Traveling back to the Northern Song Dynasty: Picking up a princess as my wife

Under the azure sky of Ulaanbaatar, the powerful Khan, upon hearing the news of the Western Liao army's quiet appearance in Western Mongolia, couldn't help but curl a smug smile. His laughter, like thunder, echoed throughout the hall: "Hahaha... Strategist, isn't this a godsend, a golden opportunity to help me achieve the great cause of unifying Mongolia? Those Western Mongolian tribes, who hesitated to join our Khanate in the past, can now openly march westward, in the name of justice, to carry out the unification."

Wan Hanzhong, this strategist of profound wisdom, stood with his arms crossed, his gaze deep and penetrating, as if piercing through the mists of time. After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice steady and weighty: "Your Majesty, this matter is of utmost importance and requires utmost caution. The primary task is to ascertain the true intentions of the Western Liao army's northward march. If we rashly send troops, it would be unwise and we might end up doing the work for others. We must plan carefully to ensure victory."

After pondering the matter carefully in his heart, he suddenly realized that there was indeed a profound meaning in those words. His mind calmed down, and he slowly asked, "Sir, do you have a brilliant plan to teach me?"

The following day, Wan Hanzhong led a hundred elite guards on a grand march towards the vast territory of Ximeng, determined to unite every tribe to jointly resist the enemy of Xiliao. He did not stop along the way, and whenever he arrived at a tribe, he would take the initiative to step in and discuss important plans with them.

As night fell, Wan Hanzhong and his group finally arrived at the territory of the Jilijisi tribe. Coincidentally, at this time and place, more than a dozen tribal leaders from the surrounding area had gathered together, as if by divine intervention, saving him the trouble of traveling.

Basaro, the leader of the Jiliji tribe, warmly rose to greet Wan Hanzhong, and many other leaders beside him also rose from the ground to look at the second-in-command of the Mongol-Han Kingdom.

"Hahaha...Welcome! I never expected that the strategist of the Han Kingdom would personally visit our small tribe. On behalf of the entire tribe, I welcome your arrival!"

Wan Hanzhong forced a smile, enduring the pungent smell of mutton, and embraced Chief Bashaluo tightly. Although he was Han Chinese, on the vast Mongolian grasslands, he was already considered one of their own. If he did not act according to Mongolian etiquette, it would be a great breach of courtesy, likely adding many twists and turns to the upcoming plan, or even causing it to fail.

Wan Hanzhong spoke slowly, his tone tinged with apology and urgency: "My abrupt visit is actually about the Western Liao army. I imagine that you are all gathered here late at night because you share the same important matter, don't you?"

Upon hearing this, Bashar frowned slightly, a hint of anticipation flashing in his eyes, and asked, "May I ask, Brother Wan, how many troops has the Khan sent to lend us a hand this time?"

Wan Hanzhong's expression was calm, and his tone was steady and unwavering: "Chief Basaro, I will speak frankly, this time I have only brought these one hundred warriors with me. But please rest assured, our Khan has quietly gathered twenty thousand Mongol cavalry, ready to be dispatched. They will arrive like a whirlwind at the moment of command." However, he also had many concerns in his heart.

At this point, he slowly glanced at the other tribal leaders in the tent, his gaze deep, and continued, "The Khan is worried that if troops are sent rashly, it may touch a nerve with some tribes, causing unnecessary suspicion and hostility, and may even lead to a tragedy of internal strife. At that time, the ambition to resist the Western Liao army will not be fulfilled, and the Khan's army will be thrown into disarray. The Khan's army will likely bear the brunt of the attack and suffer from internal sabotage."

Seeing that the tribal chiefs present had lowered their heads, Basaro said with a smile, "Alright, now that the strategist has come to our tribe, he must be tired from his journey. Let's eat something first and talk while we eat."

General Yelü Wan of the Western Liao Dynasty, disregarding his exhaustion from continuous travel, spoke with an undeniable authority in his voice to a scout captain: "How exactly has the scout battalion performed its duties? The planned route has inexplicably deviated eastward by over a hundred li. No wonder we keep encountering Mongol tribes unexpectedly. Tonight, you will not rest your eyes. Immediately lead your men to find a new way out for us. We must get away from this place immediately. Once we are surrounded by the Mongols, the important task entrusted to us by His Majesty may never be completed!"

