The air, clean and vast, carried the scent of tall, sun-baked grasses and the distant, familiar musk of horse herds. For days, since pushing deep into the steppes, the heartland of the Huna, our scouting parties had returned with increasingly clear reports: not just Huna camps, but signs of other tribal movements converging on the wide, open plains ahead.
The sun beat down on the vast Huna encampment, a sprawling city of felt yurts and bustling horse lines that stretched across the steppe. The air shimmered with heat, vibrating with the distant lowing of cattle and the shouts of men, a testament to the might of the Huna. Temurcin and Temurel rode at the head of our smaller delegation, the rhythmic thud of hooves against the earth the only sound beyond the dry wind.
We were ushered towards the largest, most ornate yurt, its banners emblazoned with the soaring hawk, symbol of the Huna Leader. Anticipation, and a measure of caution, ran through their ranks. We expected to meet the Great Leader himself, a grizzled veteran of countless campaigns.
As we dismounted, a young man emerged from the royal yurt, flanked by an honor guard. He was tall, powerfully built, with eyes that held an unnerving intensity for one so young. His movements were fluid, predatory. Temurel's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, this was not the Confederation Leader.
"Greetings, honored lords of the Tagh Boru," the young man's voice cut through the hot air, clear and resonant. He bowed shallowly, a gesture that spoke more of command than deference. "I, Baghatur, son of the Great Leader, welcome you all."
Temurel stepped forward, his posture rigid. "We came expecting Tumen the Great Leader himself. Where is your esteemed father?"
Baghatur's face clouded with a practiced sorrow. "My father, regrettably, has been struck by a sudden and severe illness." His gaze swept over them, lingering briefly on me, then Temurcin. "His spirit is strong, but his body falters. He wishes me to extend his deepest regrets for his absence, and to assure you that his heart remains with the alliance." His hand rested briefly on his chest, a gesture of filial piety that felt almost too perfect.
I exchanged a quick, silent glance with Temurcin. The speed of the illness, the suddenness of this young man's ascendancy to the forefront – it stirred a faint disquiet. Temurcin, ever perceptive, noted the absence of truly deep sorrow in Baghatur's eyes, replaced instead by a cold, calculating fire. Temurel, however, was a diplomat of the old ways; protocol demanded acceptance.
"We are saddened to hear of the Great Leader's ill health," Temurel replied, his voice carefully neutral. "We pray for his swift recovery. It is an honor, nonetheless, to meet you, Baghatur."
Baghatur offered a thin, almost imperceptible smile. "The honor is mine, the Iron Hand. My father, in his wisdom, foresaw this very meeting. He charges me with conveying his earnest desire for cooperation, to bring all the steppe tribes together against a common enemy. The Loop, a land of ancient pastures and vital trade routes, remains under the rule of the Wall People. News about the death of their Emperor and his greatest general has reached us. So my father and I believe it is time to reclaim what is rightfully ours. And we wish the mighty Tagh Boru to ride with us."
He gestured towards the interior of the yurt, the invitation hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken ambition. I felt a chill unrelated to the steppe breeze. This young hawk was already eyeing far more than just the Loop.
After the warriors of the Confederation reach the base and take a rest, we continue our journey south to the Southern Desert. People often think of deserts as endless seas of sand, but here is not the desert you imagine. Forget the endless, scorching sands most tales tell of. Instead, picture a vast, ancient land of stone and sky, a sacred expanse where the earth's bones lie exposed, eternally watched by the Great Blue Sky.
This is a cold desert, its soul forged in extremes, much like the spirit of those who call it home. While other deserts bake under relentless heat, this desert knows both searing summers and winters so bitter they freeze the very air, a testament to the harsh will of nature. Here, the wind carries not just sand, but the memory of distant snows, whispering across endless plains of rock and gravel, each gust a breath from the very heart of the land.
It is a place where life clings on with fierce determination, its roots grasping deeply into the sparse, hardy soil – a profound resilience echoed in the tribes who have traversed its vastness for generations. Its barrenness isn't a void, but a powerful emptiness that teaches endurance and strength. Western part of the Southern Desert stands apart from its warmer, sandier kin, embodying a unique kind of raw, elemental power, a stark and vital fragment of the world.
The air thickened, growing heavy with the scent of dust and distant water as the Huna Confederation warriors, led by Baghatur, finally approached the Loop. The vast, monotonous stretches of grassland had slowly given way to a landscape subtly scarred by the passage of countless hooves and the whispers of a drier wind. Days had blurred into a relentless rhythm of travel, each horizon promising the elusive bend of the Great River.
Then, abruptly, the land began to change. The ground underfoot grew coarser, patches of gravel and scraggly brush interrupting the last vestiges of unbroken steppe. Ahead, the low, dark line of the Shadow Mountains emerged, a formidable guardian separating the true steppe from the contested lands of the Loop. The warriors, weary but resolute, pushed through the mountain passes, the air growing colder in the shadowed defiles, the silence broken only by the creak of leather and the snorts of their horses.
