The Khan did not celebrate his victory.
The ambush at Kaoshui had been, by all accounts, a flawless success — a clean, devastating strike that shattered the tip of the imperial spear. Shen Ruolin's elite lay scattered among the frozen trees, their banners trampled, their armor scavenged by crows, their bodies left to stiffen in the cold earth. But the Khan did not return to the scene of triumph. He did not gloat, did not speak words of glory or offer songs of conquest. He gave only a single order — curt, sharp, and final:
"Move."
And so, his army moved on.
The northern plains lay ahead, vast and open like the spine of a sleeping beast, cloaked now in a breath of winter. The promise of shelter lay there — a place to regroup, to remember who they were — but even that promise seemed brittle, distant, like a mirage on the horizon. Because despite the blow dealt at Kaoshui, the Khan knew better than to think the war had ended. Shen Ruolin had withdrawn, yes. But Luo Wen — cold, calculating, and silent as the shadow of a blade across the throat — still remained out there.
That was why the march became a punishment.
Rest was a luxury they could no longer afford. The riders slept no more than a few hours each night, curled beside dying fires or atop saddles, their dreams haunted by arrows and steel. The supply caravans were stripped to the barest essentials. Wounded who could no longer ride were left behind with whispered prayers. Old horses were put down without ceremony. Campfires were extinguished before dawn, and the column left no tracks, no echoes, no voices beyond the wind.
Always, the Khan rode at the front — eyes fixed northward, jaw locked with resolve.
He understood now that victory could not be grasped through brute strength. The game had changed. This war could no longer be won. It could only be endured.
"When we reach the plains," he murmured one night to his closest general, "we will not be an army. We will be a memory. But a memory that bleeds is feared more than an empire that breathes."
The general said nothing. He merely dipped his head and spurred his horse onward.
Along the path, the clans still loyal to him grew restless. Tensions simmered beneath every whispered conversation. Some spoke of splitting away, of returning to their own lands, seeking forgotten trails and remote shelters. A few simply vanished into the wild. But the Khan did not stop them. He had no men to spare for punishment, no time to mend broken allegiances. He had only one purpose: to keep moving forward with whatever remained.
Each passing day was a coin tossed into the sky.
Sometimes the scouts returned with news — reports of imperial movement in the rear, signs of pursuers following the trail. Other times, they brought nothing at all. But the silence was worse. At every ridge, every bend in the trail, the tension stretched thin. Men waited for the whistle of arrows in the dark, the sudden cry of an enemy charge, the whisper of a hunter in the wind.
And yet… it never came.
That, more than anything, was what unsettled the Khan.
He knew Shen Ruolin no longer had the strength to press the attack — not with only untrained militias left at his disposal. That danger had passed. But Luo Wen... where was he? What was he planning? Was he lying in wait, lurking somewhere ahead as the Khan had done in Kaoshui? Or was he gathering force for one final, overwhelming strike?
Each night, the Khan slept with his sword pressed against his chest, like a talisman against the unknown. And each dawn, he rose with his eyes bloodshot and his resolve deeper than before.
Winter was already breathing down their necks. The wind carried its warning. Soon, the first snows would fall. And when they did, he knew, there would be no more room for pursuit or retreat. There would be only frost, starvation, and the slow, suffocating wait for whatever end would come.
But until then, he had a duty.
He must reach the plains.
He must rebuild the remnants of his people.
He must endure.
And if the Empire still followed him — let them follow all the way to the edge of the world.
Because if he was to fall, let it be while standing, with his feet planted on the soil of his homeland.
And if he was to die… let it be with his sword raised toward the sky, not buried in the mud of a foreign pass.