Gathering the Young
The beasts of the North hold their breath when winter arrives. Yet, a starving beast will eventually crawl from its den, wandering through the blizzard until it finally tastes blood. The northern barbarians, including the Krauk tribe, were no different. Pushed to the absolute brink of survival, they were left with only two choices: starve to death, or knock on the gates of the South to live.
Having resolved to undertake the Great Migration, Great Chieftain Temur first dispatched a messenger south to the Winproter Grand Duchy. It was a decision born of his responsibility as a leader—a desire to avoid spilling blood needlessly if the matter could be resolved through dialogue. And on the day the messenger returned to the barracks after half a year of braving the bitter cold, a name that would alter Khan's destiny was spoken for the very first time.
"Great Chieftain! I have returned with news of Winproter!"
The messenger, his nose blackened by severe frostbite, collapsed near the hearth, gasping for breath. Temur, draped in bear fur, approached him personally and offered a warm bowl of meat broth. The tribal elders swallowed hard, their eyes locked onto the messenger's mouth. Khan, whose voice had only recently begun to crack with adolescence, listened intently from behind his father's broad back.
"The master of the southern wall, the Winproter Grand Duchy, has changed. The stubborn, old former Grand Duke collapsed from illness, and a young heir who has just completed his succession has taken his place."
"A young Grand Duke..."
Temur stroked his thick beard with his heavy fingers. A faint glimmer of hope washed over the elders' faces.
"A hot-blooded youth is far better than those decrepit old foxes. At least there might be room for negotiation. Tell me, what is this greenhorn Grand Duke's name?"
"Reinhardt. He is called Reinhardt von Winproter."
Standing quietly in the back, Khan froze.
...Reinhardt? It was a name he had heard somewhere before.
He thought back to that miraculous night when, as an infant who had barely survived his first year, he lay burning with a terrible fever. In that moment, faint memories of a past life had flashed before his eyes. The consciousness of a modern man. The countless games and fantasy media he had devoured in his previous existence.
Ah! That game from my past life!
A sudden image flashed through Khan's mind. A bearded middle-aged tank character, wielding a mountain-sized hammer and a massive shield, absorbing every attack at the absolute front lines of his allies. That character's name had definitely been Reinhardt.
Khan looked down at his own forearms.
Yes. To face the Empire from this barren North, half-hearted swordsmanship or archery won't cut it. If I can't pierce their shields, I must crush them shield and all. I, too, must become a vanguard commander who shatters the enemy's formations.
The fragmented knowledge of his past life coalesced, inspiring a distinct combat style unique to Khan. From that day forward, Khan became both the first to arrive at the Krauk tribe's training grounds and the last to leave. Though he was noticeably larger than the other children, the chieftain's son—whose bones had not yet fully matured—was already swinging heavy steel hammers and double-bitted axes that even adult warriors struggled to wield with both hands.
"Hrrgh...! Aaaagh!"
Khan threw himself into training alongside the tribe's finest warriors. He dedicated himself to swinging weapons larger than his own body and enduring the crushing weight of head-on attacks. Hundreds of times, the flesh of his palms tore away only to be replaced by thick calluses. As his muscles tore and rebuilt themselves, Khan's physique began to swell to monstrous proportions, utterly transcending the limits of his peers.
Temur watched his son in silence, nodding in approval. Though he was monitoring the situation and attempting to initiate peaceful dialogue through letters, as Great Chieftain, he could not afford to ignore the worst-case scenario.
"Khan. It would be ideal if the gates of the South opened for us, but what must we do if the Empire ultimately refuses?"
"We break our way in. Even if we have to tear the gates off their hinges."
"Indeed. Because we must survive."
Following Temur's directive, the training regimen of the entire Krauk tribe shifted. The traps and spears once used for hunting beasts were set aside. Treating the towering ice walls as the great ramparts of the Empire, the warriors began realistic siege training. This was the genesis of the northern barbarian army that would one day strike terror into the heart of the Empire.
Years passed. The harsh northern climate molded the boy into a robust young man. Khan had now surpassed the stature of his father, Temur, growing into a warrior with muscles as solid as bedrock.
