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

A cold wind swept snowflakes across the southern foothills of the Altai Mountains. As the Khan lifted the tent flap with his whip, the golden armor made a soft, clinking sound. He gazed at the distant cluster of felt tents bent low by the weight of snow, where 30,000 Kereit cavalrymen were wrapping their warhorses in felt—this was their seventh camp relocation since defeating the Iron Forest Army of the Western Liao.

After Khan Naza led his iron cavalry to bravely repel the invasion of the Western Liao, he finally achieved his wish and settled his warriors on the vast and fertile grasslands of western Mongolia. This war against foreign aggression not only consolidated his prestige but also inspired awe in many small and medium-sized tribes, who voluntarily submitted to the Mongol Khanate, willing to work together with Khan Naza for prosperity.

However, things rarely go as planned. Although the overall situation was settled, more than ten medium to large-sized Mongol tribes, still harboring resentment, refused to submit to the rule of the Khan. Like lone wolves on the grasslands, these tribes, each acting independently, resolutely raised the banner of resistance, vowing to fight for their freedom and dignity in this boundless world.

"Report!" The scout burst through the snowstorm into the tent, ice crystals falling from his armor plates. "The Tatars have amassed five thousand light cavalry on the banks of the Orkhon River. Their messenger says..." The scout suddenly fell silent, watching as the Khan threw a roasted lamb leg into the brazier, the fat bursting into a blinding blue flame in the charcoal fire.

Naza wiped the mutton fat from his beard, his bronze saber gleaming eerily green in the firelight. The scene of the eighteen tribes' alliance against the Western Liao three months ago flashed before his eyes: the golden bowls from which the tribal leaders swore their blood oaths were still enshrined on the altar, yet now twelve tribes had raised their banners of rebellion. He remembered that brute from the Merkit tribe, Wu'en, drunkenly proclaiming at the victory banquet that he would lead his people back to the Northern Desert to graze; his lice-infested head should have been chopped off then and there.

"Send word to the Borjigin." The Khan grabbed a letter tube from beside the brazier, sealed with a lotus-shaped seal—a secret military document—"He ordered his heavy cavalry to take siege crossbows; I want to see the Tatars' horse-head banners planted on the ice before sunset."

Suddenly, a commotion arose outside the tent, and eighteen Kereit guards drew their swords simultaneously. A white horse covered in blood burst through the fence, carrying a blood-soaked figure bound to its back. The one with squinting eyes—it was the envoy sent to the Merkit tribe three days ago to persuade them to surrender; now only half of his body remained, still twitching, his intestines frozen into icicles.

Upon seeing this, strategist Wan Hanzhong hurriedly shouted, "Quickly bring the man into the main tent and summon the army doctor immediately!"

“Uen has sent a declaration of war.” The dying messenger pulled a blood-soaked wolf pelt from his robes. “The Twelve Tribes… at the Onon River…” Before he could finish speaking, the messenger collapsed onto his horse and died. The wounds on his body clearly showed the inhuman torture he had suffered before his death.

Then they unfolded the wolf skin, on which was drawn a totem of twelve suns besieging a golden eagle in horse blood. This was the beacon signal they had agreed upon when they fought against the Western Liao.

The Khan suddenly burst into laughter, causing the snow on the tent roof to fall in a flurry. He grabbed a golden bowl from the altar and smashed it against the map, where sheep's blood meandered like a river across the grassland border drawn on cowhide. "Order all the commanders to dismantle all the siege equipment and transport it by camel to the upper reaches of the Onon River."

He drew his sword and cleaved the table in two. "I'll show these traitors who the real wolves of the Mongolian steppe are!"

Wan Hanzhong, standing beside him, remained silent. Although he secretly wished to extinguish the flames of war on the Mongolian steppe, a united and cohesive Mongolian steppe was detrimental to the development of the Han Kingdom. Even though he was now the strategist of the Mongol Khanate, he had not forgotten his purpose in coming here.

