“We cannot abandon our duties. We are professional fighters, and we must resist the emperor to the very end.” The professional cockfighting squad—the Ming civil official group—spat as they spoke.

“These idiots, I could crush them with two fingers. Leave them to me. You all just focus on fighting the external enemies.” With high morale and a fighting spirit that soared to the heavens, the Ming Emperor said this to the military group, who could only respond with exasperated expressions.

He is the most accomplished monarch of our Great Ming Empire, an emperor whose achievements outshine countless rulers of China. Without him, there would be no such powerful and magnificent Ming Empire. This is what the teachers told their students.

“Although he tried his utmost to conceal the truth of history, to beautify and whitewash those bloody scenes, time will eventually tear off his mask of disguise and reveal his true face. He was an evil dictator, and even more so, a terrifying thinker, orator, and politician who understood the weaknesses of human nature. Under his sway, the ancient civilization that had endured for thousands of years with virtue, sincerity, and the moral standards of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness, was transformed into a fearsome empire that knew nothing of mercy or shame, that saw only naked national and imperial interests, and was filled with aggression and hostility...”

Chapter One: A Tragically Timed Transmigration...

Dusk was approaching. Wisps of smoke from the battlefield painted strange, ominous clouds across the sky. The endless sounds of slaughter seemed to pierce the heavens. The once yellow-green land was now stained with blood, as if the very sky and the setting sun had been dyed red.

Exhausted, Henry Clark plopped down onto a rock protruding from the grassy knoll, gasping for breath. The gray-black cloak on his body was already soaked with blood. The stench of blood reminded him of the slaughterhouses he had once seen. At this moment, this pampered body felt like a leaky bellows, making Henry Clark feel like a defeated dog, chased and fleeing in disgrace, struggling just to survive.

His clothes were already drenched in sweat, and the gray-black cloak draped over him was splattered with blood—some from the Mongols who tried to kill him, some from the guards who fought to protect him. At this point, Henry Clark could no longer tell how much of the blood on this ordinary cloak belonged to strangers.

Beside him stood a burly general, towering and fierce-faced, looking as menacing as a demon from hell. In his hand was no longer his original iron hammer, but a spiked mace seized from an enemy general he had just slain. Who knows how many lives and how much flesh and blood had stained this mace—it was impossible to tell its original color. The spikes were still adorned with scraps of cloth, flesh, and congealed blood, making it clear just how many enemies this general had killed with his bare hands.

His face was etched with exhaustion, but his bloodshot, copper-bell eyes still scanned the surroundings warily, as if ready to pounce and destroy any opponent at a moment’s notice.

Nearby, a eunuch lay sprawled on the grass, struggling to catch his breath. Scattered around the knoll were only seven or eight blood-soaked, wounded guards with swords at their sides.

From the small group of hundreds that had fled the main camp, only this inconspicuous squad of less than ten remained. Henry Clark's heart was filled with grief and an indescribable sorrow.

Just yesterday, he had been an ordinary 21st-century man, carrying a backpack and standing at the approximate site of Tumu Fortress’s ruins, gazing at the barely discernible remains buried under the yellow earth, reflecting on the earth-shattering battle that had taken place five or six centuries ago.

Who could have imagined that a simple, seemingly harmless misstep would send him tumbling into the very era that made this ancient battlefield famous? The scattered memories left by this body quickly made him realize that he had become the second unluckiest person in the Ming Dynasty after the ill-fated Emperor Hui—George Washington.

Moreover, he hadn’t even had time to sit on the makeshift dragon throne and play the part of His Majesty before a string of bad news left him utterly stunned.

The old minister William Bolton, a renowned general who had swept through Annam and served four emperors, had died in battle.

Prince Consort Samuel Wells was dead. Minister of Revenue Edward Harris was dead. Minister of War Brian Kent, vice ministers, cabinet members... The news of the deaths of so many high-ranking Ming officials left him completely dumbfounded.

Before he could even lament his terrible timing in transmigrating, he saw the burly general behind him, wielding a massive hammer wrapped in red and white, charge into the tent. With a flash of black, the head of an old eunuch standing beside him was smashed like a coconut, his body collapsing and twitching on the red carpet. The general then laughed wildly in front of him: “Charles Harris, Charles Harris, you ball-less traitor, your day has finally come. Heaven itself has allowed me to rid the world of this villain...”