"Pull! Pull harder!"
*Crack—Boom!* Dozens of sturdy men hauled on a rope as thick as a man's forearm, swinging a log weighing hundreds of kilograms to slam into a massive ice wall erected as a mock rampart. Shards of ice exploded outward like shrapnel.
"Haa... Haa..."
At the vanguard, Khan, who bore the thickest rope over his shoulder, exhaled heavily. His hot breath bloomed white against the freezing northern air. The sweat trickling down his spine froze before it could even drip. Unbothered, Khan adjusted his grip on his axe.
It would be nice if words sufficed... but why would those imperial bastards willingly accept outsiders? In the worst-case scenario, I will have to shatter that imperial wall with my own two hands.
Over the years, the father and son combed through the barren northern lands, persuading the scattered barbarian tribes. Faced with the shared catastrophe of ecological collapse, most of the tribes rallied under Temur's banner, sympathizing with his grand cause. Among them were the friendly Kelos tribe, who communed with beasts and lived in harmony with nature, and the wise Mangar tribe, who had recorded the history of the North for generations.
The grand coalition they forged was now large enough to rival a small nation. Yet, the journey had been far from smooth. Where the light is bright, the shadows run deep. Beneath the surface of this great unification for survival lay inevitable power struggles and bloody conflicts.
"Chieftain! The Kraktribe bastards have struck our rear supply lines again! They plundered our stockpiled food and burned the tents of the Mangar tribe!"
At the messenger's urgent report, the temperature inside the barracks plummeted. The Kraktribe—vicious, warlike heretics of the North who refused to relinquish their vested interests—were a cult of fanatics who viewed the changing of nature as divine destiny. Not only did they refuse to join the coalition, but as the climate shift depleted their own food supplies, they repeatedly backstabbed Temur's alliance, dragging them into persistent, small-scale skirmishes.
Temur's gaze darkened with cold fury. Rising from his seat, he drew the battleaxe planted beside him.
"There is no more mercy for those who covet the blood of our allies. Tomorrow, on the plains, we shall fight a decisive battle against the main force of the Kraktribe for supremacy over the North. Prepare yourself, Khan."
"Just give the word, Great Chieftain. I will lead the charge and crush every last one of their skulls."
Khan slung his own steel axe over his shoulder. Unification for survival. To fulfill this sacred cause, they would ultimately have to drink the blood of their own kind.
The following day, the northern sky unleashed a violent blizzard, looking as though it might collapse at any moment. Atop the snow-covered plains that swallowed the world in white, thousands of barbarians stood opposed, baring their teeth at one another.
"You corrupt fools who defy the laws of nature! Even this freezing cold and death are the will of the great gods! How dare you beg those weaklings of the South for mercy!"
Krayto, the chief of the Kraktribe, roared with madness in his eyes. Behind him, the Kraktribe warriors and their fanatical allies wore no proper armor, their bare skin painted with bizarre tattoos as they howled like wild beasts. The sheer momentum of these zealots, who feared no death, was chilling.
"Nonsense."
Standing at the absolute front, Khan muttered in a low, heavy voice. He raised his battleaxe high, slicing through the howling blizzard to signal the start of the battle.
"Kill them all! Leave not a single soul alive!"
With a thunderous roar from Temur, the two armies clashed like opposing waves. Blood and flesh splattered, and agonized screams drowned out the howling wind. Khan swung his axe like a madman at the vanguard. With every sweep of his weapon, the bodies of the Kraktribe warriors fell like wheat before a scythe.
*Clang! Slash!* "Urgh...!"
In the midst of the chaotic melee, an enemy spearhead lunged from his blind spot, slicing deep into Khan's left forearm. *Drip, drip.* Crimson blood splattered against the pristine white snow.
*Thump—thump—thump!* Khan's heartbeat began to echo in his ears like a war drum. It was the remnant of that terrible fever that had brought him to death's door as an infant. The explosive energy he had consciously suppressed for years caught the scent of blood and began to boil like a furnace.
It's hot. Something inside me is about to burst...!
