The lords of the Alliance, draped in magnificent robes that signaled their lofty ranks, gathered in the square before a Temple of the Sun in Bogne. This place had been lavishly renovated as an offering to the gods, and now, the people assembled with jubilant hearts to dedicate a treaty to the divine—the finest trophy ever wrested from the broken "Royal Members."

　　The Marquis of Sirleid enjoyed but a fleeting moment of peace before his end. On his deathbed, he expressed his wish for his second son, Heles, to succeed him as the Lord of Sirleid. He hoped Heles would utilize his natural talent for shrewd calculation and diplomatic finesse to preserve as much of Sirleid's independence as possible, while avoiding any suspicion from the Frontier Alliance that might invite disaster.

　　The overbearing Alliance, however, was far from pleased with this choice. Heles had fought gallantly alongside his elder brother, Bilidas, in the defense of Desaler, and his brother’s death in battle had left him with a simmering resentment and a deep-seated vigilance toward the Alliance. Thus, the Alliance preferred the third son, Glenod, to take the lordship; they believed his timid nature would make him a mere puppet, easily manipulated by courtiers and controlled by the Alliance.

　　Yet even the weak-willed Glenod could not bring himself to betray his sovereign. He confessed that his eldest brother had died while shielding him from an enemy encirclement, a sacrifice that left him burdened by an enduring sense of guilt and self-reproach. But where the sons were restrained by conscience, the magistrate and courtier Colenwim was a man of boundless audacity and zero shame.

　　During the war against the Alliance, fearing that his own fief would be ravaged by the blades of conflict, Colenwim had ordered the Sirleid army to retreat deep toward Laitli under the guise of "luring the enemy in." This cowardice did not save his lands; instead, it allowed the formidable Alliance to deploy its forces with impunity, plunging the entire Sirleid army into a deathtrap.

　　In the wake of Bilidas’s death and the Marquis’s overwhelming grief, Colenwim narrowly escaped being held to account. However, once Heles ascended as Lord, he heeded his advisors' counsel to launch an investigation into the previous military failures. Colenwim employed every trick in the book to obstruct the inquiry, but his frantic efforts only served to expose his own guilt.

　　Panicked, he fled to his fief and, on the advice of his retainers, cried out to the Frontier Alliance for salvation. Seizing upon the traitor’s plea, the lords of the West Town and Hemira excitedly declared this the perfect opportunity to oust Heles and install Glenod. While the East Town lords voiced their disapproval of such treachery, they nonetheless looked the other way as their allies’ troops marched through their territories toward the south.

　　Emboldened by this support, Colenwim grew insolent, denouncing Heles as a tyrant and raising the banner of open rebellion. In Nisur, the Count of Colibia heard the news; though he was secretly gloating, Trosbini maintained a facade of righteous indignation, publicly condemning the revolt while privately watching the situation like a hawk, ready to strike for vengeance.

　　During this time, bolstered by Alliance aid, the rebel Colenwim managed to hold his ground against his Lord. Under the Alliance's coercion, the neighboring regions of Kelis and Darisas were also forced to side with the traitor. The Count of Colibia seized this moment to dispatch envoys who slipped into Ral and Binehus, using their silver tongues to stir the two lords into action.

　　Ral and Binehus, terrified of becoming the next victims, mobilized a force in the name of the "Royal Members" at the Sirleid border. They struck west with speed, and their envoys were received with grand ceremony at the capital of Sirleid. Trosbini took the opportunity to claim that the King of Hedlim had once granted Colibia the power of arbitration, asserting that he could no longer stand idly by.

　　Thus, with a grand gesture of defiance, the Count issued a general call to arms, mobilizing every adult male in Colibia. Several eastern allies joined his ranks. After performing sacrifices to the gods according to the ancient rites of the Willem era, the army set out toward the west. It was an imposing sight, with banners fluttering in the wind, yet the column moved with a deliberate lack of urgency, stopping and starting as if biding its time.

