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

Under the gentle caress of the bright moonlight, the surface of Lake Daze shimmered with silver ripples, like stars fallen to earth. Temujin concealed himself among the dense reeds, his figure blending into the night. His fingers unconsciously traced the ancient horn at his waist, each touch seemingly telling of unfulfilled ambitions and silent vows.

In the distance, the neighing of warhorses shattered the tranquility of the grassland, the sound carrying an undeniable power, announcing yet another ruthless conquest by the Mongol Khanate army. As their iron hooves trampled across the land, this grassland, once known for its vastness and peace, was now permeated with an inescapable stench of blood, burying its former peace deep within.

Temujin, the seventeen-year-old tribal chief, gazed through the layers of reeds, his eyes fixed on the dreamlike scene reflected in the lake's surface, a scene of starlight. His thoughts drifted back to that night three months earlier, when he first witnessed the horrific sight—a corpse mercilessly devoured by vultures. That gruesome image remained etched into his heart like a sharp blade, an indelible mark on his path of growth.

At that moment, the boy's eyes reflected not only the fragility of life and the cruelty of nature, but also ignited an inextinguishable flame—a yearning for strength and protection, and an unyielding harbinger of the coming storms and challenges. On this war-torn land, Temujin's resolve grew ever stronger. He knew that only with iron and blood could he protect the grasslands that had nurtured him, and the innocent creatures that roamed them.

That was the head of Batu, the rebel leader, impaled on a sharpened stake, maggots crawling all over the rotting flesh. Khanate soldiers whipped every passing herdsman, forcing them to spit on the mutilated body. Temujin remembered his hands, hidden inside his sheepskin robe, clenched so tightly they turned white, his nails digging deep into his palms.

"Chief!" Scout Agula nimbly darted through the reeds, crouching low as he passed by, and then reported, "Three more warriors from small tribes have come seeking our services, each with twenty strong warhorses, vowing to fight alongside us."

His young face was covered with a layer of dust from his long journey, but his eyes shone like the brightest stars in the night sky, radiating an undying light and unwavering faith.

Upon hearing this, Temujin slowly stood up. Under the cold moonlight, the copper studs on his leather armor gleamed with a chilling light, as if foreshadowing the impending changes and challenges. Since the brutal Khan Zakya Khan's bloody purge of the twelve tribes in the northwest, displaced tribal people had been seeking new refuge, and such scenes of seeking refuge had become an indispensable daily occurrence.

“Let’s go,” Temujin’s voice was steady and powerful, revealing an unquestionable determination, “Let us go and welcome these brothers and sisters who have come from afar, and discuss the road ahead together.” As he spoke, he strode forward, his steps containing the firmness and pride of leading his people to glory.

The air in the Khan's tent in Ulaanbaatar was thick with the stench of mare's milk. The Khan pushed away the maidservant in his arms, spilling the wine from his golden cup onto the bearskin carpet. His eyes were flushed with drunkenness, and the jewels on his sword gleamed in the candlelight.

"Those lowly people haven't handed over five hundred sheep yet?" He kicked over the tax collector kneeling on the ground, his wolf-tooth-inlaid boots pressing down on the back of the man's neck.

The strategist, Wan Hanzhong, lowered his eyelids, looking at the wine stains on the hem of his blue robe. Three months ago, when he tried to dissuade the Khan from massacring the village, he himself had been brutally beaten by the drunken Naza. He knew that Naza had changed; he was no longer the ambitious tribal leader he once was. At this moment, the howling north wind outside the tent seemed to still carry the stench of the hanged herders' corpses.

"Before the dawn breaks tomorrow, I vow to witness the sheep returning to their pens." The Khan suddenly drew his sword from his waist. With a flash of cold light, the blade plunged heavily into the low table. The sharp edge trembled slightly, as if even a faint candlelight in the air could not be spared, and was silently cleaved in two.

Wan Hanzhong keenly noticed that the Khan's fingers, gripping the sharp blade, were trembling slightly—a stark contrast to his usual image as a domineering and fearless ruler. As night deepened, he led twenty loyal guards away from the royal court, their steps light and untroubled. Behind them, deep within the royal camp, the faint, mournful cries of a woman echoed, like a lone goose in the cold wind, each cry a heart-wrenching pierce the tranquility of the grassland night.

Temujin gently stroked the newly acquired scimitar, its hilt still bearing the warm blood of its former owner—a trophy he had bravely seized three days earlier during a night raid on the Khanate's supply convoy. The centurion, until the flame of his life was extinguished, his eyes remained wide open, filled with disbelief—he had actually fallen to this group of twelve remnants of soldiers considered a rabble.

On the south bank of Daze Lake, a muddy field became the battlefield for over two hundred warriors to hone their equestrian skills. Their leather armor varied in style, seemingly pieced together from various corners, but the red ribbons tied to their left arms served as a silent vow, binding them tightly together. On this land, every movement, every crack of the whip, revealed their indomitable spirit and resilience; they were writing their own legendary chapter with their actions.

"The Khanate's army has plundered the Khas tribe again today." The old hunter Buhe handed over a piece of dried meat. "They stole the last rations and tied the resisting men to the back of their horses and dragged them along." Temujin chewed on the hardened jerky, tasting blood. He knew those red ribbons were spreading across the steppe like wildfire across dry grass.

When the first snowflake landed on Temujin's shoulder, his army had already mustered five hundred warhorses. They trained in mounted archery on the frozen lake, using reeds as targets.

Night deepened, and dark clouds, like monstrous beasts, devoured the last glimmer of starlight, plunging the earth into boundless darkness. The Khan, staggering, emerged from his luxurious yet desolate tent. A gruesome wound on his side, like the breath of a dragon, had quietly festered, emitting a nauseating stench. Three days earlier, the physician who had tried to save his life had been beheaded in his rage for a moment's hesitation during treatment, his blood spilling onto the spot.

The flames of alcohol burned fiercely within him, dispelling the chill and igniting a burning passion and untamed spirit within him. He roughly ripped open his shirt, letting the cold wind cut like a knife across the festering wound, bringing a strange sense of relief and liberation. It was a contempt for pain, or perhaps a mockery of the struggle on the edge of life.

The patrolling soldiers kept a safe distance, not daring to approach the tyrannical and capricious monarch; their eyes were filled with fear and awe. In this land shrouded in the shadow of death, everyone lived in fear, knowing that seven innocent servants had recently been mercilessly executed and lost their lives simply for trembling slightly while changing the Khan's bandages.

The woman appeared at that moment. She knelt before the tent, holding a copper basin, her sheepskin robe stained with bits of grass. When the Khan grabbed her hair, he saw the pale blue wolf's head tattoo on the back of her neck—the mark of the exterminated Kereit tribe. His roar, as the cold blade plunged into the wound, roused the entire camp.

Although the woman who came to change his bandages was unfortunately killed on the spot by the guards who rushed in afterward, this scene not only failed to reverse the Khan's decline but also worsened his injuries. His previous wounds, due to improper treatment, became infected with a cold, causing him to develop a persistent high fever and his body to weaken day by day. This Khan, who harbored ambitions to unify the Mongolian steppes, ultimately succumbed to illness and passed away after only ten days on the vast northwestern grasslands. His unfulfilled ambitions remained forever on the land he had dreamed of conquering.