Khan's vision stained crimson. The pain in his forearm vanished in an instant, replaced by a surge of adrenaline and the boundless strength of a wild beast. The legendary power whispered only in northern folklore—the constitution of the Great Warrior, which consumed one's sanity in exchange for overwhelming battle spirit the more they bled—had finally awakened.
"Graaaaaah!"
A primal roar erupted from Khan's throat. Wielding a battleaxe heavy enough to require two grown men with just one hand, he spun it like a windmill, literally grinding the enemy lines to dust. The enemy's spears and swords could not pierce his dense muscle, while Khan's axe shattered their shields and skulls like wet parchment. Slaughtering dozens single-handedly with the overwhelming might of a descending demon, Khan collapsed their formation, instantly crushing the Kraktribe's morale.
Watching his forces crumble into imminent defeat, Krayto's eyes flashed not with despair, but with pure madness.
"O Great Mother Nature! Your children submit to your providence and return to your embrace! Everyone, take your own lives and offer your untainted souls to the gods!"
Krayto shrieked, pressing a dagger against his own throat. At his command, the fanatics reversed their weapons all at once, preparing to end their own lives. Witnessing this madness even through his blood-red vision, Khan clicked his tongue in disgust.
Those insane bastards! It's not enough that they're freezing to death, now they're committing mass suicide? I have to stop this meaningless slaughter right now. We need every single warrior we can get to march south!
Khan kicked off the ground, lunging toward Krayto. But just as he swung his axe to stop Krayto's suicide—
*Thrust! Slash!* "...!"
Khan skidded to a halt. With his axe still raised, his eyes widened at the unbelievable sight unfolding before him. Krayto's dagger had never reached his throat. Instead, a long hunting sword had pierced straight through his windpipe from behind.
"A-Arina... *cough!*"
Arina, Krayto's own daughter and a female warrior of the Kraktribe, had stabbed her father. Krayto collapsed, coughing up blood.
"Do not forgive me... Father..."
*Slash!* Without a shred of hesitation, Arina decapitated her father. She grabbed the severed head by the hair and rolled it roughly to Khan's feet. Even the blizzard seemed to pause. Drenched in blood, Arina knelt before Khan, slamming her forehead into the snow. *Thud!*
"Please..." Arina's voice trembled violently. "Please, forgive my father's foolishness and take the surviving Kraktribe under the Great Chieftain's banner. We do not want blind fanaticism; we want to survive."
Every eye fell upon Arina. Patricide—the ultimate sin. Bearing the crushing weight of her horrific deed, the girl raised her head and looked directly into Khan's bloodshot eyes.
"And... please tear me apart to punish me for the sin of slaying my father. If you spare my tribe, I will gladly offer myself as a sacrifice."
The searing heat gradually receded from Khan's awakened body. His crimson-tinted vision returned to normal, bringing the severed head of the enemy chief and his daughter's desperate tears into sharp focus. A girl who had made the ultimate choice, throwing away her own life to save thousands of her people. Khan lowered his axe, letting it strike the ground with a heavy *thud*, and spoke in a low, solemn voice.
"Receive your punishment in life."
"...What?"
"From this day forth, you will remain by my side. Do not think of escaping through death. Your lifelong punishment will be to stay by my side and watch with your own two eyes as the tribe members you saved survive to set foot on the southern lands."
Tears finally spilled from Arina's eyes. "Ugh..." She pressed her face back into the snow, sobbing uncontrollably.
A shadow fell over the Kraktribe warriors as they laid down their weapons. Great Chieftain Temur, who had approached unnoticed, placed a proud hand on Khan's shoulder and raised his blood-stained axe high into the sky.
"All the blood of the North has united as one!"
Temur's thunderous roar shook the snowy plains. "To survive, we leave our motherland behind! To the South! We shall smash every gate that stands in our way and march forward!!"
The gathered barbarians raised their weapons in unison, letting out a deafening battle cry. Amidst the earth-shaking roar, Khan gazed toward the south, toward the distant horizon where the Winproter Grand Duchy lay. The axe of the North had finally left its homeland, beginning its relentless march toward the South.