Chapter 95: What Was Seen and Heard

This year was a season of turmoil for the entire Mongolian steppe: first the Tatar people rebelled against the Jin, then the Jin chancellor Wanyan Xiang led a large Jin army to crush the Tatars, then Temujin attacked the Tatar stronghold under the guise of avenging his father, killed their leader, seized vast quantities of supplies, and was granted the title of Commander by the Jin, while Wang Han was bestowed the title of King.

Soon after, a branch of the Tatars, aided by the Jin, absorbed the remaining Tatar tribes, and then a strange rumor spread across the steppe—that the Tatars had incited their slaves to murder their masters and shamans. To them, this rumor was absurd, for on the steppe, a slave killing his master was an even greater crime than a son killing his father.

A son killing his father might go unpunished, but a slave killing his master demanded the cruelest punishment—death, followed by shamanic sorcery to imprison his soul in the darkest hell, where it would suffer eternal torment. At the shamans’ instruction, every tribe on the steppe formed a coalition army to punish the heinous Tatars.

The coalition army vastly outnumbered the Tatars and fought with righteous fury; they expected victory to come as easily as a storm tearing through dry grass. Instead, the outcome stunned everyone.

The coalition army was defeated—catastrophically. The Khan of the Onggut tribe, hailed as the bravest warrior on the steppe, was killed by the Tatars in battle, and his entire army suffered devastating losses.

The Taidi tribe lost a third of its forces; the Naiman and Kerait tribes suffered heavy casualties. Soldiers who returned home were driven mad—some collapsed on the ground, clutching their heads, muttering: “Devils, devils, don’t kill me, don’t kill me.”

Watching these broken men, no one could imagine how terrifying the Tatars must have been to drive them all insane.

Panic swept through the entire tribe. Temujin and his men, hiding among the Onggut, shook their heads: “Without Jamukha’s leadership, these people are already scattered dust. Now they’ve lost their courage—they’ll never threaten the Tatars.”

When the Tatar cavalry arrived at the Onggut stronghold, the Onggut surrendered without resistance at the Tatars’ cry of “The Revolutionary Army Treats Prisoners Well.” The tribal nobles, fearing trial, fled—but their horses couldn’t outrun the Tatars’ short clubs.

Once their horses were killed, they were captured alive.

Temujin and his men had resolved to endure any abuse or humiliation—but they discovered the Tatars truly were treating prisoners well.

They even posted the official prisoner treatment regulations: prisoners’ lodging, food, and medical care must be guaranteed; prisoners may be confined, but not imprisoned except under criminal or disciplinary sanctions; they must not be forced into dangerous or degrading labor, and their workday must not exceed eight hours.

Most importantly, the Tatars actually followed these rules. They kept their quarters clean and sanitary, provided decent meals daily, and the sweet potatoes were especially delicious—though eating too many caused excessive flatulence. Daytime emissions were harmless, but at night, those sleeping beside you suffered terribly.

Temujin knew this well—his tentmate Borjigit loved to fart at night: loud and foul.

One day, as the prisoners were led out to work, the guard escorting them noticed Temujin’s dark circles and said: “Gewu Zhen, why don’t we swap your roommate? You look like you haven’t slept in days—this won’t help your re-education.”

Temujin scratched his head: “Could I be moved to share a tent with Hudu Si? I’ve been through too much—I’m uneasy sleeping with strangers.”

Hudu Si was a pseudonym for Hutuile. The guard replied: “Fine, as long as Hudu Si and his current roommate agree.”

Hearing this, Temujin exhaled in relief—his suffering was finally over.

That day’s labor was light: the Tatars made them work only half a day, then led them to a place, claiming they’d perform magic tricks to entertain the prisoners.

Somehow, they sensed the Tatars’ intentions ran deeper. When they arrived, they realized the “magic show” was actually a demonstration of shamanic techniques.

Whatever the shamans could do, these magicians could do too—and better. They didn’t just perform; they taught the prisoners firsthand, even showing them more impressive tricks, like retrieving paper money from boiling oil.

Bold men like Borjigit and Subutai never missed a chance to try anything themselves—even after stepping down, they remained exhilarated.

Borjigit kept muttering as he descended: “Holy hell—if I’d learned this sooner, I wouldn’t have spent my life swinging blades. But it’s not too late now. Heh—heh. With this trick, I’ll show every shaman on the steppe who’s the real master. Whatever shamans can do, I can do. Whatever they can’t, I can too.”

Watching Borjigit and Subutai’s enthusiasm, Temujin silently mourned the shaman Khuo Khuo Chu, who had proclaimed him Khan. He knew: once they returned, Borjigit and Subutai would either steal his job—or smash his livelihood.

But these commanders’ reactions were normal—they knew shamans were frauds, and they themselves had benefited from being fooled.

But the common folk were not beneficiaries. From birth, they’d believed shamans were divine messengers, willingly submitting to slave-masters. Now, the veil was torn away—the shamans were just ordinary men. They could do the same tricks. They were still ordinary men.

In that moment, their faith shattered. Years of willing submission turned into furious hatred. Countless voices roared: “Bring out those frauds! They’re not messengers of heaven—I’ll drown them in the latrine pit and see if they die!”

“The latrine pit’s too gentle. They worship fire—let’s tie them to a post and burn them alive.”

“I say we pierce them with ten thousand arrows.”

“The Han method of tying them to five horses and tearing them apart suits us best—we’ve got plenty of horses.”

Amid the crowd’s outcry, the prison camp overseer dragged the shamans onto the stage and shouted: “Good people, quiet down! I know you’re furious to learn you’ve been deceived—but we must respect your cultural beliefs. We must verify whether these men truly are divine messengers. Here’s the final test: if they pass, they may remain shamans. If they fail, they’re not.”

Temujin and his men remembered the mad scout’s words: the final test was ten blows to the forehead with a short club—survive, and you’re a divine messenger.

They already knew the outcome. A club could kill a man from eight hundred paces away—let alone ten blows pressed against the skull.

If anyone survived that, you didn’t just claim to be a divine messenger—you could say you were the Son of Heaven, and they’d believe you.