　　This eastern mobilization finally jolted the Alliance into action, and they dispatched an army under the pretext of "quelling the rebellion." Reaching the Soler region, they halted out of caution, advancing into the Kelis border only after they had scouted the specific movements of the "Royal Army."

　　The Marquis, asserting that this was an internal matter for the Royal Members, flatly refused to grant the Alliance envoys an audience. With the arrival of the "Royal Army," the reluctant Kelis and Darisas immediately abandoned the rebel camp. The former even pleaded for the Marquis's help, citing the Alliance’s encroachment. As the Alliance lords bickered over their next move, the commander Vigim, acting on his own authority under the guise of a "localized skirmish," launched an assault on Kelis.

　　The Alliance's aggression met with fierce resistance from the Kelis defenders. Simultaneously, the arrival of the Royal Army at his gates left Colenwim threatened by his own people. The collapse of the rebellion and the failure at Kelis dealt a staggering blow to the Alliance, leaving them both bloodied and shamed.

　　Upon hearing the news, the Eastern army halted its advance. They disbanded the bulk of their forces, retaining only a ceremonial honor guard to signify their rank and status. Shortly thereafter, acting in the name of the Royal House, Colibia dispatched envoys to the Highland League. They were received with genuine warmth, delivering speeches on peace and unity before the League’s representative assembly.

　　Emboldened by these victories, the common folk of the Soler region took up arms in open defiance, receiving timely reinforcements from Marquis Heles and the "Royal Army." Caught off guard, the Alliance forces were thrown into a chaotic skirmish and eventually forced to retreat, leaving the local victors to erupt in jubilant cheers.

　　The reckless maneuvers of the commanding generals and the string of subsequent defeats exacerbated the bickering within the Alliance. Even more dire was the declaration from the East Town lords; they claimed they were forced to withdraw their southern armies, as the eruption of conflict at Mud City necessitated an immediate strengthening of their own border defenses.

　　The final Governor of that vital fortress had been a tribal chieftain. He possessed neither the skill to coordinate tribal relations nor the capacity to ward off incursions. Instead, he had exploited his title and the convenience of his office—coupled with a shrewd business mind—to amass a staggering personal fortune.

　　The blame for this monumental failure lay squarely with the East Town lords. Out of a desire to cut costs and simplify administration, and distracted by their southern ambitions, the East Town had entrusted this critical responsibility to the defected barbarian chieftain and his tribesmen. Thus, the Governor of Mud City, who should have been a loyal servant of the South, became little more than a vassal lord who paid only nominal homage to the Limidians.

　　While the Alliance was preoccupied with its maneuvers against Colibia near the Ral capital of Loren, beacons of war were lit around Mud City. Knowing he could expect no aid from his southern patrons, the Governor pinned his remaining hopes on the lords of Piratel. After a perilous struggle, a Piratel army finally appeared on the Hurur grasslands, led by the most noble Wilcalo.

　　Mud City, once a symbol of honor and conquest, was reduced to a wasteland after this second ferocious battle, where the defenders and the enemy nearly annihilated one another. Unable to restore the shattered defensive lines, the Governor had no choice but to dismiss his surviving subordinates, leaving them to seek a living on the Piratel Highlands or in the South. The Piratel army, having secured a Pyrrhic victory, returned to the highlands to convene a council on security and union.

　　In a spirit of true cooperation, these men cast aside distinctions of rank. They chose their commanders based on the principles of tactical brilliance and individual valor, pledging absolute obedience to their orders. United in purpose, they fought with a tenacity that crushed the arrogance of the barbarians, forcing the nomads to dismount, bow their heads, and enter the tents to send their most silver-tongued orators to haggle at the negotiating table.

　　Yet, the carnage at Mud City had done nothing more than clear the path for the true barbarian conqueror. Taking advantage of the fact that the southern Limidians were too busy with their internal strife to look north, he used strategic marriages and raw martial power to gather the scattered tribes under a single totem. And the weakened people of the south offered no resistance as the barbarians stormed into Gravel City.

