The northern wind howled through the summer night, dragging along the heat of July yet carrying a hint of ominous chill. In the Great Ming's northern expedition camp, the candlelight flickered inside the royal tent, casting an eerie glow on Zhu Zhanji's pale face, making him look as fragile as a paper effigy. He lay weakly on the bed, so frail that even moving a finger seemed like an impossible task. All he could hear were the hushed voices of imperial physicians, murmuring diagnoses like "burning out the last oil" and "end is near"—each word like a blunt knife slicing into his already failing body.
Zhu Zhanji? No. He was now Li Ming. A man from 600 years in the future—a modern schemer well-versed in history and full of cunning plots. Just a few days ago, he had been flipping through volumes of Ming History in a library. The next moment, a blinding pain struck him, and when he awoke, he had become the terminally ill Zhu Zhanji. That soul-tearing agony still sent chills down his spine whenever he recalled it.
He struggled to open his eyes but could only catch a blurry glimpse of the canopy above. On his chest lay a warm, ancient jade that emitted a faint, cool aura, gently nourishing his dry and frail meridians. It was the first thing he noticed after waking in this alien era—his only link to his former life. That piece of jade was now his sole reliance, and the anchor for his future dominance.
"Your Highness! You must hang on!" a maid cried nearby, her wails tearing through the air like blades of sorrow, as if mourning his death in advance.
Li Ming let out a cold laugh deep within. Crown Prince? You mean Zhu Gaochi, that soon-to-die soft-hearted fool?
In his mind, the Super Library was operating at full capacity. Countless historical texts flooded in like a tidal wave, almost bursting his brain. The 22nd year of Yongle—Zhu Di was about to return from the northern expedition, gravely ill and near death. Zhu Gaochi, the Crown Prince, was to ascend the throne soon after—benevolent and honest, yet destined to die within ten months of reign. Then Zhu Zhanji, the Crown Grandson, would ascend the throne and become the Ming Emperor Xuanzong. On paper, it all seemed straightforward. But…
Then came the rebellion of that idiot Zhu Gaoxu, plunging the empire into civil unrest. Historically, Zhu Zhanji had indeed crushed the rebellion—but at a heavy price. Li Ming had no intention of repeating that bloodstained script.
"Be a tool of history? Let you all step on me to rise? Dream on."
Li Ming's gaze sharpened. Through his blurred vision, he could vaguely see layers of soldiers and tents outside. The sound of hooves and low murmurs of soldiers drifted in. The Northern Expedition had worn out the troops. Morale was shaky. Zhu Di—the Yongle Emperor—was dying. That fact was likely an open secret in the camp. Zhu Gaochi, that gentle but indecisive Crown Prince, was about to take power.
Time was not on his side. He had seven days to reshape this frail body—and make his move.
The jade on his chest suddenly warmed. A torrent of information surged into his brain. Crystal-clear texts and images poured in like a waterfall, carving themselves deep into his soul:
[Current Timeline: Yongle Year 22, July]
[Host Identity: Crown Grandson Zhu Zhanji]
[Current Crisis: Emperor Yongle critically ill; Crown Prince Zhu Gaochi to succeed. Historical path: Gaochi dies within a year, Zhu Gaoxu rebels, Ming falls into civil strife.]
[Suggested Action: Seize the throne. Forge a new dynasty. You are the chosen one.]
"Chosen one?" Li Ming's lips curled into a mocking sneer. Destiny isn't granted. It's taken. In his past life, he had mastered the art of dissecting historical texts, uncovering overlooked power struggles. He knew too well—so-called "mandate of heaven" was just the cloak the strong draped over themselves to justify conquest.
He barely lifted a finger—his body was undeniably weak. But within him, ambition and cunning coiled like a venomous serpent, ready to strike. His sickness was the perfect disguise. Who would guard against a dying Crown Grandson?
Just then, the tent flap lifted, and a gust of cold wind swept in. An elderly figure bent with age stepped in—it was Wang Zhen, the eunuch who had served Zhu Zhanji for years. Seeing Li Ming awake, his eyes reddened as he rushed forward, worry etched into his wrinkled face.
"Your Highness, you're awake! I shall inform the Crown Prince at once—this will bring him great relief!"
Li Ming struggled to focus on Wang Zhen. This man would one day become the infamous corrupter of court politics—the architect of the Tumu Crisis. But now, he was merely a loyal servant, almost foolishly so. A useful pawn—for now.
"No need." Li Ming's voice was hoarse and faint, yet carried an unshakable authority—like a whisper from the abyss, tinged with otherworldly might.
Wang Zhen froze, then dropped to his knees with a thud, tears streaming down his face. "What are your orders, Your Highness? As long as you recover, I would give my life without hesitation!"
Li Ming's gaze shifted toward the camp outside. The murmurs were growing louder—someone was moving urgently. Word of the emperor's health was spreading. The end was near.
He refocused on Wang Zhen, lowering his voice to a spine-chilling murmur: "Go. Secretly summon Qian Yi, Xia Yuanji, and… Yang Shiqi. Bring them to me. Now. Don't alert anyone. Especially… not the Crown Prince."
Each word struck like thunder in Wang Zhen's ears.
Wang Zhen's body trembled. His face turned ashen, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Qian Yi, Xia Yuanji, Yang Shiqi—these were the emperor's trusted grand councilors, pillars of the civil court! And the Crown Grandson, on his supposed deathbed, wanted to summon them in secret? Without notifying the Crown Prince?
This… this isn't just survival. This is… a power grab. A usurpation!
His voice quivered, "Your Highness… this cannot be! The Crown Prince…"
"Go!" A flash of ice lit Li Ming's eyes. Despite his sickly pallor, his tone turned razor-sharp. The veiled authority in his voice sent a chilling dread through Wang Zhen's spine—as if a great beast had awakened and was eyeing him for its next meal.
Wang Zhen shuddered violently, then scrambled out of the tent in terror, heart pounding as he rushed to fulfill the impossible task. He didn't know if he was doing the right thing—but the fear of that gaze left him no other choice.
Watching Wang Zhen's retreating figure, Li Ming slowly closed his eyes again. His body remained weak, but his thoughts surged like tidal waves—each plan steeped in ruthless precision.
Zhu Di… you planned to pass this empire to your soft-hearted son?
Zhu Gaochi… you thought your accession would earn obedience from all?
Zhu Gaoxu… you expected me to wait for your rebellion and clean it up like history says?
Naïve. All of you.
A cold smile curled on his lips—one tinged with that uniquely sly expression, like a fox about to raid the entire henhouse.
"This world… will soon become a very different place."
Outside the tent, the wind still howled. Somewhere in the camp, muffled cries and chaotic footsteps echoed in the darkness. The fire of the Yongle Emperor's life was flickering out. The future of the Ming dynasty now teetered on the edge.
And within that tent, a cunning emperor-to-be—one who would overturn not just a dynasty, but the entire world order—had bared his fangs for the very first time.
A storm was coming.