Clang!
The silver-inlaid goblet shattered on the ornate marble floor, the deep red wine splattering like blood, staining the embroidered carpet.
K'tugul Sorgon shot up from his gilded throne, his face twisting under the weight of fury. His usually arrogant blue eyes now burned with terrifying rage.
"Tell me, has my son truly died?"
"Your Majesty." The court envoy's knees struck the marble floor heavily. His throat bobbed several times before he squeezed out broken fragments of speech: "The steppe barbarians... they... they... the Crown Prince's... head..."
A guard reverently lifted a black ebony casket, the arm beneath his armor trembling uncontrollably, for he now finally understood why the court envoy had him carry this box.
"Your Majesty." Earl Wilson stepped forward slowly. "Your Majesty, please, grieve with restraint. Cherish your health, restrain your grief."
"You speak easily! You haven't lost a son!" Sorgon
snapped his head up, his gaze sharp enough to flay flesh.
"Attendants! Hear my decree! Grant Earl Wilson's son the honor of death! Posthumously award him the title of Viscount Wilson!"
"And then, bury him with the Crown Prince," Sorgon's voice hitched before he finished, "The Crown Prince's side... is sorely lacking... lacking a good servant."
"Your Majesty!" Earl Wilson's face changed dramatically, all color draining away. His knees went weak, and he heavily knelt on the floor.
"What? You're unwilling for your son to serve my own?" Sorgon's chilling eyes seemed to pierce through his soul.
Earl Wilson trembled upon hearing this, slowly closing his eyes, his forehead pressed against the cold marble floor. "Your humble servant accepts. Your humble servant thanks Your Majesty for his grace."
His hoarse voice was steeped in suppressed agony. But compared to the extermination of his entire family, the price of losing a son was actually the lightest.
"Dismissed."
"Your servant takes his leave."
After Earl Wilson staggered out, Sorgon tapped the gilded armrest with his knuckles. "Now… now I suddenly feel much better."
He feared that with one careless misstep, he would suffer the same grief as Earl Wilson.
Sorgon's mood had originally improved considerably, but his peripheral vision caught the black ebony casket. The dark red stains seeping between the golden patterns bit into his heart like a venomous snake.
Sorgon's knuckles immediately cracked, his voice cold as a poisoned ice blade: "Send word, within twenty days, all nobles and princes must gather an army of two hundred thousand! We shall trample the steppe, have those barbarians accompany the Crown Prince in death!"
The court envoy swallowed. He well knew that gathering two hundred thousand troops within twenty days was simple, but organizing the logistics, supplies, and command for these two hundred thousand was extremely difficult.
Moreover, it was currently winter, utterly unsuitable for a massive invasion of the steppe. But he dared not advise Sorgon now.
For his son, and for the Empire.
Let the barbarians pay the price.
No matter what, the Empire has two hundred thousand troops. Even if logistics can't keep up, even if it's winter, dealing with a bunch of steppe barbarians should still be effortless.
...
"Run, you dead-legged mule! Faster!"
Shinaz ran through the snow of Ulaav, the Palatines chasing him.
He ran faster because the Palatines all wore armor, plates of curved steel covering leather jerkins.
He could hear the clanking of their joint guards, their defense impeccable, but the weight also meant they tired more easily than he did.
But infantry weren't the Palatines' only troops; they also had cavalry.
Realizing they couldn't catch Shinaz, the infantry blew bone whistles for reinforcements.
Shinaz inwardly cursed. If his Khan had a way, he would never have let him set foot on Ulaav Mountain alone.
However, the trials of the Eternal Blue Sky were only for a solitary mind. The spirits only revealed themselves where the earth held up the boundless sky, only to lonely souls. And the veil between realms was thin and perilous.
He had to face it alone.
At the brink of death, he succeeded in seeing the spirits.
But when he descended the mountain, the warriors his Khan had sent to escort him had unfortunately been slain by the Palatines.
The Palatines discovered him. Hundreds chased him.
He had to run, leave Ulaav Mountain, find the Khan! Only the Khan could protect him!
Suddenly, he heard the neighing of horses, the sound of iron hooves shattering the snowfield erupting behind him. Even without looking back, the thunderous clamor already announced the number of pursuers.
Horses ran far faster than any mortal. Shinaz didn't even get time to catch his breath before he was surrounded by the flood of cavalry converging from all directions.
The Cathayan cavalry all wore heavy plate armor, holding lances, not the curved blades favored by steppe folk.
Thwack!
Suddenly, a lasso whistled through the air. The cold rope slid over his shoulders like a serpent, instantly tightening.
Shinaz only felt a tightness around his waist before he was yanked by an immense force, crashing heavily into the snow.
"The Crown Prince is mighty!"
He heard the surrounding cavalry erupt in sycophantic cheers. The rider who had lassoed him leaned down from his saddle, a pair of wolf-cunning eyes sparkling with mockery.
"You run fast, little one. But not fast enough!"
Shinaz gritted his teeth, his eyes burning with unyielding fury.
He knew the Palatines wouldn't kill him. Boys with golden eyes were precious to both steppe folk and Palatines.
