The baby-making system is unreliable

That year, on the Turkic steppe, the spring breeze, like the breath of a god, gently swept across the frozen earth, awakening the sleeping grass roots.

Across the vast fertile plains, new greenery spreads like a tide, tender grasses breaking through the frozen soil, clump after clump, patch after patch, dyeing the earth a boundless expanse of emerald green.

The herders said this was an auspicious sign from heaven, and that the grasslands would usher in a new era of glory three years after the new Khan ascended the throne.

Nurzhuo Ying stood before his horse, an ancestral scimitar hanging at his waist. The silver ornaments inlaid on the scabbard gleamed coldly in the sunlight, as if still bearing the frost and snow of past battles.

He was tall and burly, with a rugged face, high brow bones, and deep-set eyes, like a mountain rock sculpted by wind and sand.

He held a three-year-old boy named Nurkichi in his arms. Nurkichi was wrapped in a thick sheepskin coat, his little face red from the cold, but his bright black eyes were wide open, curiously looking at the boundless grassland.

"Little eagle of the grassland, grow up quickly. Your father will teach you to ride a horse and shoot arrows!"

Nurzhuo Ying's deep voice was like distant rolling thunder. He gently placed the child on the saddle in front of him and wrapped his strong arms around him.

"We sons of the grasslands grow up on horseback from childhood. Horses are our legs, bows are our voices, and the grasslands are our lives."

Little Kichi gripped the saddle tightly, his small body swaying slightly with the horse's hooves, but he remained silent.

Although he was young, he already understood the power of silence, which was the first lesson the grassland taught every child.

The horse moved slowly forward, its hooves lightly tapping the ground, as if in response to some ancient rhythm.

With one hand holding the reins and the other protecting his son, Nurzhuoying gazed at the distant, undulating mountains, the burial place of his ancestors and the land that his son would protect in the future.

Yun Ning'an stood in front of the tent, her indigo robe fluttering in the wind, and the silver ornaments in her hair jingling.

She watched the father and son walk away into the morning light, a gentle smile appearing on her lips.

That was her husband, the bravest Khan on the grasslands; that was her son, the bloodline she protected with her life.

The wind brushed her cheek, carrying the scent of grass and milk. She gently touched her heart, as if soothing a heart trembling with love.

“They will live on this grassland; these are the true sons of the grassland,” she murmured softly, her voice as light as a leaf falling into the heart of a lake.

The grasslands never nurture delicate flowers; they only forge eagles and sharp blades.

She recalled the scene of the Khan's coronation last night: the bonfires were bright, the war drums were deafening, the elders were chanting ancestral precepts, and Nurzhuoying knelt before the altar, holding a scimitar, vowing to protect every blade of grass and every citizen of the grassland with his blood.

At that moment, standing behind the crowd, looking at his straight back, she suddenly understood.

She loved not just one man, but the backbone of all the people on this grassland.

Now, this spine is passing on its weight, little by little, to the child sitting in front of the horse, who is still unaware of fear.

In the distance, Nurkic suddenly raised his little hand, pointed to an eagle circling in the sky, and cried out in a childish voice, "Daddy! Eagle! I want to fly!"

Nuerzhuoying looked up, a slight smile playing on his lips, and spurred his horse forward. The wind whistled past his ears, the grassland surged beneath his feet, and he shouted back, "Good! When you grow up, your father will teach you to shoot it down!"

A soaring eagle cries out, piercing the sky. Sunlight streams down, casting long, slender shadows of the father and son, like two swords about to be drawn, reflected on the newly sprouted green fields.

The wind on the grassland is so free, carrying the scent of grass and dust, brushing against Nurkichi's tender cheeks like a mother's fingertips gently caressing him.

He sat in front of his father, his small body rising and falling with the rhythm of the horse's hooves. In his ears were the whistling wind, the muffled thud of the horse's hooves, and the deep, powerful laughter coming from his father's chest.

The laughter seemed to resonate with the wind, echoing across the boundless grassland, invigorating the soul.

Nurzhuoying spurred his horse toward a gentle hill, his hooves pounding the dew and startling a flock of grey sandgrouse. He suddenly reined in his horse and pointed into the distance: “Do you see that cloud? Doesn’t it look like an eagle spreading its wings?”

Little Kitty looked in the direction he pointed, and saw that the clouds on the horizon were indeed piled up, resembling a giant eagle with its wings spread, as if it were swooping down.

He nodded vigorously, his little hands gripping the leather straps on the saddle tightly: "It looks like it! Father, it's an eagle from the Eternal Heaven!"

“Yes.” Nurzhuoying’s gaze was deep, his voice low and solemn, every word revealing his love for his son.

"We Turks do not live by looking up. We compete with eagles in the sky, race with the wind, and wrestle with fate."

The little boy sat on a spirited horse, protected in his father's arms, yet his tender face showed no fear.

"When you are seven years old, your father will take you up the mountain to find an eagle's nest, and teach you how to draw a bow, control the string, and shoot down the prey in the sky. At that time, you will no longer be a child sitting in your father's arms, but a true son of the grassland."

Before he finished speaking, he suddenly unsheathed the curved knife from his waist and gently placed it on Kitch's lap. The blade was cold, and the silver ornaments shimmered in the sunlight like an undying star.

"This knife has beheaded traitors and been dipped in mare's milk on altars. It will wait for you to grow up, just as the grasslands wait for your return."

Kiki's small hand slowly stroked the scabbard, his fingertips touching the raised silver patterns, as if he were touching some kind of heavy destiny.

He looked up at his father's profile, whose features were as resolute as mountains, gilded by the setting sun.

He suddenly realized that his father was not a person, but a mountain, a river, and the grassland itself.

Yun Ning'an gazed into the distance, a glimmer of light in her eyes. She knew that from this moment on, her son was no longer just an infant in her arms.

He is a descendant of the Nur family, the future of the grasslands, and the child they cherished and raised.

Yun Ning'an gently stroked the silver ornament in her hair and whispered, "Eternal Heaven, please protect my child, let him soar like an eagle, be as sharp as a knife, yet never lose his gentle heart."

The wind swept by again, lifting Yun Ning'an's long robe like a silent flag.

In the distance, herders began lighting bonfires in preparation for the evening's "Saren Festival".

This is a festival on the grasslands celebrating new life and courage. The flickering firelight is like stars falling to the earth.

The figures of the father and son were slowly returning to their tent, their shadows growing longer and longer, as if they were about to merge into the edge of the grassland.

The wind blew through the campfire, carrying a string of tiny sparks that, like startled fireflies, swirled and flew into the deep night sky.

The crackling flames illuminated every face that looked up, casting the resolute silhouette of Nurzhuo Eagle onto the vast, silent white dome behind him.

The wind on the grassland is free, just like the people on this grassland; they are all free.