　　The barbarians flung open the gates to Piratel, leaving the highlanders paralyzed with terror. The lords and governors of Piratel scrambled to the barbarian tents, prostrating themselves before their new conqueror in a desperate plea for mercy, hoping he might stay his hand.

　　To their shock, the conqueror Cheban seemed to have shed the wanton cruelty of his past, displaying a surprising magnanimity toward the vanquished. He promised the trembling populace that as long as they paid a regular tribute of wealth and goods, they would be spared from calamity and allowed to live in peace and stability.

　　The city's massive defensive walls now stood as silent monuments to the barbarian victory. Though the nomads had always held such stone structures in contempt, viewing them as symbols of sedentary weakness, Cheban and his men could not help but feel a jolt of awe as they stood atop the ramparts looking down. In that moment, they were forced to admit that such formidable defenses would have cost their army dearly in blood.

　　Cheban’s father, Bruha, had been a mere chieftain. Had it not been for the monumental achievements of his descendants, the name and existence of his small tribe would likely have been swallowed by the sands of time. It began with Bruha’s eldest son, Nusul, who led three sturdy servants to help an old shepherd reclaim a stolen flock—a small act of justice that inadvertently ignited the fires of a total tribal war.

　　Nusul’s intervention sparked a bitter feud. The rival tribe, acting on their chieftain’s orders, vowed to seize Nusul’s celebrated bow and the stallion beneath him. The old shepherd, followed by his half-healed son, rode into the fray, giving their lives to repay their chieftain’s family. Bruha honored their sacrifice with a lavish burial and entrusted his own wife to care for the shepherd’s pregnant widow.

　　When that widow gave birth to a boy, Bruha celebrated with a grand feast, declaring to all assembled that the child was not only the hope of a family but a harbinger of the tribe's coming prosperity. Bruha’s wife treated the widow as her own daughter and loved the infant as if he were her own blood. This compassion won the chieftain the adoration of his people and forged an unbreakable internal unity.

　　Meanwhile, a rival named Kanrada, emboldened by absorbing the tribes scattered during the Battle of Mud City, felt his power reaching its zenith. He mustered his forces for a comeback, only to be crushed once again by Bruha and his allies. Yet, Bruha did not abuse his power as victor, nor was he blinded by greed for spoils. This wisdom earned him the grudging respect of his enemies and the undying loyalty of his followers.

　　As the tribe’s strength grew, so did the duality of Bruha’s reputation—inspiring both reverence and friendship from some, and envy and hostility from others. On the eve of a great clash with Kanrada, the chieftain confessed to his family that he was weary of seeing the grasslands drenched in blood. He hoped that after this final battle, peace and silence would finally return to the steppes.

　　Tragically, these words of mercy served as a grim prophecy. Both the chieftain and his eldest son were slain in the engagement; truly, they would never see blood spilled again. The second son, Mojege, fell from his horse with a shattered right arm—an injury so severe he could no longer master a steed, wield a mace, or draw a bow to full strength. Thus, the heavy mantle of the present and the future fell upon the youngest son, Cheban.

　　The obscure successor lacked his brothers' legendary marksmanship and combat prowess, but he possessed something more vital: a steadfast resolve to fulfill his father’s legacy. He ensured that the disabled Mojege retained a position of high honor within the tribe, a gesture that granted Cheban immense moral support. In return, the new chieftain treated his elder brother with the most meticulous respect.

　　At Cheban's side stood Lehanto, his chief strategist and right hand. Lehanto was the grandson of the old shepherd, a descendant of the very first soul to follow Bruha's cause. Though they shared no blood, Cheban regarded him as a brother of the heart. On the cusp of the decisive battle, the two huddled together to craft their strategy.

　　At the break of dawn, Cheban held a solemn prayer ritual. Led by a female shaman, the entire host knelt on one knee around a towering totem. The timing was impeccable; as the first light of day broke, Cheban solemnly announced that, guided by the elders, he had received a revelation. The heavens had accepted their sacrifices and shown him the path to total victory.