As the first rays of dawn pierced the clouds, the heavily armored cavalry of the Kereit tribe were already arrayed on the frozen river. Gazing at the twelve-colored wolf banners fluttering on the opposite bank, he suddenly recalled how, twenty years ago, when he was still a hostage, Uen had taught him the tactic of using the reflection of the ice to disrupt the enemy's arrow formation. At this moment, the river surface shimmered with an eerie blue light, and faint cracking sounds came from beneath the ice.

"Loose the arrows!" With Uen's roar, the twelve allied forces suddenly charged down the slopes on both sides of the river. Naza sneered and waved to signal the camel caravan in the rear to lift the blankets—thirty Western Liao-style triple-bow crossbows bared their fangs, and iron-feathered arrows tore through the cold wind, pinning the Tatar riders and their horses to the ice.

But the Merkit light cavalry suddenly changed direction, the spikes strapped to their horseshoes carving spiderweb-like cracks into the ice. Naza's pupils constricted; he finally understood why the scouts who had been deliberately let go always claimed the allied forces were short of supplies—that madman, Un, wanted to use the entire Onon River as a graveyard!

"Retreat!" The Khan's roar was swallowed by the roar of the ice breaking apart.

The chainmail of the Kree heavy cavalry turned into iron coffins in the icy water, while deafening war drums resounded from the opposite bank. The twelve allied forces, traversing a pre-prepared wooden pontoon bridge, pounced on the chaotic Kree central army like a pack of wolves. Gazing at his reflection in the blood-soaked water, he finally tore away the last shred of feigned mercy.

As the moon climbed over the cedar forest, the burning camel caravan cast ghostly shadows on the ice. Naza trampled on the head of the Tatar chieftain, watching his guards bind Uen to an unmelted icicle. The Merkit's right arm had been severed at the root, yet he still tore off half an ear from a Kreik cavalryman with his teeth.

“You could have been a hero,” the Khan said, using the blood-stained tip of his blade to lift Uen’s chin. “Like the day we crushed the Western Liao army, when you captured the enemy general alive amidst a sea of ​​soldiers.”

Uen spat out a mouthful of blood, his single eye flickering with the light of the campfire: "The eagle of the grassland... would rather crash into the cliff... than be... a parrot in a golden cage..." He suddenly sprang up, using his last strength to charge at Naza's blade. The hot blood spurting from his throat drew a crimson crescent moon on the snow.

Naza silently severed twelve heads and hung them on the flagpole, while in the distance, the surviving Kereit cavalry burned the corpses for warmth. As he turned, he saw his shadow stretched long by the firelight, like a blood-red serpent stretching across the grassland. Suddenly, the golden bowl on the altar shattered in two, and sheep's blood seeped into the snow that had fallen the night before.

Naja Khan's iron-fisted suppression, which dealt a heavy blow to those tribes that dared to resist him, swept across the grasslands like a storm, deeply affecting the hearts of the remaining tribes in the northern Mongolian steppe. Although they harbored secret fears, lest they follow in the footsteps of the Uen tribe's demise, the flame of tribal survival and honor burned fiercely in the hearts of each of them. To defend the interests and dignity of their respective tribes, many Mongolian tribes resolutely stood up, vowing to resist Naja Khan's tyranny.

In an instant, the Mongolian grasslands seemed to be torn apart by an indescribable force, with flames of war raging and drums beating incessantly. The once peaceful and vast grasslands were shrouded in the shadow of war in a flash, and the grudges and entanglements between the various tribes unfolded on this ancient and sacred land, creating a series of tragic and fierce epic struggles.

Li Zhen, who was in Anyang Prefecture, put down the intelligence he was holding and smiled at Bu Liang, saying, "It seems your classmate has a lot of influence. The entire Mongolian grasslands are now in chaos. Even if Naza eventually unifies all of Mongolia, he won't have many people left. But we still need to add fuel to the fire. We should have COFCO's caravan transport a batch of weapons to the grasslands, specifically to sell to the tribes that are resisting the Mongol Khanate."

Upon hearing this, the wicked man smiled and nodded: "Alright, I'll make the arrangements right away. There are quite a few weapons in the Jin Kingdom's warehouse this time. Let's take them out and sell them to the Mongols to exchange for some beef and mutton to nourish the soldiers."