But he would never bow to the Palatines!
Though his hands were bound, though the enemy outnumbered him, the boiling rage in his chest roared at him: "Fight back! Now! You can fight back!" "Aaaah!"
Shinaz let out a heart-rending scream. Blinding light erupted from his body, thousands of arcs of electricity crackling in the air, painting the surrounding snow an eerie blue-white.
His consciousness grew fuzzy, but his eardrums captured a sound like a mountain collapsing!
BOOM!
In an instant, the sky fell.
The firmament overturned like a shattered porcelain bowl. Hundreds of thousands of tons of snow transformed into a pale torrent cascading down. The rider's smile froze on his face. Before he could even flee, he, along with his horse, was buried by the sudden avalanche.
"Cold. So cold."
The world plunged into eternal darkness.
Shinaz curled into a fetal position. The light instinctively released from him propped open a tiny space within the snow pile, but couldn't stop the biting cold from gnawing away at his life inch by inch.
Time froze.
He didn't know how long had passed when soft sounds of shifting snow awakened him.
A pair of warm hands broke into his icy grave and pulled him out.
"What's your name?" The voice was like spring water thawing ice.
"Shi... nazz..." His quivering lips exhaled a few breathy sounds, as if using his last strength to confirm his own existence.
"Ah!"
Shinaz's eyes snapped open, golden pupils contracting slightly in the gloom.
In the fire pit, orange-red tongues of flame licked the bottom of a copper kettle, emitting faint crackles.
Shinaz stared blankly at the dancing flames. In their flicker, he still heard the phantom roar of the avalanche.
"Shinaz."
He heard someone call his name. It was one of the two men sitting by the fire pit.
One of them was as majestic as a mountain. Shinaz had never seen a man like him. A giant of a man whose sheer size would dwarf even the strongest warriors of the steppe.
The one who called him was the man sitting opposite the giant, ordinary in build and looks, yet inexplicably comforting, like a father.
He remembered that this was the man who pulled him from hell.
He held a steaming bowl of salted milk tea.
"Drink. Warm yourself."
"Thank you." Shinaz's voice was dry and hoarse.
Shinaz took the cup and sipped. Warm tea slid down his throat, warmth immediately spreading through his limbs.
The giant asked, "What's your name?"
"Shinaz." He repeated his name again.
"From now on, no longer. You belong to me. Your name is Targutai Yesugei. It means 'the child who escaped' and 'the man who rises to fight'.
Shinaz held the warm milk tea, his expression as calm as a deep autumn lake. He neither raised his eyes to look at the giant nor opened his mouth to refute.
According to steppe custom, since they had captured him, no matter the manner, from now on, he was their slave. Unless another Khan led an iron cavalry to reclaim him.
...
Yesugei's thoughts drifted back again to that stormy morning. The avalanche he had personally triggered still roared in his dreams.
The pure white snow transformed into a raging torrent, instantly swallowing the Palatine cavalry, but also nearly dragging the Great Khan and his teacher into an abyss of ten thousand fathoms of ice.
It had only been a few days ago, yet now it felt like a lifetime away.
Tamur sat with him under the night sky, lowering his voice to ask, "Did you really cause the avalanche?"
The young Keshig leaned forward slightly. There was no trace of annoyance or hatred at nearly being killed in his eyes; instead, they sparkled with the unique curiosity of youth.
Yesugei lowered his head. "It was me."
"How did you do it?"
"I don't remember." Yesugei shook his head. "I only remember I was very angry then."
"I've heard that boys with golden eyes like you see spirits on Ulaav Mountain. Did you see them?"
"I saw them. But I'm not sure who they were."
"Them?" Tamur's mouth fell open in surprise. "How many did you see?"
"Five."
"Yesugei!"
A low call made Yesugei rise at the sound. In the moonlight, he saw it was Qin Xia, the Lord of the Keshig.
Qin Xia's voice was low and clear: "The Great Khan summons you to the royal tent for."
"Me?"
Yesugei's finger unconsciously pointed at his own face, his golden eyes flashing with disbelief and bewilderment.
Tamur, standing nearby, looked up sharply upon hearing this, envy burning in his eyes like wildfire.
Yesugei followed Qin Xia into the royal tent. A wave of heat, mixed with the scent of butter.
The tent was brightly lit. Dozens of tribal chieftains stood in two rows, the gem-inlaid swords at their waists gleaming coldly in the firelight.
But at this moment, all the tribal chieftains bowed in unison towards the giant.
Because he was the Great Khan.
Yesugei's gaze suddenly froze within the crowd. He saw his former Khan, the man he once called father.
The moment their eyes met, the flow of time seemed to grow viscous.
His father twitched slightly. His pupils first flashed with shock, joy, and finally, calm rippled across them.
The Khan was the first to look away, his fingers unconsciously stroking the old scabbard at his waist, the one Yesugei had given him as a birthday gift.
Yesugei lowered his head, letting silence build an invisible barrier between father and son.
He now belonged to the Great Khan. His father did too. The bond of blood ranked below loyalty to the Great Khan.
