The Khan sat beside a modest fire, its flames flickering weakly against the merciless winds that swept across the northern steppes. There were no ceremonial tents pitched, no proud banners fluttering in the air. Only a scattered circle of men, their faces worn and chiseled by cold, hunger, and the heavy silence of survival. What had once been a mighty barbarian army now resembled little more than a band of roving tribes—tattered, fragmented, yet still held together by a shared will: the refusal to fall.
Then came the scouts.
There were three of them—grime-covered, cloaked in dust, their lips cracked from wind and thirst. One dropped to a knee before the Khan, still panting, sweat mingling with frost on his brow.
"They've withdrawn," the scout reported breathlessly. "The imperial cavalry—the ones that reached our lands—have crossed back over the river. They've returned south."
The silence that followed was heavier than any snowfall, thick and still, like the breath held before a storm's first howl. None of the generals spoke. No voice dared break the air. All eyes turned to the Khan.
He remained still at first, his expression unreadable. Then, closing his eyes slowly, he drew in a deep breath—like a man grounding himself, or as if testing whether the message had weight enough to be real. And then, without hurry, he stood.
"Are you certain?" he asked softly, yet with steel beneath the calm.
"Yes, great Khan," the scout affirmed. "They've left only ashes in their wake… but no soldiers remain. Nothing stands."
The Khan's gaze dropped to the frozen soil beneath his boots. Then it rose to the boundless sky overhead—clear, empty, unflinching. He inhaled again, and for the first time in many long, brutal weeks… his shoulders relaxed.
"Then it's over," he said, not with triumph, nor with sorrow—but with acceptance.
A young captain, his face marred by a fresh scar down his cheek, furrowed his brow in confusion.
"Luo Wen… he's not pursuing us? Why?"
"Because he's already won," the Khan replied, not bitter, only blunt. "He accomplished what he set out to do. He drove us out. He razed our capital. He shattered the alliance we had with the southern lords. He doesn't need to chase us any farther. To him, we are no longer a threat… for now."
His words sank deep into the men around him. They nodded slowly, some with clenched jaws, others with eyes lowered in thought. The Khan turned to face them fully, his gaze hard as iron but tempered with a strange serenity.
"Many of our kin have fallen. But we were not annihilated. Our people still breathe. Our clans still ride. We've lost this war… but we have not lost who we are."
One of the older commanders—gray-bearded, spear slung across his back—spoke up in a raspy voice, roughened by smoke and ice.
"What do we do now?"
The Khan looked once more at the fire, then out to the distant mountains wrapped in dusk. His words came measured, like stones laid slowly to form the foundation of something lasting.
"We return. We retreat to the heart of the steppe. We gather the scattered. We raise new herds. We teach our sons and daughters not only how to ride and fight, but to remember. To remember what was taken from us. This defeat… it won't be a scar. It will be a lesson."
The fire cracked softly. Around it, the faces of his captains began to shift. Where weariness had once reigned, now simmered a different flame—one not born of grief, but of resolve.
"And one day," the Khan continued, his voice gaining weight, "when the empire believes we've faded into history… we will return. Not to burn a village or breach a wall. No—we will return to rip them out by the root. This time… for good."
The wind surged, pulling at the furs draped over their shoulders, as if the steppe itself bore witness to the vow. The night fell fast upon the open plains, ushering with it not only the frost of a new winter, but the quiet stirring of something deeper.
Not rage.Not desperation.But patience.
Vengeance not carved in fire, but frozen into the marrow.
The war was not over. Only sleeping.
The Khan sat again beside the fire, his cloak curling with the smoke. He closed his eyes—not to rest, but to see. And in his vision, there were no retreating hoofbeats, no shattered spears, no Kaoshui shadows.
Only a city—imperial, proud, in flames.
And atop its highest tower… his banner flying high.
"In a few years," he whispered to no one but the flames, "we'll return. And next time… it'll be our land shouting the victory."