civil officials, sweat pouring down his face like a waterfall, his body trembling as if he had been electrocuted.

Chen Ying's face changed from red to white, and then from white to green.

Zhu Di stood up.

It wasn't the kind of sudden, violent outburst of anger.

He stood up very slowly, one hand supporting himself on the armrest of the dragon throne, his body rising inch by inch, like a tiger whose afternoon nap had been disturbed and was stretching its muscles.

He descended the imperial steps, one step at a time, the soles of his boots treading on the gold bricks with a deep, even sound.

The breaths of all the officials rose and fell with his every step.

He stopped three steps away from Zhao Qian.

Zhao Qian did not back down.

Zhu Di extended his hand.

Zhao Qian handed over the letter of state.

Zhu Di took it and glanced down at it—the imperial seal of the Song Dynasty, a bright red mark stamped on the signature, like a drop of congealed blood.

He suddenly laughed.

Because this imperial seal, like his own, is fake.

All talk of destiny is false; only force is real.

He gripped both ends of the official document with his hands and tore it open with a sudden rip.

With a sharp "rip," the sound of the brocade tearing was particularly jarring in the empty hall.

One, two, three. The official letter was torn to shreds. He tossed it aside, and the tattered brocade fluttered down like a flock of headless butterflies landing on the gold-brick ground.

"I, the Emperor of the Great Ming Dynasty, the eldest son of the founding emperor, am here to inherit the throne."

His voice wasn't loud, but every word seemed to be forced from his chest, carrying a resounding clang like metal striking stone: "Your Song dynasty has moved south for a hundred years, abandoning the people of the Central Plains to the dust of the barbarians. What face do you have to call yourself the legitimate ruler? What face do you have to ask me to submit?"

He turned around, walked back to the dragon throne, and sat down.

The entire movement was fluid and effortless, as if the tear just now was merely brushing away a speck of dust from the sleeve.

"Go back and tell your emperor," Zhu Di said, leaning back on the dragon throne, his voice regaining its composure, "In the Ming Dynasty, there are only emperors who die in battle, not emperors who surrender."

Zhao Qian looked down at the tattered brocade on the ground, then looked up again.

His expression remained unchanged.

There was no anger, no fear, not even disappointment.

He simply nodded slightly, like a teacher who, after listening to a student's less-than-stellar rebuttal, decided to say no more.

"Your Majesty," he said, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather, "I hope we can meet again someday."

He cupped his hands in a respectful gesture. "This humble subject takes his leave."

Then he turned and walked out of the hall.

His pace was the same as when he came, neither hurried nor slow, as steady as if it had been measured with a ruler.

Behind him, the Fengtian Hall erupted in chaos.

Zhu Di sat motionless amidst the clamor.

His gaze passed over the heads of all the civil and military officials, over the open doors of the Fengtian Hall, over the layers of palace walls of Yingtian Prefecture, and landed in some unseen place.

"Issue the imperial decree. The Emperor is to guard the nation's gates. I intend to engage the puppet Song dynasty in a decisive battle at Yingtianfu."

That night, Zhu Di summoned Xia Yuanji to his study.

When Xia Yuanji came in, he was carrying a stack of account books, as thick as a brick.

His face was even paler than the cover of the ledger.

"Your Majesty, the national treasury..." He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing, "is empty."

Zhu Di remained silent.

"The Northern Expedition cost eight million taels of silver. The expansion of the Divine Machine Battalion cost three million taels. The repair of border towns cost two million taels. Last year, the Yellow River breached its banks, and disaster relief cost one and a half million taels. In recent years, the Ministry of Works has spent the most on the research and development of steam engines..." He reported item by item, his voice getting lower and lower until it was almost inaudible.

Zhu Di tapped his fingers lightly on the imperial desk, once, twice, three times.

The knocking stopped after Xia Yuanji finished reporting the last item.

"Raise taxes."

Xia Yuanji suddenly looked up. "Your Majesty, the people have already—"

"Improve the 'Anti-Song Tax.' Increase land tax by 10%, commercial tax by 20%, and taxes on salt, iron, tea, and horses—all of them." He paused, "and tell them that the Song people are coming. If they don't want to be ruled by the Song, they'll have to pay up."

Xia Yuanji opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.

He kowtowed, his forehead hitting the gold brick with a dull thud.

When the news spread, the imperial court became a hunting ground.

Chen Ying was like a shark that had smelled blood; she was the first to bare her teeth.

To repel external threats, one must first secure internal stability.

He impeached Zhang Ying, the Vice Minister of Revenue, for "colluding with Song merchants and revealing the true state of the national treasury."

The evidence is that Zhang Ying had a meal with Song Shang in Quanzhou a year ago.

The next day, Chen Ying impeached Wang Min, a secretary in the Ministry of Rites, for "possessing Song Dynasty goods in his home."

The Imperial Guards found two bolts of Song Dynasty silk and a box of Song Dynasty perfume powder in Wang Min's home.

On the third day, he impeached Li Jin, an imperial censor of the Censorate, for "having had dealings with Zhao Qian, the envoy of the Song Dynasty".

The evidence is that ten years ago, when Zhao Qian was in Yingtian Prefecture, Li Jin had drunk with him in the same brothel.

On the fourth day, the fifth day, the sixth day... impeachment memorials flew into the Imperial Study like snowflakes, each one stained with blood.

The entire court was filled with fear and trepidation. During court sessions, they dared not even let their eyes wander, for fear that Chen Ying's henchmen would catch any trace of "collusion with the enemy."

Just as Chen Ying was wreaking havoc in the court, the Crown Prince was summoned to the Imperial Study.

He was all alone.

Zhu Di made no small talk.

He picked up a wooden box from the table and handed it to the prince.

The crown prince accepted the box with both hands and opened it. Inside was an imperial seal.

The prince's hand trembled violently, almost dropping the box to the ground.

"If Yingtian Prefecture falls, take it with you and head north." Zhu Di's voice was completely calm, as if he were giving an order for a routine official business. "Go to Beiping and rebuild the court."

The prince knelt on the ground, holding the wooden box, his hands trembling.

He opened his mouth several times, but finally only managed to utter two words: "Father..."

"I will not leave," Zhu Di interrupted him. "I am the Emperor of the Ming Dynasty. I will remain in Yingtian Prefecture. But the Ming Dynasty cannot rely solely on Yingtian Prefecture. Beiping is the place where I rose to power, with its high walls and deep moats, the Yanshan Mountains to the north, and the Yellow River to the south. If things become unfavorable, that will be the Ming Dynasty's retreat route."

He stared at the Crown Prince, his gaze like two dark flames. "Only you know about this. The route, the men, the backup along the way—you arrange it."

The prince kowtowed, his forehead pressed against the gold brick, and did not lift it for a long time.

When he finally straightened up, his eyes were red, but there were no tears.

At the same time, Shen Lian received the order he least wanted to receive in his life.

The order, issued by Ji Gang, was brief and icy: Proceed immediately to Quanzhou to oversee coastal resistance against the Song dynasty. Burn all Song goods; destroy all Song ships; and completely destroy all granaries, docks, and wells that could be used by the Song army. Implement a scorched-earth policy, ensuring not a single plank is supplied to the enemy.

After reading the order, Shen Lian folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

Sigh, it's Quanzhou again.