Chapter 929 Gu Clan Centralizes Power, Clouds Gather

Wherever the wind brushed past, waves of grass rolled like the ocean waves, carrying the sweet and musky scent of grass and earth, along with a primal and soul-stirring force.

At the heart of this emerald sea stood a massive encampment far surpassing ordinary tribes in scale.

The white tents were scattered like mushrooms after the rain, yet concealed some kind of strict order.

At the very center was a majestic golden-roofed tent, with the su-ru-tit on its crest pointing to the sky, reflecting a cold, hard glimmer in the sunlight.

This was Genghis Khan’s "ordos," the very seat of power on the grasslands.

Outside the tent, there were no carved beams, painted rafters, or winding corridors like in the palaces of the Central Plains, only endless openness and vastness.

Yet this vastness itself was a kind of silent majesty.

Near and far, elite cavalry teams patrolled like shepherds tending to flocks, their figures appearing and disappearing amid the rolling grass waves, silent and swift, their eyes sharp like falcons scanning every direction.

Even the most ordinary herdsman women, while milking or tanning leather, gazed at the golden tent with a reverent look, subconsciously softening their actions.

Inside the tent, the atmosphere differed starkly from the blazing sun outside, carrying an unexpected coolness.

The floor was covered with thick, roughly patterned Persian carpets, the walls adorned with complete tiger and wolf pelts, and exquisite weapons and armor seized from the Western Regions.

The air was filled with the mingled fragrance of milk tea, leather, and a peculiar spice.

Temujin—Genghis Khan—did not sit high on a throne like the Emperor of the Central Plains.

He sat cross-legged on a broad, low couch, layered with soft furs beneath him.

He wore a seemingly mundane dark Mongolian robe, with dark golden wolf fur trimming the collar and sleeves, and a leather belt studded with jewels at his waist, hanging a curved sword that had accompanied him in battles for years.

His face, chiseled by the grassland winds and sands, bore sharp angles with raised cheekbones and a nose like an eagle’s beak.

Most striking were his eyes, which were not always wide open in anger but often half-closed, yet when opened, they seemed to penetrate deep into one’s soul.

Before him lay a huge map pieced together from multiple sheepskins.

The map was drawn with far less precision than the maps of the Central Plains, yet possessed its own practicality and wildness.

With charcoal and cinnabar, it roughly sketched mountains, rivers, summer and winter pastures of major tribes, and some areas marked with special symbols such as "fertile lands," "strategic passes," "hostile tribes."

At this moment, his finger was slowly tracing along the southern edge of the map, through the densely symbol-marked region—that represented south of the Great Wall, the opulent entity coveted by grassland warriors for generations—the Great Song.

Beside him sat his most trusted nakir and key generals like Borchu, Mukhlai, Jelme, and Subutai, holding their breath with focused attention.

They, survivors of a hundred battles, bore an indelible scent of blood and frost, yet in Genghis Khan’s presence, were like the most tamed war horses, controlling even their breaths to perfection.

"The Song people to the south," Genghis Khan began, his voice was low, even hoarse, yet carried a strange penetrating power, as if not coming from his throat, but resonating from deep within his chest, each word striking at the listener’s heart, "Their Emperor sits in a palace piled with gold and silk;"

"Their merchants could trade a bolt of silk for ten of our finest sheep;"

"Their craftsmen craft bows and armor that astonish us... but they,"

He paused, and his finger pressed heavily on the map in the Song territory, "Do not possess the grasslands."

He raised his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the commanders: "Borchu, last year you went deep beyond the border with a merchant caravan, tell us, what did you see?"

Borchu, renowned for his bravery and loyalty, at this moment wore a stern expression and spoke in a deep voice: "Great Khan, the Song cities are fortified, their garrison’s equipment excellent."

"But... their border army has not seen major wars for long, lax in patrol, their leaders indulging in the city."

"In the border markets, Song officials are greedy, merchants cunning, the exploitation heavy."

"More importantly," a gleam of insight flashed in his eyes, "Their internal unity seems lacking."

"Some only wish to conduct business and make money, some speak empty of benevolence and justice, fearing war."

"Just like... a group of shepherds guarding a massive granary, yet each has their own thoughts, quarrelling among themselves."

Genghis Khan’s lips slightly pulled back, not in a smile, but a near indifferent realization.

"When shepherds quarrel, it’s when the wolves feast." He opined slowly, "They possess things we do not——countless craftsmen, granaries piled high with food, businesses flowing with gold and silver, and... books recording countless wisdom and strategies."

His gaze returned to the map, his finger slowly moving northward from the Song territory, brushing past the symbols representing the allied tribes, "But we possess what they can never truly acquiesce——"

He stood, not towards the tent entrance, but to the side of the great tent, where hung a massive bow and arrow, with a black bow body and taut string.

He reached out, lightly brushing the cool bow back.

"We possess the most vast pasture under Eternal Heaven," his voice suddenly rose, still steady, "Our hooves can tread wherever grass grows!"

"Our arrows can strike down any prey that dare obstruct the eagle!"

"Our resolve, like Mount Burhan, unyielding, like Onon River, rushing endlessly!"

He spun abruptly, his gaze like lightning, sweeping each commander cowed by his presence: "The Song build walls around themselves, they believe it to be protection."

"But how high can a wall be compared to Eternal Heaven?"

"How thick can a wall be compared to our determination to conquer all?"

"They guard granaries and books, while we——" he extended his right hand, fingers slowly closing, as if to grasp the map before him, indeed the entire world beyond, "We conquer lands, conquer tribes, conquer steeds and swords!!"

"Ultimately, we shall conquer destiny itself!"

"Wherever grass grows," he enunciated slowly, his voice like an ancient vow, deep, solemn, undeniable, "Where rivers run, where the sun shines——all under Genghis Khan’s rule, all the pasture for Mongolian warriors!"

"The Song people’s gold, silk, craftsmen, granaries... all they treasure, all they rely upon for survival, shall, due to their weakness and division, be offered as tribute and spoils to Eternal Heaven, to the grassland eagles!"

The tent fell dead silent, only Genghis Khan’s words resonating, like muffled thunder rolling across every heart.

Borchu, Mukhlai, and others’ chests heaved, eyes aflame with fanatic fire, ignited by absolute confidence and overwhelming ambition.

...

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