The burst of cursing from the commoners was not the kind that scattered harmlessly into the wind, but the kind that landed with weight and intent, sharp enough to make the eunuch soldiers atop the city walls burn with anger, yet with nowhere to release it, because the offenders had already vanished as if the streets themselves had swallowed them whole.
In the blink of an eye, the area was empty.
Unless cavalry were deployed, there was simply no catching them.
And the eunuch soldiers, for all their bluster, had never trained in anything resembling Iron Body kungfu or agile movement techniques, so chasing was out of the question, leaving them no choice but to shout after empty air, voices full of indignation that sounded increasingly hollow the longer they echoed.
"A bunch of unruly rabble! Rabble!"
Not far away, Eunuch Cao Huachun watched the entire scene unfold in silence, his expression unreadable, yet inside he let out a long, quiet sigh that carried more weight than any shouted insult.
The Emperor's authority had collapsed.
Not weakened, not shaken, but collapsed so thoroughly that even the commoners living within reach of the Imperial Capital dared to jump and curse at the guards on the walls without a trace of hesitation, which meant that in their hearts, the conclusion had already been made.
A change of dynasty was no longer a distant possibility.
It was something people were beginning to assume as inevitable.
And while the streets roared with that unspoken certainty, the court was busy doing something far more refined, far more dignified, and infinitely more useless.
They were arguing.
Days earlier, Emperor Chongzhen had ordered Eunuch Cao Huachun to organize palace guards and eunuchs to defend the city, while at the same time preparing to recall Lu Xiangsheng to reinforce the capital.
But several days had passed.
The order had still not been issued.
The reason could be summed up in two words.
Endless wrangling.
Emperor Chongzhen was afraid.
He wanted to bring Lu Xiangsheng back, that much was obvious, but he also knew that the moment Lu Xiangsheng withdrew, the defenses at the Daling River would be left dangerously thin, and the Jurchens could very well seize the opportunity to retake Jinzhou, dragging the strategic situation right back to where it had been before all the recent sacrifices.
And if that happened, the label of "a foolish ruler ruins the nation" would land on him again without mercy.
With the Shared Governance faction already stirring trouble everywhere, he could not afford to be branded that way again.
So naturally, like any ruler cornered by both reality and reputation, he looked for a way out.
He wanted to pass the burden to someone else.
Seated on the dragon throne, he spoke at length, his tone measured, almost scholarly, as if the calmness of his voice alone could turn uncertainty into consensus.
"There remain sufficient forces beyond the passes, and the situation may yet be sustained…"
The moment he began, the officials understood exactly what he was doing.
He wanted to recall Lu Xiangsheng.
And more importantly, he wanted them to say it first.
"This matter of great military importance," he continued, "should be deliberated and decided by you gentlemen. It must not be delayed or evaded."
The words sounded reasonable.
They also sounded extremely familiar.
Because when he had previously ordered the recall of Cao Wenzhao, Gao Jie, Xing Honglang, Yang Guozhu, Wang Pu, and others, he had not consulted anyone at all, issuing commands directly without the slightest pause for discussion.
Now, suddenly, it was "you gentlemen should decide."
In other words, he wanted them to open their mouths so that he would not have to bear the blame.
If they spoke, he would no longer be the foolish ruler.
They, however, would instantly become the traitors who abandoned the frontier.
The officials were not fools.
They knew Emperor Chongzhen's habits all too well, and none of them had any intention of picking up that particular piece of poison.
Vice Minister of War Chen Yan stepped forward, speaking slowly, carefully, every word wrapped in layers of caution.
"Recalling Lu Xiangsheng may indeed be an effective strategy against the rebels. However, his army bears great responsibility. His troops are feared by the Jurchens. Not only does Ningyuan rely on him, but the passes do as well. Even if he cannot always provide timely reinforcement, the mere presence of elite troops there strengthens morale. Should he be withdrawn, the remaining forces, scattered across various fortresses, may not be reliable. If something goes wrong, would our flesh be enough to feed the consequences? This concerns the very safety of the realm. We have discussed it in private and dare not make a hasty decision. We are unworthy and lack the courage to gamble with the borders. We beg Your Majesty to decide."
Another vice minister, Zhang Jinyan, was far more direct, slicing through the fog with a single sentence.
"Whether Lu Xiangsheng is recalled depends on whether Ningyuan is abandoned. Two choices, nothing more."
Chen Yan added quietly, "Every inch of land is worth an inch of gold."
And just like that, the air in the hall turned stiff.
The burden had been tossed out.
No one caught it.