As they emerged from the final pass, the land opened up once more, but it was different. Not the boundless, endless green of their northern home, but a more complex, mottled terrain. Patches of short, tough grass gave way to stretches of reddish earth, and in the distance, a faint, yellowish haze hung in the air—the signature of true desert, which bordered the Loop.
And then, there it was. A shimmering, curving ribbon of ochre and dull gold in the vast distance: the Great River. Its wide, slow bend defined the region, giving the Loop its name. The sight sent a sound through the ranks – not just of weary relief, but of fierce determination. This was the land they had come to reclaim, a vital artery of life in a harsher landscape, a strategic prize contested for generations.
The initial camps were hastily erected on a rise overlooking a segment of the river, where the meager pastures seemed richer. As we looked out over the vast, curving expanse, we saw signs of recent activity: faint trails, the old campfires, and in the distance, the faint gleam of standards that were not their own. The Loop might be within their grasp, but it was clear the fight to truly hold it had only just begun. Baghatur's forces, or others, were already here, staking their claim on the land.
The scent of dust and victory hung heavy on the wind as Baghatur, led his vast horde into the Loop. This was not a battle, not in the way the bards would sing of clashing lines and heroic stands. This was a reclamation, a tide of retribution washing over lands long unjustly held. The weakened remnants of the Qin, stripped of their great general, had scattered like dry leaves before a gale, their watchtowers crumbling, their garrisons abandoned or easily overwhelmed.
The Tagh Boru warriors led by Temurel, moved with the stealth of wolves hidden in the morning mist, bypassing larger, more fortified positions that were already crumbling under the sheer weight of Baghatur's advancing tide.
"No fires. No sentries on the outer wall," whispered a scout, his breath pluming in the cool air. "Only four in the tower, and two by the gate."
Temurel nodded, his eyes sharp as a hawk's, dissecting the scene. This was not a fortress, but a forgotten outpost, manned by conscripts whose spirit had long fled with their general.
"Kirisen," Temurel murmured, barely audible. "Two archers for the gate guards. Then we'll deal with the rest."
I notched an arrow, my gaze fixed on the targets, aiming for a kill. Two arrows hissed through the air, breaking the silence, and the gate guards crumpled. Temurel and Temurcin led their men, moving into the outpost like shadows. As others drew their short bows, the two archers in the tower, silhouetted against the weak dawn, became easy targets. Arrows flew, and they fell, barely a cry escaping their lips.
The gate creaking open, revealed the desolate interior. No battle, no glory. Just the quiet fall of a forgotten Qin outpost, another piece of the Loop slipping back into the steppe's embrace. I felt no elation, only a grim satisfaction. This was the work. This was the reclamation.
Baghatur, astride his black warhorse, surveyed the familiar, curving bend of the Great River, its muddy waters churning a silent testimony to the eons. This was the territory that his ancestors had taken from the Western Tribes. Now, after generation of bitter exile. The Tribes forged into a single terrifying weapon under Baghatur's absolute will, had returned.
The ground beneath their hooves was rougher here than the endless, pure grasslands of the northern steppe, already bearing the scars of past conflict. To the south, the distant, shimmering haze of the desert, the vast, dry reaches that bordered the Loop, seemed to stretch like a hungry ghost. Yet, even as victory settled in, a subtle unease gnawed at us.
Baghatur had come here for power, for control, for the tangible strength of this vital trade route and these pastures. He had seized the land, but the spirit of the land felt… different. He looked at the empty spaces where Qin structures once stood, the land open and waiting. His victory was complete, the Loop firmly back in Huna hands. Yet, the air itself seemed to hold a breath, waiting.
The wind that swept across the reclaimed Loop carried the acrid scent of old smoke and the tang of fresh ambition. Baghatur stood before the assembled chiefs and warriors of the Confederation, not atop a captured Qin fortress, but on a rise overlooking the vast, newly re-opened pastures. His black warhorse, its breath pluming in the cool air, seemed an extension of his grim authority. Around him, the banners of the Huna rippled in the wind like a soaring hawk.
He let the silence stretch, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the Altin, the Zaravani, and a dozen other tribes who had joined his mighty push. They had seen his power in the swift, brutal reclamation of this land. They had seen the Qin scatter like frightened mice. Now, they waited, their expressions a mix of awe, apprehension, and a lingering, unspoken question.
Then, Baghatur spoke, his voice cutting through the wind, each word a stone falling onto hard ground. "The Loop is ours again. The Wall People are broken. You fought well, and the land is rich for the taking."
He paused, letting the mutter of satisfaction rise, then crushed them with a single, sharp gesture. His eyes, cold and unyielding, fixed on the chieftains.
"But this victory has a price, a deeper one than the blood shed in skirmishes." His voice dropped, yet it seemed to grow in power, reaching every man. "My father, Tumen clung to weakness. He lost this land then refused to retake it. He also lost to the Yuezhi and left me for dead. He stood between us and our destiny. He was a reason the Wall People were able to harass us relentlessly. So I cast him aside."
