The chaotic and tumultuous history at the end of the Ming Dynasty can be said to be a period written by individuals with powerful personal charisma.

Whether it was Li Zicheng or Zhang Xianzhong, those rebels, or Chongzhen and Yuan Chonghuan, those in power, or Wu Sangui and Geng Jingzhong, those traitors—each person had many stories. It is precisely because of these fascinating stories that the history of the late Ming became grand and magnificent, full of ups and downs.

To write this period of history well, one must naturally portray vivid, living characters. No matter their stance, as we stand on the edge of the long river of history and observe, they are but a wave in this river.

Looking at the world with a cold eye is what we need to do right now; looking at history with a cold eye is also a pursuit in our current lives.

The long river of history has already flowed to our feet. We can well stand by the riverbank, ready to welcome our own history.

☆, Prologue

A prosperous age or a chaotic one—there is no difference to an ambitious man...

At least, to someone like Edward Clark, there is no difference!

In times of peace, he indulges in wine and revelry, enjoying all the riches and honor!

In times of chaos, he still has one sumptuous feast of flesh and blood after another!

Only, the wine in his cup and the feast on his plate have turned into blood and tears, bitterness and sorrow. After drinking it all in one gulp, he transforms into a vulture, spreading his wings atop standing bones, flapping up ashes that become a thick, cold mist that cannot be blown away by the wind.

A hero?

Perhaps. He grew weary of the chaos, so he ended it—not out of compassion for the suffering of the world, but because he longed for another kind of pleasure!

A tyrant?

That’s not wrong either. Those heroes who rose from the wilds have the most say in this—only, they are all dead. Even if you gently tap their remains, you can still hear the clash of metal, but their souls have flown away, their bodies have rotted, and in the mouths once used for speech, only maggots now writhe—no longer able to judge!

I say—Edward Clark is a baffling man. He fulfilled all people’s fantasies about heroes and tyrants, and also fulfilled all the best hopes people have for a son, an elder brother, and a husband.

Only—his heart is cold, a piece of cold iron wrapped in flames. Even if the sun explodes, thunder strikes, volcanoes erupt, and lava flows, nothing can warm him in the slightest!

Empress of the Ming World—Grace Miller

☆, Character Sketch No. 1

The Eight Great Bandits—William Thompson

William Thompson pulled the knife from Scholar Ai’s chest, then gently pushed the terrified Scholar Ai, watching as blood gushed from his chest and he collapsed limply to the ground. With a soft sigh, he said, “Even Grandpa doesn’t know what bad luck I’ve had. In two years, I’ve killed two scholars. Next, I have to kill that dog official Yan Zibin. Looks like Grandpa’s fate just doesn’t match with this Ming Dynasty.”

His nephew Henry Thompson led over the donkey that Scholar Ai had ridden, spat on the twitching Scholar Ai lying on the ground, and said, “Serves you right, you bastard. Uncle only owed him half a string of cash, it’s not like he wasn’t going to pay it back. Did he really have to report to the authorities and have you arrested and paraded through the streets?

He deserves to be eaten by wild dogs.”

William Thompson sighed and said, “I really didn’t want to kill him, but the bastard pushed me too far. Well, what’s done is done. The sooner he dies, the sooner he’s reborn. Grandpa has done a good deed.”

As he spoke, William Thompson squatted in front of Scholar Ai’s corpse, fished out two taels of loose silver and a dozen big coins from his money pouch, and casually tossed them to Henry Thompson, saying, “Take this money and buy some medicine for your mother. Her cough is getting worse.”

Henry Thompson took the money with a smile, pulled out a half-foot-long dagger from his waist, and was about to kill the donkey.

William Thompson raised his hand to stop his nephew and said, “Don’t kill it here. Go to the riverbank. Leave me a leg for your aunt to enjoy.”

The uncle and nephew first placed Scholar Ai’s corpse on the donkey’s back, found a gully to dump it in, then toppled a section of yellow earth hillside to bury the body. After that, they followed the gully to the Yin Chuan River.

After killing the donkey, the two saw that it was getting late, so they roasted donkey meat and drank wine in the wilderness, enduring the night until dawn, and then slowly made their way back to the Yin Chuan post station.

Yin Chuan post station was remote. Even though it was already morning, not a single rooster crow could be heard. William Thompson carried a donkey leg, opened his own firewood gate, tiptoed inside, and was just about to call for his wife when he suddenly heard a man’s voice from inside the house. He immediately stopped in his tracks, and his smiling face was instantly covered in frost.

He couldn’t make out what the people inside were saying. William Thompson paused for a moment, then decisively turned and went to Henry Thompson’s house.

Henry Thompson’s house was right across from his. Entering, he saw Henry Thompson serving his old mother the roasted donkey meat from last night.

“Don’t let your sister-in-law eat too much at once. She’s been hungry for a long time. Tear it into small pieces and eat it with thin porridge, or it’ll upset her stomach.”

After entering, William Thompson tossed the donkey leg he was carrying onto the earthen platform, sat cheerfully on the kang, and took over from Henry Thompson, tearing the cooked donkey meat into small pieces to feed to his sister-in-law, who was more than ten years older than him.

Madam Li ate a couple of bites and said to William Thompson, “Your wife hasn’t eaten yet.”

William Thompson smiled and said, “She’s already eaten.”