The northern hordes descended upon the small Imperial cities like a ravenous pack of wolves converging on sleeping cattle. Where stone walls were absent, torches sufficed. Where no garrison stood guard, a handful of knives was enough. And where the courage of the townsfolk faltered… fear alone was the weapon needed.
The lesser cities—Aoyun, Fengling, Nanshu—fell one after another. There were no noble stands, no epic last stands. Just a few brutal days of looting, wailing cries, and rivers of blood. Doors were torched, imperial archives burned to ash. Granaries were emptied, warehouses ransacked, sacred temples razed and replaced with bone-totems. Local elites, once the pride of their communities, were dragged through the streets—either executed or bound as slaves before the horrified eyes of their own people.
And when nothing remained to plunder, no living souls to fill their bellies or vaults, the barbarians moved on—leaving behind nothing but smoldering ruins and blackened wooden crosses marking their passage.
The spoils—grain, silver, tools, weapons, fabrics, manuscripts, livestock, even children—were loaded onto hundreds of creaking carts. Under the watch of armed escorts, these caravans set off northward, tracing roads carved open by fire and iron. One by one, they climbed toward the vast northern steppes—the birthplace of a new banner.
High in the northern uplands, beyond the edge of any Imperial map, awaited the Khan.
Tall and weathered, his face etched by sun and frost, his beard interwoven with the bones of fallen foes, the Khan gazed across the horizon from his throne—a bison-hide seat atop a holy hill overlooking his people's valley.
Around him, tribal leaders had assembled. Some were drawn by the promise of gold. Others by the thirst for vengeance. A few had come simply to survive beneath the shelter of his rising power. And witnessing wealth flow southward, their doubts dwindled.
This was no mere raid. It was a purposeful migration. A rebirth of their tribal identity.
That night, within the grand war-tent of counsel, the Khan convened his closest advisers. The air was thick with the scent of smoked meat, old hide, and dried blood. Torches flickered, illuminating a map stretched across a wooden table—it marked fallen Imperial towns, crossed rivers, and open routes carved by swift horsemen.
Then, his most trusted counselor—a wizened figure with a serpentine voice and sly gaze—stepped forward.
"Great Khan," he began, bowing his head slightly, "our victories are undeniable. The Empire has failed to stop us, and the winds themselves ride on our banner. Yet… the storm will not rage forever."
The Khan uttered nothing but held his gaze steady. Encouraged, the elder continued:
"We have plundered villages and kindled fires, but vengeance will come. Luo Wen is not weak. Once he settles the south, his armies will turn their eyes northward."
Some tribal captains grunted in guarded approval at this warning. Still, the Khan remained silent, absorbing every word.
"That is why," the counselor went on, "we must not leave only scorched earth. We must establish a living bulwark. A buffer. A wedge."
A hushed question came: "What do you propose?"
"A puppet kingdom—a buffer state between the Empire's heartlands and our tribes," the counselor stated. "One ruled by an ally faithful to you, the Khan. With local aristocrats sworn to our cause. It appears Imperial… but it isn't. It speaks their tongue… but worships our gods."
The Khan's eyes narrowed.
"To what end?" he asked tersely.
"To buy us time," the counselor replied. "When the Empire strikes back, it will first target that puppet. Not our tribes. If it falls—it bleeds for us. If it stands—it grants us years. Years to fortify our villages, our forges, our children."
Moments of silence followed—the crackle of torches the only sound.
Then, the Khan's lips curved into a deliberate smile.
"Do you have someone in mind?"
"In Fengling," the counselor said, "we took a minor governor. Young, fearful. Yet he descends from nobility. We will gift him gold, women, a throne… and a rope. Should he flee, we will slaughter him. Should he obey… he will be the face veiling our fist."
Silence enveloped the tent again. Then the Khan inclined his head.
"Do it."
Thus, while the Empire still reeled and plotted its counterstrike, the barbarians did more than pillage.
They began to build.
A false kingdom. A shield of flesh and loose promises. A trap draped in borrowed banners.
For them, this was not the end of war.
It was the beginning.