'But... where was Teacher?'
Yesugei's gaze unconsciously searched for that familiar figure, that man who always stood by the Great Khan's side. But the empty spot beside the throne made his heart clench. He wasn't among the crowd either.
Jaghatai Khan slowly rose. His hawk-like gaze swept over every chieftain in the tent. "The Palatine Emperor has gathered an army of two hundred thousand and is pressing towards our steppe."
"I intend to gather the warriors of all tribes, to meet them with thirty thousand iron cavalry."
"We must make the Palatines understand that the steppe belongs to us, and no longer would its people endure as playthings."
The tent plunged into a heavy silence, broken only by the crackle of ox-tallow lamp wicks.
The breathing of the tribal chieftains grew heavy. They exchanged glances, then together struck their left chests with their fists.
"We are willing to die for the Great Khan!"
Though thirty thousand against two hundred thousand seemed a great disadvantage.
But if they could truly make the arrogant Palatines pay for their generations of plunder and cruelty against the steppe, even if it meant marching into certain death, they would gladly do so.
....
"Jaghatai Khan is already studying his opponent."
Caelan's voice mingled with the rustle of wheat waves, causing Mortarion, harvesting wheat in the field, to pause slightly.
Mortarion gripped his scythe tightly, eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing through the golden wheat field towards the faint mountain silhouettes in the north.
"The Resistance will launch its final assault on the north after the autumn harvest!"
This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision, nor was he trying to compete with his brother.
This was the established strategic deployment.
Just as the Chogorians could not lose their steppe, the Barbarans could not lose their wheat fields.
The Death Guard's offensive must come after the autumn harvest. When the last wave of golden wheat fell, the last sheaf of wheat was loaded onto carts, the last grain of wheat stored in granaries, then they would launch their final assault on the northern territories.
Mortarion would absolutely not delay the war until next year. Millions of Barbarans were waiting for him. Even if they were numb under oppression, Mortarion would not abandon them. Everyone would have a chance.
But if they remained numb forever. The Death Guard's protection and mercy would not be granted to them.
Over the past few months, he had led the Death Guard in multiple probing attacks against the north. His scythe had already harvested the lives of seventeen Overlords.
Yet, perplexingly, the High Overlord remained unmoving.
He neither launched sneak attacks amidst the chaos nor gathered allies.
Mortarion couldn't fathom it. He was waiting for the autumn harvest. What was Necarae waiting for?
Waiting to die?
"Skorval! Call me dad!"
Typhon stood before a wheat field that had already been harvested, hands on his hips, letting out earth-shaking laughter. The golden stubble under his feet formed a throne of victory.
Not far away, Skorval's face flushed red with shame and anger. He clenched his fists and roared at Typhon: "You bastard must have cheated with your psychic powers!"
Only one-tenth of the wheat remained, rustling in his unharvested field, seemingly mocking him.
Typhon's lips curled into a scornful smile. "Hah! I said I wouldn't use it, and I didn't! I'm not that low! Ask Cyril if you don't believe me!"
Asking Mortarion for harvesting tips in advance didn't count as cheating.
Cyril, loading wheat sheaves onto a cart, looked back. "I can testify, he really didn't cheat. A bet is a bet, Skorval. Didn't Callas call you that, too?"
"I testify too." Debbie raised a small hand. "Brother Typhon really didn't cheat."
Typhon raised an eyebrow. "You trying to welch?"
Skorval swung his scythe into the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust mixed with stubble. He charged at Typhon like an enraged bull.
Skorval's nose almost touched Typhon's face. The veins bulging on his neck throbbed violently with his roar. "DAD!"
"Thank you."
Caught off guard, Typhon was sprayed with saliva. He frowned in disgust, backing up two steps. He took the handkerchief Cyril handed him and wiped his face hard.
"Why are you shouting so loudly, you unfilial son? Are you challenging your dad now, huh?"
Skorval gnashed his teeth. "Dam you, Typhon! You just wait!"
Mortarion silently turned and walked towards another wheat field. His scythe traced a cold arc; golden wheat stalks fell neatly before him.
He truly couldn't bear to look at his Death Guard anymore. How had his warriors, who made Overlords tremble in fear, become like this?
It was all Typhon's fault!
Caelan on the field ridges also wore a conflicted expression. The Death Guard didn't stink now, but what about the foul mouths?
If you really traced it back, he was to blame.
But he really just wanted Typhon to curse Nurgle!
Caelan pondered; he didn't curse people that often. His education was mainly encouragement-based.
'Who did Typhon learn this from? Did cursing the Nurgle flip some strange switch in him?'
'Was this good or bad?'
Images appeared in Caelan's mind: the Death Guard charging into battle. At range, they could maintain decorum, but if they got into close combat, those warriors would spew profanities, be hacking at people while insulting their whole bloodline.
But, if word got out, it would ruin Caelan and Mortarion's reputations!
'Mortarion, aren't you going to discipline your sons?'
Caelan was very conflicted. He wanted to discipline them, but if Mortarion didn't care much, then should he discipline them or not?