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

Springtime on the southern slopes of the Altai Mountains was still very cold, with withered yellow grass undulating like waves in the north wind. Batu, the leader of the Chagatai tribe, gripped his horn bow tightly, his knuckles turning white from the effort. The dust rising on the distant horizon drew ever closer, and the clanging of armor pierced the howling wind, making his chestnut horse paw restlessly.

"They're here!" The scout on the watchtower blew his bone whistle, the sharp sound tearing through the sky. Six thousand cavalrymen from eighteen tribes stood waiting breathlessly behind the earthen mound, their leather armor still stained with the blood from the previous night's raid on the Western Liao grain convoy.

Batu licked his chapped lips, recalling the horrific scene he had found in the valley three days ago—thirty corpses of his tribesmen stripped of their armor, the cries of women and children still echoing in his ears.

The heavily armored cavalry of the Western Liao vanguard charged into the ambush, their iron hooves crushing the frosty grass. These warriors from the Western Liao were clad in fish-scale armor, even their warhorses were covered in leather armor studded with copper. Batu's arrow struck the visor of the leading centurion, but only sparked against the fine iron. The warriors of the eighteen tribes howled like wolves, swooping down from the three earthen ramparts.

"Release the tripwires!" With the roar of the Hule chieftain, twenty camels laden with stones suddenly charged out from the flank. The tallow-soaked hemp ropes taut between the camel humps, and the Western Liao warhorses neighed and fell to the ground. Batu seized the opportunity to spur his horse forward, his scimitar slicing open the neck armor of the fallen cavalryman, warm blood splattering on his weathered face.

As the sun set, the grasslands were piled high with corpses. The allied forces of eighteen tribes had captured three hundred complete sets of iron armor, but every leader's face was etched with frost. They had lost half their warriors, while the banners of the Western Liao central army still fluttered ten miles away.

Despite repeated attacks, the Western Liao army seemed unscathed, their resilience astonishing. The Western Liao general Yelü Wan, a man of dashing bearing, strategized and commanded from afar. At his command, his army descended like tigers from the mountains, sweeping away several surrounding Mongol tribes under cover of night, avenging their humiliation at the Mongol attacks.

The men and children of those tribes were not spared; their lives were like candles flickering in the wind, ended in an instant by the merciless blades, their heads rolling to the ground, staining the yellow sand with blood. The women of those tribes, on the other hand, were left in the army, becoming playthings for the soldiers of the Western Liao. Their fate was thus plunged into a hellish existence, where they spent countless sleepless nights accompanied by the roar of war drums.

Yelü Wan's decisions were ruthless and decisive. He knew that in this chaotic world, only an iron fist could stabilize the morale of the army and ensure that the banner of Western Liao would stand firm. Thus, the massacre that night was not only a deterrent to the enemy, but also an encouragement to the soldiers of Western Liao, making them understand that in this war-torn land, only the strong could survive.

On the vast and boundless Mongolian steppe, the iron hooves of the Western Liao army swept across like a storm, leaving deep wounds on countless tribes. Despite the fearless resistance of the steppe people, they ultimately could not withstand the superior equipment and training of the Western Liao army. In this unequal contest, the losses of the Mongolian tribes grew increasingly severe.

Bashar, the old chieftain of the Kyrgyz tribe, burdened with the heavy responsibility of saving more than a dozen Mongol tribes, embarked on a journey to seek aid with great anxiety. He knew that only the reinforcements of the Khan could be their last hope against the foreign enemy. So, he knelt earnestly before Wan Hanzhong, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of despair and expectation.

"Lord Wan Hanzhong, please be sure to tell King Naza Khan that our Mongol tribes are in dire straits. If we do not receive help soon, I fear that the warriors of the grasslands will soon perish and have no choice but to go to the embrace of the Eternal Heaven." Bashar's voice trembled slightly, a deep fear of losing his homeland and loved ones.