Emperor Chongzhen found himself momentarily speechless, caught in the awkward space between authority and responsibility, forced to confront the fact that no one was willing to stand in front of him and say what he wanted to hear.
In the end, he let out a breath, the kind that carried resignation more than resolve.
"Securing the passes while achieving victory against the rebels may be a lesser strategy, yet it is one born of necessity."
The officials relaxed almost imperceptibly.
Good.
He had said it himself.
That meant they were safe.
And he, once again, had stepped into the role he feared the most.
"Go," the Emperor snapped, irritation surfacing now that the decision had been forced out of him. "Why are you still standing here? Issue the order at once. Recall Lu Xiangsheng."
The officials withdrew.
Back in the Ministry of War offices, they sat down, unhurried, as if the urgency of the imperial command had somehow dissolved along the way, each man taking his time to sip tea, flip through reports, and let half an hour drift by before anyone so much as mentioned the matter again.
Only then did Minister of War Chen Xinjia speak, as though remembering something trivial.
"Let us hold a meeting and discuss how best to recall Lu Xiangsheng."
Suggestions followed, each one sounding productive, each one ensuring that nothing would actually happen anytime soon.
"Submit a joint memorial," one said, "so that the governors outside may also agree."
"Request further discussion," another added, "regarding how to defend the passes after abandoning Ningyuan, and how to settle both soldiers and civilians."
Everything was framed as caution.
Everything was, in truth, delay.
Back and forth they went, consulting, reporting, asking for further instructions, turning a single decision into a maze with no exit.
A month passed like this.
By the end of it, even Emperor Chongzhen was exhausted by the sheer persistence of their inertia, forced to issue a direct decree to push things forward.
And still, the wrangling continued.
Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned his attention to Jizhen.
Jizhen, one of the nine great frontier garrisons, sat north of the capital, long responsible for holding back Mongol incursions and quietly balancing the power of the capital's own troops.
It had once been commanded by a figure of legend, Qi Jiguang, whose campaigns against the pirates had earned him lasting fame before he was reassigned to defend the northern frontier under the support of Zhang Juzheng and Tan Lun.
With that in mind, Emperor Chongzhen quickly ordered Tang Tong, the commander of Jizhen, to bring his forces to defend the capital.
Tang Tong arrived with eight thousand soldiers, encamping outside Qihua Gate.
The Emperor hosted a banquet in his honor, offering generous praise and rewards.
Tang Tong responded with all the expected loyalty.
"I am willing to give my life to serve, and ensure the swift destruction of the enemy."
The Emperor was pleased.
He rewarded Tang Tong with silver, and the soldiers as well.
And yet, despite the show of trust, unease lingered.
Eight thousand troops stationed so close to the capital was not something he could fully relax about.
So he did what he believed to be a reasonable precaution.
He assigned a eunuch, Du Zhizhi, as a supervisory commissioner.
Tang Tong's reaction was immediate and explosive.
He threw the rewards to the ground, his anger no longer disguised.
"The Emperor honors me as a teacher, treats me as a noble, yet sends a palace eunuch to command over me. Am I to be considered inferior to a servant?"
Then, without waiting for approval, he submitted a memorial arguing that his forces were too few to face the rebels in open ground and that he should instead withdraw to Juyong Pass to hold a defensive position.
Before any reply could arrive, he had already packed up and left.
In the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Under normal circumstances, Emperor Chongzhen would have had his head.
Now, he could do nothing.
So the court returned to what it did best.
More wrangling.
At some point, the Emperor came to a simple conclusion.
The reason he lacked troops was not because there were none, but because there was no money.
With money, he could hire men.
With men, he could defend the capital.
So he issued a new order.
Nobles, eunuchs, and officials were to contribute funds, with thirty thousand taels set as the highest tier of contribution.
The response was unanimous in the worst possible way.
No one wanted to pay.
Left with no better option, the Emperor secretly instructed the palace eunuch Xu Gao to approach Zhou Kui, the father of Empress Zhou, asking him to set an example.
Zhou Kui, however, had no intention of parting with his wealth.
After a moment of thought, he came up with what he considered a clever solution.
He went to his daughter.
"My child," he said with practiced helplessness, "your husband asks me to contribute funds, but our family has none."
Empress Zhou clenched her teeth, forcing herself to accept the burden, and gathered five thousand taels from the inner palace to give to her father.
Zhou Kui accepted the money with great satisfaction.
Then, with even greater satisfaction, he quietly set aside two thousand for himself.
And presented the remaining three thousand to Emperor Chongzhen.