Thick Nightmare - 7
Eerie. No matter how I thought about it, the current situation wasn't normal.
A small elite strike force had pierced the desert to reach the steppes alongside me, and burning their base on the steppes had gone smoothly enough. We'd annihilated tribe after tribe we encountered, dismantling their economic backbone by slaughtering their beasts without much trouble. And naturally, we'd faced resistance from the local tribes along the way. No one—sane or mad—would meekly bare their neck when staring death in the face.
But only the local tribes had opposed us. Not a single outside intervention, even as entire tribes were wiped out, even as more than a handful perished. I can't make sense of it.
That was why counting Mongol corpses left my head spinning. From a tactical standpoint, considering we needed to strike fast and withdraw, the lack of outside interference was convenient. We'd ensured no warrior could flee the battlefield to call for aid, no bird could escape—we'd eliminated everything.
So positively speaking, things were unfolding exactly as we wanted—
Too smoothly.
Rationally, a situation proceeding without variables, exactly to plan, felt unnatural. This couldn't be right. Just recently, hadn't Mongol forces appeared within visual range of Jiayu Pass? That meant they crossed the desert regularly, and reserves to support and reinforce those troops should be nearby. But we saw nothing. No forces near Jiayu Pass, no reserves to back them up.
Only the steppe tribes, caught off-guard by our sudden raid, crumpling one by one.
If troops had mobilized, the locals should know.
Even scorning them as barbaric northern scum, these steppe folk were united under the Yuan banner—a nation. How could Yuan troops march across the border to assault an enemy fortress without the tribes along the route knowing? Absurd. Even if they missed the troop movements, the Yuan court would normally inform the locals.
Putting it all together, the Yuan's situation meant: The center isn't sharing intel with the periphery—it's hiding it, and doesn't care if local tribes die...
The conclusion grew more horrifying. The center wasn't defending the periphery—it was abandoning it to slaughter. At a marquis-level betrayal.
These outnumbered bastards are pulling this?
My brow furrowed involuntarily. Even scorched-earth tactics for the greater good sacrificed supplies, not lives. And they were doing this where every soul was precious on the steppes? What did they gain? What benefit did the Mongols—no, the Yuan court—get from abandoning the periphery, tying us down on the steppes?
Aiming for Jiayu Pass?
No. If so, they'd have held back the tribes instead of letting them die. While our strike force wandered an empty steppe, the tribes would've swarmed south to hit the pass. And even if they took it that way, they'd face our returning force, then waves of Song reinforcements pouring in to retake it. Gaining one fortress meant bracing for all-out war with Daesong.
Lulling us into complacency, then crushing us?
That didn't fit either. Sacrificing multiple tribes to wipe one strike force made no sense. Sure, killing me—the crown prince—and Weiguk Gong would benefit them, but how would they know we led it and set this up?
"Your Highness!"
Weiguk Gong came rushing up as I pondered. My head cleared with the sharp reaction.
"What is it? Finally, the Mongol army?"
If they'd appeared, all my worries would vanish. They'd just been slow—that was all.
"It just hit me! The western steppes are dominated by the Aribu tribe!"
...Ah.
"...Withdraw."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
I ordered retreat the moment I heard it. Killing more locals here only benefited the Yuan court.
Damn it all.
Ignominious rage boiled up. I'd planned to cripple one of their arms so they couldn't cross the border again, but they'd turned our strike against us. No harm to us, but infuriating all the same.
The Mongols' wall-sightseeing lasted days. Maddening.
Stalemate? Loiter beyond range. Serious siege? Attack fiercer than now. But they did neither.
Every day, they'd scale Jiayu Pass's walls, grating on the soldiers' nerves, then casually withdraw after two hours.
Damn bastards.
Furious, I'd even fired cannons at the retreating Mongols. Unfortunately, they scattered, forcing flanking shots.
Enemies, but their combat savvy earned grudging praise. Too fast to chase, jutsu barriers blocked arrows, cannons? They dispersed into likely raids. All while daily skirmishes eroded troop morale.
No wonder the founding merits who clashed with these scum nation-wide felt newly admirable.
How the hell did they beat these guys?
If fortress fights were this frustrating, national war must've been hell.
"Jwa-cheom Do-eosa."
"Ah, Commandant."
As I bitterly eyed the sprawled corpses atop the wall, Jiayu Commandant approached, messenger pigeon on his left arm.
"Yangyang Wang is returning."
"Already?"
Unexpected—I jolted. Strike forces hit-and-run, but returning so soon? From their view, they'd barely singed the steppes; for us, days of hell.
"Pursuing local fights only helps them, he says. Details on return."
Even the commandant sounded uneasy, caught off-guard.
Frustrating, but what could we do? The king decided, and promised explanations.
Actually, perfect.
With Yangyang Wang's force back, we could crush those damn pests. Jiayu Pass ahead, Hwa-gyeong masters behind—no matter their mobility, annihilation.
I'll smash them flat, you nomad scum.
—I'd thought, before the vicious aura approached from the north.
"A strangely familiar face."
At first, I thought raging Yangyang Wang charged in. Judging local fights aided Mongols meant he'd noticed something on the steppes. His eyes flipping in fury at unwittingly helping them? Natural. So I figured it was an enraged Hwa-gyeong master's killing intent.
But as it neared, unease grew.
"It's been ages since I withdrew from the Central Plains, so no way I'd seen a whelp like you."
No matter the rage, Hwa-gyeong masters rarely lost reason. Not just strong in martial arts, but iron-willed, with their own worlds—enlightened passives, even if seeming lighthearted.
Yet Yangyang Wang oozed killing intent that terrified even allies? Impossible.
"...Ah, now I remember."
Then the killing intent's source was obvious. Hard to believe, harder to accept—but one likely culprit.
"You. Bloodkin of Ugeom."
Again amid wall skirmishes, a nomad strode from the northern sky.
Mad eyes overlooking the wall from midair. Sneering lips mocking the ground-bound scrappers. Hands clasped behind like none below could touch him.
First sight, but instinct screamed: Feared by allies, grinned at by Mongols. Hostile to Daesong soldiers here near the steppes.
"Koke Temur..."
Mongol's sole Hwa-gyeong master, once of the world's top three. Perfected monster reigning decades.
I muttered the unwanted name; he eyed me with interest.
"Ho. So Central Plains folk call me that."
I flinched but stayed silent. Tourist spouting his tongue abroad. Speak Central Plains here—or what?
"Haha, sorry. Haven't used Central Plains tongue in ages. Muttered to myself."
Reading my glare, he switched.
"More surprising, though. To see Ugeom's bloodkin."
He stroked his chin, muttering.
Ugeom?
New name, but context: Grandfather. Likely his pre-Giwang moniker.
Foolish Sword? Who named that?
"Near-identical, so close kin... What face will Ugeom make if I kill you?"
My body stiffened. Smiling, but not lightly dismissed. Casual words laced with oppressive menace.
Damn.
Cold sweat beaded. I'd seen Hwa-gyeong masters aplenty—as foes, never.
Still, fortunate. He hovered idly. No moves.
Hwa-gyeong or not, better try something than watch—
"Whelp. Fun tricks are fine, but pick your opponent."
Lips bit at the piercing words. No—abrupt inner twist forced it, stifling screams.
"First-rate binding a Hwa-gyeong? Hubris."
Silence Hell qi reversed instantly.
"You're Ugeom's blood, not Ugeom."
Staggering from backlash, I steadied trembling legs.
...Doesn't work.
Selfishly hoped it'd faze even Hwa-gyeong, but disappointing. Catching him here would've been legendary.