The deep north stretched out before them like an endless sea of grass, rippling beneath a merciless wind that knew no rest, no warmth, and no mercy. There were no marked roads, no bustling villages of the empire, no proud fortresses or lonely watchtowers to guide them — only gently rolling hills and wide, open plains that seemed to whisper forgotten names with every gust. Now and then, in the far distance, a lonely pillar of smoke curled into the sky, pointing upward like an accusing finger toward the indifferent heavens.
This was barbarian land.
This was the realm of the Khan's riders — nomads who knew every shadow of every hill, whose horses had carved paths into the earth generations before any imperial scout dared to cross these borders.
And there, amid the rustle of the wind and the creaking of saddle leather, the imperial spear advanced. It was not just a column of riders — it was a blade, unsheathed and gleaming, slicing through the tall grasses with purpose.
Fifty thousand cavalrymen rode under the banner of Luo Wen. Veterans of civil wars, survivors of the savage campaigns in the south and the desperate defenses in the east, they moved like a wave — swift, lean, and silent. There were no slow baggage trains behind them, no heavy wagons groaning with luxuries. They carried only blankets, dried rations, whetstones, arrows, and steel honed to a razor's edge. They were not meant to occupy. They were not meant to rebuild. This was a force built for speed. For annihilation. For killing and vanishing like smoke on the wind.
But in this ocean of boundless prairie, even the lightest step could leave a trail deep enough to betray them.
"We are not facing an army," Luo Wen had told his officers before they set out. His voice then had been quiet, but firm, etched with certainty. "We are facing an ecosystem — a living network of clans, herdsmen, and mounted messengers. If even one escapes… if a single voice rises to warn the rest of our approach… this campaign is lost before it even begins."
And so, every movement was measured with the precision of a surgeon's cut. Every deviation was weighed, debated, and calculated. Scouts swept far ahead, to the east and west, combing the terrain in widening circles like falcons hunting prey. Whenever smoke was sighted, the entire army came to a halt. No torches. No banners. Detachments of riders split from the main body like shadows and encircled the source in silence.
The orders were always the same. No witnesses. None.
The soldiers never questioned them. They did not complain. But each night, as campfires flickered under the vast starless sky, the silence grew heavier. It pressed down on their shoulders like armor made of guilt.
The settlements they found were simple, primitive — clusters of huts made from mud or horsehide, pens of goats, small patches of barley swaying weakly in the wind. Men, women, and children who spoke unfamiliar tongues, whose eyes had perhaps never seen the glint of imperial steel… and yet, by their very existence, they were deemed a threat. A risk. A whisper too dangerous to leave behind.
And so they were silenced.
"This isn't a war of honor," Luo Wen whispered to his second-in-command one evening, his voice barely audible beneath the snapping wind. "It's a war to uproot the tree before it grows. If I fail here… there will be another war. Then another. And another still."
Their path through the north was not barren because of the land. It was barren because of the mission. The cavalry rode fast, but left nothing in their wake. No outposts. No reinforcements. No rebuilding. Only smoke. Only ash.
After a week, their maps became worthless. The known landmarks ended, and the vast unknown swallowed the rest. Luo Wen began relying on fragments — old tales compiled by imperial scouts decades ago, hints of migratory routes, sacred gathering places, tribal trading posts. He knew he couldn't eliminate every tribe. That was impossible.
But if he found the barbarian capital — if he struck at the beating heart — he could send a tremor through the north so powerful that it would echo for generations.
The problem was, that heart had no walls. It did not rise from the earth like an imperial city with gates and towers. It moved. It adapted. It was protected not by fortifications, but by the sheer emptiness around it — by space, by silence, by the knowledge that no one knew where to look.
One night, beneath the quiet shelter of a lonesome hill, Luo Wen gathered his captains beneath the open sky.
"We strike only when we are certain no one can escape," he said, his finger pressing against a worn patch of leather where three small stones had been placed — markers of suspected settlements. "No child. No elder. No voice must be left to cry out. If even one survives… all this will have been for nothing."
A younger officer, his face pale but resolute, raised his hand and asked:
"And if we find the capital, sir?"
Luo Wen paused. His eyes wandered to the dark horizon. Then he replied:
"Then we do not camp. We do not send diplomats. We do not build siege engines or dig trenches. We strike once. One charge. Furious. Final. And if Heaven favors us…"
He let the silence speak the rest.
The captains nodded. Not with excitement. But with the weary acceptance of men who had walked into the jaws of history, knowing it might close at any moment.
At dawn, they rode again. Hooves crunched the frostbitten grass. Ravens took flight from the ruins of extinguished villages. And above them, the thick clouds dragged slowly across the sky — heavy with secrets, swollen with snow, as though they alone carried the answer Luo Wen sought.
The barbarian capital was out there.
And he had sworn he would find it — even if it meant draining every corner of the northern plains of voice, of memory, and of whisper.
For in this war… only silence could guarantee victory.