A collective gasp rippled through the ranks. Patricide – a crime against the very fabric of many steppe traditions, against the reverence for ancestors. Even among these hardened warriors, a tremor of shock passed.
"My stepmother, a viper in my camp and her foolish son, who would have split our strength," Baghatur continued, his voice devoid of emotion, "they too met their end. Swift and clean."
A low murmur, like the growl of a distant storm, swept through the crowd. Many of the chieftains knew these names, knew the old loyalties, the subtle currents of power that had been. Now, they were gone.
Baghatur let them stew in the chilling revelation for a moment, then delivered the final, crushing blow. "There were others. Those within my own tribe who clung to Tumen's ghost, who would have betrayed our purpose, who questioned my rightful leadership." His gaze bore into a small cluster of warriors from the far side of the Huna contingent, their faces now ashen. "They were cut down. Their treachery exposed. Their blood cleanses our ranks."
The men he spoke of, a few grizzled veterans and their kin, swayed, some falling to their knees, blood beginning to stain the dust around them from wounds none had seen delivered. The swiftness, the ruthlessness, the sheer audacity of it all – it was a public execution, a demonstration of power utterly without parallel. There was no trial, no negotiation, no mercy.
"Look around you," Baghatur thundered, his arm sweeping across the vast expanse of the reclaimed land. "This is what strength reclaims. This is what unity creates. I am the Leader now. I am the voice of the Eternal Blue Sky on this earth, chosen by the Gods to lead us to glory."
His voice boomed, echoing across the plains. "There is no turning back. No questioning. The old ways are dead. Only my authority remains."
He drew his great sword, the steel flashing in the setting sun, and plunged its tip into the rich soil.
"You have seen my will. You have seen my power. Now, you have a choice. Accept my authority, and prosper under the banner of the unified Huna. Or die, clinging to the shadows of the past."
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the distant, nervous whinny of a horse. The chieftains, their faces pale, looked at each other, then back at the man who had just shown them the true cost of leadership, and the terrifying price of dissent. The Loop was retaken, but a new, chilling order had descended upon the steppe.
"Do you expect us to accept your authority after you murder your own? We, the Mountain Tribes, will never accept you, Baghatur!" shouted the Chief of one of our elder clans. Suddenly, an arrow streaked forth and killed him.
"Defend yourselves and fight!" Temurel yelled, then looked at me. "Please help us all, Great Sky Wolf!"
He asked because most of our warriors had left their weapons and gear with our horses. Consequently, most of us had only a knife, leaving us essentially unarmed.
I unsheathed my only weapon that could offer any defense against their arrows—my custom sword. I shielded Temurel and Temurcin then yelled, "To the horses! Anyone with a weapon protect the others!"
Most of the Left Wing, Zaravani and other northern tribes followed Temurel's lead. In the north, they still upheld the tradition: Killing your own father is nothing but a violation against the very core of their beliefs. This was also the sentiment of other tribes that accepted Baghatur's rule out of fear.
I warded off arrows alongside others who had swords, while Temurel led us to the side of the fortress, moving toward our horses at the rear. I never thought I would have the opportunity to test my reaction times by deflecting and cutting arrows like this.
Now I know for sure that I am no longer an average human. My engineer has broken all the limits in my body—I've become truly ambidextrous, with superior reflexes. I tested my body with some fancy acrobatic movements that I couldn't even imagine performing before.
"Everyone, go and help them. I will stall them myself," I told the others while thinking. Then I tested my flying needle's range by throwing it at Baghatur. He blocked it with his sword, I could see the needle stuck in his blade. "I challenge you to a duel, Baghatur!"
"Why must I fight a god? Why do you interfere in the affairs of us humans, Sky Wolf?" Baghatur demanded.
"So, the descendant of the Eternal Blue Sky still remembers the Gods?" I replied, my voice sharp. "Then why did you murder your own father, you bastard!"
"I couldn't let him live any longer. We need a strong leader," Baghatur snapped. Then he shouted to his men, "Don't stop! Attack him!"
The warriors rushed in, trying to attack me. I attacked them through gaps in their armor while jumping, spinning, and flipping. Many couldn't move or attack anymore, some were dying. Bodies piled up, almost like a wall. For a moment, I was lost in it. Am I satisfied by this? Is this satisfaction? I had to snap out of it.
"I offer you a deal," I yelled, cutting through Huna warriors with graceful, deadly strikes. "Let us go, or your Confederation will be no more!"
Baghatur hesitated, calculating the possible outcomes. Finally, he relented. "I accept your offer, Sky Wolf. Please… stop killing my warriors."
"Very well," I said, lowering my weapon. "But remember this—if you seek battle again. I, the Eternal Blue Sky—your ancestor—will be waiting in the north!"
I was bluffing, but just then a bolt of thunder struck the ground nearby, as if the Great Blue Sky himself backed my words.