　　The enemy, hearing of the old chieftain’s death and the crippling of his heirs, was jubilant. They treated the news as a final victory and spent the night feasting in their camps. On the following day, Cheban did not appear on the field in the ornate robes of a leader. Misled by their lack of reconnaissance, the enemy assumed the day was won and committed their entire strength—even grooms and slaves rushed onto the field, eager to scavenge for spoils.

　　But the morale and ferocity of Cheban's people had not withered with their old chief. They believed in their new leader and were convinced they were under divine protection. Cheban's forces held firm against the initial onslaught, and when the enemy realized they could not break the line with a single blow, they fell into a panicked disarray.

　　Lehanto, the leader’s closest confidant, led a force of kinsmen in a sweeping flank maneuver, striking the enemy from the rear. The rival tribes abandoned their banners and fled in a disgraceful rout. This victory ensured that no power on the steppes could ever challenge Cheban again. It served as his true coronation—the moment he became the new Conqueror of the Steppes.

　　Cheban sat upon a bench draped with a bear-skin rug, his magnificent boots catching the light. The silver studs, the spurs, and the inlaid indigo stones on his footwear were the silent languages of nobility and absolute power. He accepted the treasures and weapons offered in tribute with a satisfied smile. To the gathered chieftains, he spoke: "If by this way I can prevent more blood from being shed, then I would rather endure the accusation of being 'weak' than the hollow praise of being a 'tyrant'."

　　The Conqueror of the Steppes seemed now to possess the true virtues of a king. By the sheer force of his will, he had gathered the scattered tribes of the plains into a single fold, finally fulfilling his father’s dying wish: that blood should no longer drench the grasslands. For a time, a profound tranquility settled over the steppes. Yet, having become the undisputed overlord of all, the Conqueror began to hatch a new and grander ambition.

　　He was in no rush to march blindly in any one direction. Instead, his gaze remained fixed upon the western Piratel Highlands. In the golden age of the Limidians, this region had stood as a bastion of their strength and glory—a land where the people wielded both the sword and the plow with equal mastery. Not only did they maintain permanent dominion over those heights, but they also posed a constant lateral threat to any barbarian conqueror in Hurur.

　　Under the protection of Cheban’s military might and the newfound order he imposed, merchant caravans flourished. As they brought goods and wealth to the steppe tribes, they also served as the ears and eyes of the Conqueror, delivering vital intelligence from the highlands. Cheban used his vast riches to recruit and maintain a specialized corps—engineers and craftsmen who mastered the construction of massive siege engines, tools that would prove indispensable in shattering any fortified wall. However, after his bloodless entry into Gravel City, Cheban realized that gaining the cooperation of these people through mutual profit was far more valuable than ruling through their fear.

　　To deepen his bonds with the lords of Piratel, he accepted an invitation to a Winter Solstice banquet. En route to Gravel City, he encountered the ruins of an ancient temple. Cheban called a halt to his procession, lingering to observe the crumbling walls with painstaking detail. To most barbarians, such architecture was a matter of indifference or even scorn—they lacked the eye for intricate structures or ornate carvings, seeing them only as potential vaults for hidden treasure.

　　His servants followed at a cautious distance, and his courtiers dared not utter a word, fearing they might shatter his concentration. Finally, he decided to dismount. He reached out to touch the cold stone of the walls. Even when warned that the structure was dangerously eroded and liable to collapse at any moment, Cheban remained lost in thought. It was a long time before the Conqueror finally returned to the present. Seeing his retinue waiting patiently in the shadows, he turned to them and spoke:

　　"Do you see this? This temple was once a dwelling for the gods, a magnificent monument to a time of unrivaled power. I linger here not out of a passing whim, nor because I possess any skill in the art of building. I do so because I want you all to remember that we, too, have walked the razor’s edge of peril and catastrophe. And think of those who fought by our sides—while we feast upon the fruits of victory, they lie in the cold earth, never to return to their kin laden with riches. We must never allow ourselves to forget them."