Empires are not built in a day.
They are forged in blood, fear, and belief.
It began with movement.
Itachi and I did not remain hidden. We traveled. Across mountains and rivers, through fractured kingdoms and warring clans. This land—what future generations would call China—was divided, restless, ripe for conquest.
Bandits were the first to fall.
They attacked us thinking we were prey.
I let them believe that until the last moment.
A gesture of my hand sent fire screaming through the trees, scattering men like leaves before a storm. Another flick of my fingers collapsed the ground beneath their leader, crushing him without effort. Those who survived fled—and carried stories with them.
Stories were more powerful than armies.
Itachi moved like death given form. His chakra abilities were unlike anything this world understood—illusion, precision, terror wrapped in calm silence. Men fell without realizing they had been struck. Commanders turned on their own forces, screaming about eyes that burned red in their minds.
Villages began to surrender before we ever arrived.
Gold followed.
Weapons followed.
Men followed.
At first, they were mercenaries. Desperate soldiers. Exiles. Criminals. Survivors of burned towns who realized resistance only led to annihilation.
I did not rule them gently.
I ruled them absolutely.
The first real battle came when a regional warlord gathered several thousand men to crush us before we grew any stronger.
He chose the battlefield poorly.
A narrow valley. Forested ridges on both sides. He believed numbers would overwhelm us.
I let him march in.
When his army was fully committed, I raised my hand.
The rings answered.
Lightning tore through the sky, striking the valley floor again and again, shattering formations. Gravity twisted, pinning men to the earth as if the world itself rejected them. Fire rolled down the slopes, not wild—but controlled, herding them exactly where I wanted them.
Then Itachi moved.
Illusions spread through the enemy ranks like a plague. Soldiers saw allies as monsters. Commanders saw their own deaths replayed endlessly. Discipline collapsed in minutes.
My growing forces surged forward.
It was not a massacre.
It was an execution.
By sunset, the valley was silent.
Those who survived knelt.
That was when the Ten Rings truly began.
Decades passed.
The organization grew—slowly, deliberately.
I structured it carefully.
Ranks. Cells. Symbols.
The rings became more than weapons—they became icons. A promise of protection to those who served. A warning to those who resisted.
We fought again and again.
A coalition of city-states tried to break us near the great river. I shattered their siege engines with a wave of my hand and sent their generals fleeing in terror. A rebel army attempted to assassinate me under cover of night—Itachi dismantled them before they reached the camp.
There was a battle I still remember clearly.
A fortified town refused to surrender, believing their walls and numbers would save them.
I stood before the gates alone.
When they laughed, I raised two fingers.
The walls collapsed inward like wet clay.
My army marched through the dust.
After that, no town laughed.
With every victory, my reputation grew.
Whispers turned into names.
They called me The Most Dangerous Woman Alive, because wherever I appeared, wars ended.
They called me The Woman General, because armies moved at my command.
They called me The Mandarin, because my word carried absolute authority.
They called me The Warrior Queen, because I fought at the front, not from behind a throne.
And when my territory expanded far beyond a single kingdom—when banners bearing the symbol of the Ten Rings flew across vast lands—they gave me a title spoken with awe and fear alike.
The Great Khan.
An army followed me now.
Not a rabble.
A disciplined force hardened by war, loyal not to gold—but to victory. To order. To the certainty that serving me meant survival in a brutal world.
Through it all, Itachi remained at my side.
Advisor. General. Executioner.
One night, standing over a conquered city, he spoke quietly.
"This empire will outlive us both," he said.
I looked out over the fires, the banners, the kneeling crowds.
"No," I replied calmly. "It will outlive everyone."
Because I had time.
A thousand years before heroes would rise.
A thousand years to prepare the world for my return.
And somewhere deep within the system, I felt it watching—quietly approving.
The Ten Rings were no longer a future legend.
They were history.