Chapter 93: Great Victory Over the Steppe Alliance

Jamuq swung his saber wildly as he galloped across the grasslands, surrounded by thousands of warriors from the Zhadan tribe guarding their leader, while the thirteen tribes of the Wanggu clan encircled the Zhadan, advancing and retreating as one.

At that moment, Zhamu was filled with heroic fervor; he was certain that Temujin would never break his word, for if he openly violated his oath before all, everyone would make him pay dearly.

As for the Tatar people, he paid them no mind—after all, even that coward Temujin had breached their encampment, slain their leader, and stolen their cattle and sheep, so surely he, Jamuq, could do the same.

Once this fortress fell, the Tatars’ wealth, their cattle and sheep, and this most lush pastureland would all be his.

“Boom, boom—”

Deafening explosions erupted one after another, as if the sky itself were trembling. The tribe’s warriors, once as fierce as wolves, now helplessly collapsed under the relentless barrage, like waves swallowing them whole. The hunters, once as swift and sharp as falcons, now appeared pitifully small before this devastating power.

The shockwaves hurled them violently into the air, like kites with severed strings, utterly out of control. In an instant, once-vibrant lives were reduced to piles of bloody, mangled flesh on the ground. The air reeked of gunpowder and death, sending chills down every spine.

This sudden catastrophe left the tribe’s warriors and hunters utterly defenseless; their bravery and skill seemed pathetically futile against such annihilating force. The once-feared warriors now became mere victims of this disaster.

Yet the shadow of disaster had not yet lifted. As they halted, gasping for breath, one fearless warrior after another fell like giants struck down by fate, collapsing into pools of blood. Their bodies, once brimming with strength and life, now lay cold and rigid.

The fallen warriors bore horrifying blood-filled holes in their heads and chests. Blood gushed from these wounds, staining their battle robes and turning the once-hopeful land crimson. These gaping wounds were like the devil’s brand, indelibly marking them, proclaiming the end of their lives.

Suddenly, their leader—the Gur Khan, whom the shamans had prophesied would lead them to glory—collapsed without warning into a pool of blood.

Dozens of identical blood-filled holes appeared on his body; his eyes, filled with disbelief and fury, seemed still to cry out for the unfinished dreams he would never realize.

At this moment, the Tatar-held A Lan Fortress loomed before them like the gates of hell, and everyone turned and fled in panic.

Just then, the gates of hell opened, and demons crawled out wielding strange weapons, mercilessly snatching away their lives.

The inexplicable nature of this death was too torturous—finally, they broke. They mounted their fastest horses and fled with all their might.

The retreating Wanggu tribe collided head-on with the advancing Taidi tribe.

“The devils are coming—run!” the panicked Wanggu shouted, slashing wildly with their sabers at anyone blocking their path.

The Taidi chieftain was bewildered when he saw Tatar cavalry charging toward them—but these riders carried no sabers or bows, only short sticks—was this suicide?

“Bang! Bang! Bang!” Sustained gunfire erupted, and the Taidi warriors fell in waves like cut wheat.

Without hesitation, the Taidi chieftain ordered his entire force to retreat—the Tatars were terrifying; they had killed a third of his men from over eight hundred paces away. If he didn’t flee now, every last man would be slaughtered.

The collapse of the Wanggu and Taidi tribes paralyzed the arriving Naiman and Kerait forces; tens of thousands of soldiers descended into chaos. At that moment, Guo Jing ordered his cavalry to split into two wings and launch a pincer attack on the enemy flanks.

Watching the Tatars charge while their own troops fell into disarray, the Naiman and Kerait leaders grew frantic, utterly at a loss for what to do.

The Tatars launched an assault—no, it was no longer an assault; it was a massacre. All they had to do was point their short sticks and kill soldiers from eight hundred paces away.

This was too terrifying. Their archers had not even reached three hundred paces before breaking and fleeing. After eliminating them, the Tatars turned their full fury upon the rest.

These twelve thousand cavalry were not here to strike their flanks—they were here to utterly annihilate them.

No one could endure the agony of being slaughtered without the ability to fight back. The Naiman and Kerait tribes shattered completely.

Nearly one hundred thousand cavalry scattered in every direction, each man whipping his horse furiously, praying it would run just a little faster.

On the hillside, Temujin, watching the Mongol tribes’ battle, was stunned. He was profoundly grateful he had lured the tribes into battle with the promise of Tatar wealth, cattle, and grasslands—otherwise, he would have been the one destroyed.

Nearly a hundred thousand steppe allied troops were utterly powerless against the twelve thousand Tatar warriors.

Borokh sighed and asked Muqali: “Muqali, weren’t you saying we might defeat the Tatars? Is that even possible?”

He considered himself one of the rarest master archers on the steppe, yet his arrows could barely reach three hundred paces—and even then, it was uncertain if they could kill. But those Tatar warriors below could kill from eight hundred paces away—this was truly terrifying.

“I don’t know. Don’t ask me—I just now learned what these sticks do,” Muqali replied, shaking his head.

Had he known these sticks were so deadly, he would have stolen a couple and tried to replicate them.

Temujin said nothing and led his troops back. There was no point staying here; better to return and consult his generals.

“Today’s battle—our united tribes were crushed by the Tatars. Now they will surely unify the entire grassland. Where do we go from here?” Temujin sighed, asking his generals in the tent.

The generals fell silent. Today’s battle had shaken them to their core; they had no idea how to defeat such a terrifying enemy.

At that moment, Muqali stepped forward and said: “The Tatars defeated all our tribes today solely because of those short sticks. We must obtain a few from them and have our craftsmen replicate them.”

Temujin nodded and said to Muqali: “Then this task is yours.”