The full moon hung high above the barbarian encampment, casting its cold, watchful glow over the sleeping prairies like the unblinking eye of an ancient god. Beneath that pale light, the leather tents shimmered faintly, and the tethered horses shifted nervously, their ears twitching at the lingering scent of blood and smoke that still clung to the air like an invisible shroud.
Here and there, scattered torch flames flickered like dying embers across the hilltop camps, casting long, dancing shadows on the grassy slopes. At the center of it all, perched atop a natural rise that overlooked the battlefield below, stood a larger pavilion — stitched from hides, adorned with hanging skulls, totems, and the crimson banners of conquest. It was the tent of the Khan.
The northern warlord sat cross-legged upon a thick rug woven with tribal patterns, his armor half-removed, his eyes steady and sharp as he stared into the distance. From his vantage point, the imperial camp was plain to see — a sprawling city of tents, ramparts, and trenches wrapped tightly around the blackened walls of Baiyuan. It looked like a coiled serpent, powerful yet unmoving.
But to the Khan's eyes, it wasn't strength he saw.
It was fatigue. The exhaustion of men who had marched too far, fought too fast, and now had nothing left but their stubbornness.
"They no longer have the heart to resist us," the Khan said finally, his voice low, deliberate, like a blade being drawn across stone. "They have rage. But rage burns fast. Hatred flares brightly… and then dies."
His words floated through the tent's thick, smoke-scented air, carried on the bitter aroma of charred fat and oiled leather.
One of his generals — a tall man with a tattooed face and braided beard — nodded in agreement, his expression calm and assured.
"They advanced swiftly," he said. "But now they stumble. Their scouts ride with fear. Their supply trains shrink with each passing day. And each night we strike, we bleed them just a little more."
The Khan narrowed his eyes.
"And with every blow, whether it fells them or not, we tear at their soul. This war won't be won in a glorious charge, with banners flying and trumpets blaring. No. It will be won in the slow, creeping shadow we cast over them. They don't need to fall… they only need to break inside."
There was a brief silence. Then, one of the emissaries from the puppet empire — a man once an imperial bureaucrat, now dressed in robes of red embroidered with the black claw — spoke carefully, his voice polished and precise:
"Inside Baiyuan, recruitment continues. More peasants swear loyalty every day. The granaries are full. The outer walls have been reinforced with stone and steel. If they do not launch a full assault soon… it will be too late for them."
"They won't," the Khan replied, his tone carrying a calm certainty that settled over the tent like dust. "Not while our riders nip at their heels. Not while every step forward costs them more than they can bear. All we must do… is keep up the pressure. Keep the wound open."
He gestured toward the large map stretched across the floor before him — a map of the region, marked with black stones indicating the location of his cavalry, while small carved wooden figures represented the scattered formations of Shen Ruolin's army. One larger piece, adorned with a red feather, stood for the general himself.
"Look here," the Khan said, pointing with a calloused finger to the long southern supply routes that trailed from the imperial heartlands like fragile veins. "Yes, his army is large. But not trained for a prolonged war. It's built from peasants, conscripts, hastily assembled levies. They believe they can march and destroy, like in the stories. But war isn't just steel and shouts."
His voice dropped into a more somber, heavier register.
"War is fatigue. And in that war… they've already lost."
A soft laugh came from one of the cavalry captains seated near the edge of the tent.
"And what if Shen Ruolin goes mad and orders a full assault?"
The Khan looked at him — not angrily, but with a quiet smile that chilled more than any threat.
"Then he dies before he touches the city walls," he answered. "Our ambushes, our arrows, our horses will shred his lines before they form. And if, by some miracle, he reaches Baiyuan… he'll find no quick victory. He'll find a fortress. Give it a few more weeks. That fire in their eyes? It will flicker. Turn to doubt. Doubt to desertion. And then..."
He leaned forward, placing both hands firmly on his knees, eyes burning beneath the heavy brow.
"…then we'll snap their line like a dry bone."
Silence fell once more.
Outside, only the distant howling of wind across the empty plains, the restless snorts of warhorses, and the crackling of nearby fires dared to break the stillness.
The Khan's confidence wasn't born of arrogance. It was the cold arithmetic of a hunter who knew his prey was already limping. All he had to do now was wait for the fall.
Wait for hunger to settle in their bellies.
Wait for despair to whisper in their ears.
Wait for time to do what no sword could.
And in the shadow of that waiting… the night closed in, thicker than ever, over the plains of the north.
And with it, came the first true signs of imperial fatigue.