Yelü Wan slowly raised his eyelids and gazed at the leaden sky. The continuous dark clouds obscured the guidance of the stars, and even the sun in the daytime seemed ashamed to show itself, appearing and disappearing intermittently, causing them to deviate significantly from their planned marching route on this vast land.

At dawn the next day, as the first rays of sunlight pierced through the thin mist, the army, after a simple yet powerful breakfast, set off again. Thanks to the scout battalion's tireless and thorough exploration the previous night, they finally broke through the clouds and found a smooth road leading to the northwest.

Just as the iron cavalry of the Western Liao were about to step into the winding mountain range, Yelü Wan's pupils suddenly contracted, as if touched by an invisible chill. In the dense forest, he vaguely caught glimpses of the shadowy figures of Mongol cavalrymen, appearing and disappearing under the shade of the trees, like cheetahs lurking in the forest, poised to pounce.

Yelü Wan's heart pounded with alarm bells. He immediately raised his arm decisively, his voice piercing through the noise and resounding throughout the army: "Halt! Form ranks on the spot and prepare for battle!" His command was brief and powerful, each word striking the hearts of the soldiers and awakening their dormant fighting spirit and vigilance.

The wolf-headed bronze horn ripped through the silence of dawn. The grasslands at the foot of the mountain trembled under the iron hooves as three thousand Mongol light cavalry swept across the withered grass like a black cloud. Their willow-leaf armor gleamed coldly in the morning light, their scimitars were not yet drawn, and the composite bows on both sides of their saddles were already nocked with feathered arrows.

As the square formation of the Western Liao heavy infantry began to take shape on the horizon, the torrent of galloping cavalry suddenly split into three streams.

The central hundred cavalry continued their advance, while the left and right flanks drew strange arcs. When the Western Liao soldiers, clad in eighty-pound infantry armor, raised their twelve-foot-long spears, the Mongol riders suddenly reined in their horses a hundred paces away. The moment their warhorses reared up, the first volley of arrows pierced through the morning mist.

With a whooshing sound, the iron-plated shields cracked and splintered. General Yelü Wan of the Western Liao Dynasty stared wide-eyed as the cavalry, using the centrifugal force of their horses' swirl, continued to hurl arrows as they retreated. This was the "Mangudai" tactic that terrified European heavy cavalry—retreat as offense, defeat concealing deadly intent.

It should be noted that later scientists, through mathematical calculations, determined that the optimal launch angle for the Mangudai tactic was 42°.

Moreover, the Mongolian composite bow had a draw weight of 166 pounds and a range of 300 meters, exceeding the Western Liao army's bows and crossbows by 50%. Each Mongolian regular cavalryman was equipped with 60 arrows, using three-edged poisoned arrowheads. Some used snake venom, while others were poisoned by boiling feces. Once an enemy was hit by an arrow, the wound would be enhanced by the poison, making it extremely difficult for the hit person to survive.

The sun climbed high in the sky, the Gobi Desert sweltering with heat, thick with the scent of blood. The Mongolian horses, with their characteristic short, stocky build, proved advantageous, maintaining their formation even after three hours of continuous galloping. As the Western Liao army's formation loosened due to the pursuit, the bugle calls suddenly became urgent. Two thousand ambushers leaped from the dried-up riverbed; their riders, their manes bound with dry grass, emerged like demons from the earth, cutting off the exhausted Western Liao army's retreat.

Upon seeing the fierce advance of the Mongol tribal army, General Yelü Wan of the Western Liao Dynasty quickly ordered his troops to retreat thirty miles to disengage from the battle with the Mongols.

As the setting sun dyed the clouds a blood-red hue, the nine-stripe white banner was already planted on the mound piled high with corpses. Surviving Mongol cavalrymen used their scimitars to cut off the tails of enemy horses—this was how they calculated their merits. The accompanying shaman shook his staff adorned with animal bones, his chanting mingled with the mournful cries of wounded horses, while flocks of eagles circled overhead, as if the Eternal Heaven were watching all of this.