When the Khan's final scream faded among the blood-soaked stones of the hill, the winds across the steppe seemed to shift. It was no longer the same wild air that had once kissed the faces of generations of free riders. Now, it carried the scent of steel, of fire... of empire.
Luo Wen did not celebrate. He had no need for it. His victory demanded no cheers, no banners raised high into the sky. Only commands. Precise. Cold.
"Let none escape," he said in a low voice, barely above a whisper. "I want every inch of this land beneath our feet."
What followed was a relentless hunt. Scattered tribes, lost caravans, villages that still believed they could hide among the folds of the land—they were all pursued with unyielding resolve. Luo Wen hunted them with the precision of a surgeon and the weariness of an executioner long past mercy. For every man who fled, an imperial patrol set out in pursuit. For every mother who hid with her child, a pillar of smoke marked the cost of defiance.
The campaign stretched on for weeks. And by the end, all that remained was dust, ruin... and survivors with hollow eyes, shackled in iron.
That was when Luo Wen summoned Shen Ruolin.
The man arrived clad for war, but his mind was sharpened for politics. He needed only a single glance to understand the scope of what had been laid before him. At his feet was an army that had never truly fought—a horde of prisoners, captives, and exiles. Barbarians.
"From this moment on," Luo Wen said, handing him a decree sealed in black wax, "you are the General of the North. Under your command: fifty thousand elite imperial soldiers. And every barbarian we've captured. Your mission: ensure the empire does not end at the walls of our fortresses… but where no soul remains to oppose us."
Shen Ruolin didn't respond immediately. He simply nodded, as though he had already envisioned every step long before the words were spoken.
The first months were a mixture of steel and speech.
Shen Ruolin did not rule with the lash. He ruled with the scalpel.
He separated the captives with surgical care. Those who had stood with the Khan until the bitter end were executed without ceremony. "They were already dead," he would say. But the young, the weary, the pragmatic… they were marked, cataloged, watched.
To them, he offered something they had never dared imagine: belonging.
"You will not be slaves," he told them one night by the fire. "You will be soldiers. Your chieftains abandoned you. Your gods betrayed you. But I… I will give you a new cause."
He gave them new names. He assigned them ranks. He returned their horses—not for escape, but to ride at his side.
The loyal among them quickly became his personal guard. They adopted imperial insignia, but still spoke in their native tongue when among themselves. Their rituals, their dances, their prayers—those were allowed to continue, though always under the watchful eye of imperial captains. Just enough to preserve their sense of identity. Never enough to rekindle their sense of freedom.
And with them, Shen Ruolin made his next move: to divide what remained of the resistance.
In the northern plains, a few tribes still clung to freedom. They lived hidden, slipping through caves and mountains, sustained by tales of vengeance and dreams of retribution.
Ruolin hunted them—not with armies, but with whispers.
He sent messengers. Pretended defectors. Former brothers of the Khan now clad in imperial armor.
They spoke of clemency, offered food, immunity, dignity. All they had to do was hand over their leaders. And when they accepted, he turned those traitors into examples. He gave them authority over their own kin. Then, slowly, he demoted them, reassigned them, forced them to fight against other tribes… until they forgot what they once were.
Those who refused? They died alone. No allies. No banner. For Shen Ruolin conquered not just with blades, but with time.
In a report sent to the imperial capital months later, one officer wrote:
"The North no longer belongs to the tribes. Shen Ruolin has maintained imperial control over the region with absolute authority. For the next fifty years, no uprising is likely to emerge. However, the imperial grip on the region depends entirely on Shen Ruolin. Should he rebel—or die without a successor—our influence will vanish."
And upon reading this, Luo Wen smiled—for the first time since the war. Despite the flaws in the system he had built, it would hold. At least, long enough.
Atop the same hill where the Khan had once roared his defiance, a new banner now fluttered in the wind.
It was black and red. Imperial in design.
But embroidered... by barbarian hands.
And Shen Ruolin stood gazing toward the horizon, where other lands, other threats, awaited. Behind him stood an army—part conquerors, part conquered. Before him, a vast emptiness.
He smiled.
For from that emptiness, his legacy would rise.
"Today we sow control," he whispered. "Tomorrow, we shall reap order."
And no one dared to speak against him.