Upon hearing this, Wan Hanzhong's expression turned solemn. Although he feigned composure, he was inwardly overjoyed. A short while later, an eagle with a secret message strapped to its leg soared into the sky, heading east towards Ulaanbaatar, the capital of the Mongol Khanate.

Five days later, as Yelü Wan, the commander of the Western Liao, led his linked cavalry across the dry riverbed, he saw eerie red clouds rising on the horizon. Thirty thousand Mongol light cavalry were divided into nine columns, each led by a hundred yaks with torches tied to their horns. Khan Naza's white-maned horse reared up, its ruby-inlaid scimitar slicing through the dawn.

"Release!" With a deafening drumbeat, the fire oxen charged towards the armored torrent. Sulfur-wrapped strips of cloth burned on their tails as the frightened animals crashed into the Western Liao cavalry formation, tearing apart the interlocking chains forged from fine iron. Suddenly, a thunderous explosion rang out from the thick smoke as fire bombs specially crafted by the Khanate's artisans exploded within the enemy ranks, the shockwaves carrying iron sand uprooting entire rows of heavy cavalry.

As Yelü Wan's golden crown fell to the ground, his last sight was a sky full of fire arrows falling like meteors. The burning grasslands formed walls of fire, forcing the surviving Western Liao soldiers into the swamps. The Khan removed his blood-dripping visor and threw the captured Western Liao banner into the fire. The flickering flames reflected the future of the entire grassland in his dark pupils.

As the Western Liao's linked cavalry formation pressed in like a moving iron wall, the Khan noticed that each of the enemy's warhorses had a seven-foot gap in its chains. He raised a bronze mirror inlaid with a wolf pattern, the sunlight refracting into dazzling spots on its surface. In the instant the front-line Western Liao cavalry instinctively raised their hands to shield their eyes, three hundred yaks with their tails on fire charged into the formation from the flank.

"Now!" Wan Hanzhong waved his command flag, and the tribal allied soldiers, hidden in the reeds, lit the fuses. The "Heavenly Thunder Arrow," an improved version of the Song Dynasty's fire lance, soared into the sky with a piercing whistle, and the pottery jars filled with gunpowder and iron fragments exploded above the enemy's heads. One armored warhorse reared up in fright, causing five linked horses to lose their balance at the same time, and the fine iron chains became deadly nooses.

Yelü Wan's deputy attempted to reorganize the formation, only to discover that the Mongol light cavalry avoided direct confrontation with the armored troops. Naza then dispersed his 30,000-strong army into smaller units of 100 men, weaving through the thick smoke. Whenever the Western Liao heavy cavalry turned to pursue, new herds of fire oxen would always ambush from unexpected directions.

"Great Khan, a breach has appeared in the southeast!" The guard pointed to the enemy's right flank, which was beginning to crumble. Naza took down his ancestral iron-rimmed bow, and three whistling arrows shot into the sky in a triangular formation. The heavily armored wolf guards, who had been lying in wait for a long time, finally appeared. These elite warriors, wearing captured Western Liao scale armor and wielding long-handled battle axes, charged into the enemy ranks.

This time, thanks to the strong support of the Mongol Khan, Nazar, the Western Liao cavalry suffered an unprecedented defeat, their power crumbling like autumn leaves swept away by the wind. The Western Liao general Yelü Wan, a former battlefield tyrant, also tragically perished amidst the flames of war, his ambitions unfulfilled, leading his troops into battle. The remaining Western Liao troops, numbering less than two thousand, had no choice but to retreat dejectedly from the vast Mongolian grasslands, like the last rays of the setting sun, leaving only a desolate trace.

This withdrawal not only shattered the Western Liao's meticulously planned pincer attack on Khwarazm, but also plunged the entire Western Liao strategic layout into chaos. The past glory and ambition seemed to have been blown away by the cold winds of the steppe, leaving only the dust of history to quietly recount the joys and sorrows of this war.