Chapter 96: Hatred

Ten shots, only ten shots, shattered the burning ambition of Subutai and Borjigin to become shamans—on the very first shot, the shaman was dead, his skull pierced by a massive bloodied hole, blood gushing uncontrollably, more dead than dead.

Yet the tester insisted on firing ten shots before reluctantly stopping, the head now unrecognizable as a head.

But this gruesome death drew thunderous applause from the audience below; Temujin knew the authority of divine power had collapsed utterly here—no shaman could ever again pretend to be a god to uphold his supreme status.

Then what fate awaited nobles and tribal leaders who needed divine authority to legitimize their rule?

The answer came swiftly from the Tatara people: when nobles dressed in luxurious robes reappeared on the platform before them, they no longer carried their former imposing aura.

“Zhadalin, you beast, do you remember my son Mu’a? Since my grandfather’s generation, our family has served you as beasts of burden—four generations straight. Even if we earned no merit, we at least endured hardship. Yet because I spilled wine by accident, you had him whipped to death. Now the Sky God has opened His eyes—someone has finally come to punish you beasts.”

A bent, emaciated herdsman limped onto the platform and hurled curses at his former slave master.

The old man’s anguish and tragic tale instantly stirred sympathy from the crowd—not the pity for the weak, but the chilling realization of shared suffering: what happened to him, they too had endured; some had suffered even worse.

“My brother endured your beatings without a single complaint—why did you make him your son’s archery target?”

“And me—did you not know my daughter’s skull was turned into a drinking vessel by these bastards? How dare they drink from my daughter’s skull? How dare they?”

Moans and curses filled the air. There is a saying: when a thousand point fingers, even the healthy die. To be condemned by a thousand voices is enough to drive one to despair—how much more so when a thousand eyes burn with a hunger to devour you alive?

He had once cared nothing—anyone who dared to slight him was beaten to death on his orders. Now, they had to bear the hatred of these people, who longed to tear their flesh and gnaw their skin.

They were terrified. They lowered their heads, unable to meet the victims’ furious gazes, forcing themselves to treat the curses as wind passing through their ears.

Once towering above all, they now cowered before the slaves they had despised. And Temujin and his men realized something vital: hatred did not exist merely between tribes, or between Jurchens and Mongols, or between noble and noble—it existed between noble and slave.

This hatred ran deeper still, accumulated over generations, yet they had never cared—because slaves and herders were too lowly. But their indifference, their neglect, did not make this hatred vanish. It piled like dry tinder, until someone finally lit a flame upon it.

“Dear fellow villagers, according to public opinion, reactionary elements such as Zhadalin, Muhaodu, and Guiyou have long persecuted the masses with cruel methods. In accordance with the base’s statutes, they shall be executed by firing squad today.” After the trial, the staff member in charge announced the verdict.

As the sentence was read, everyone witnessed the execution of these nobles. When the gunshots rang out, the once-mighty figures became nothing but corpses.

Their deaths merely added more carrion for the vultures of the steppe and brought cheers from those burdened with blood-deep grudges.

After these men died, Temujin noticed the once-lifeless Wanggu tribe had suddenly come alive. He could not help but recall the young men he had seen in the Jin camp—truly, he possessed the miraculous power to transform decay into vitality.

“Alright, now we announce our policies. First, we have overthrown the slave-owning nobles—so their pastures and livestock shall be confiscated. Then, we will distribute livestock and tools according to household size, with priority given to families with soldiers.”

After the executions, the official announced this news again. Instantly, enlistment surged through the tribe—everyone rushed to sign up, terrified of being left behind.

Temujin joined these men into the Revolutionary Army; after days as a prisoner, finally entering the camp felt like a long-awaited fulfillment.

Several men examined the camp curiously. The strange training methods drew their attention—they were all commanders who had led armies, future generals who would sweep the world—and they could already discern the logic behind these unfamiliar drills.

At the very least, even without acquiring rifles, merely learning these military principles made the trip worthwhile. Before new recruits were assigned to units, the army granted them a day off to relax.

After reuniting, Temujin sat in the main seat and asked the officers: “After a month of observation and study, tell me your views on this so-called Revolutionary Army.”

Borjigin, Temujin’s personal guard commander, spoke first: “After a month of observation, I believe Muqali’s words were too conservative. Twelve thousand Revolutionary soldiers, even without rifles, wouldn’t just win—they would crush any opponent.”

“Oh? Elaborate,” Temujin said, watching Borjigin with keen interest—he was never disappointed by his guard commander.

“From my observations, this force is flawless. In attack, they lack no courage; in ambush, they lack no patience; when defending under crisis, they lack no tenacity. Orders from commanders reach the lowest soldiers instantly, and soldiers give everything to fulfill those orders.”

“Tribal alliances fight independently, with no unified command. At the first hardship, they flee. Offer a lure, and they swarm like ants—you can’t control them. Even when they flee, tribes mix together and cause panic. The Revolutionary Army fighting tribal alliances is like a strong young man beating a dozen feeble, cane-wielding old men gasping for breath.” Borjigin finished, and everyone burst into laughter.

“Anything else?” Temujin asked, glancing around. Chiluwen spoke next: “I think their training is excellent—it keeps you constantly in training. To be honest, I didn’t understand at first why they were so strict about cleanliness—like folding quilts into tofu blocks. But after thinking about it, I realized: it trains soldiers to obey orders instantly. War is life or death—every second counts. Waste a moment, and you lose the opportunity. This army lets you seize every possible chance.”

Temujin was deeply pleased by their growth.