Chương 131: Informational post: On the Yuan

This post is primarily an informational one. We are approaching the point where the Yuan and their society will begin to play a much larger role in the story, so I thought this would be a good opportunity to establish some background information. Think of this as an in-universe document, one that was compiled very recently under the Emperor's orders, after the Yuan agitation began to develop into a serious concern.

This is the same document that Mo Jian and the others will be given to familiarize themselves with the situation at the Northern border. The original version contained more than fifty chapters, but what I'm presenting here is only an excerpt from selected sections - the parts I feel will be most useful and relevant going forward. As with most informational posts, this is not required reading. However, it should enrich the worldbuilding and make future chapters more interesting as these events unfold.

Enjoy, and feel free to share any questions you have!................................................................ A Comprehensive Survey of the Northern Steppes and the Peoples Therein Compiled by the Ministry of Rites during the Reign of the fifteenth Xiang Emperor RESTRICTED EDITION For the Eyes of Military Governors, Provincial Administrators, and Officers of the Third Rank and Above Only Readers are reminded that this edition contains assessments withheld from the general circulation text.

The contents of Chapters VIII and X in particular are not to be reproduced, summarized, or transmitted by jade slip without the written authorization of the Ministry of War. A less restricted edition, with certain passages in those chapters redacted or replaced with summary observations, is available through the Office of Frontier Records for distribution to officers below the Third Rank.

On the Present Political Condition of the Northern Steppes The disturbances presently reported along the northern frontier ought not to be interpreted as extraordinary events. Rather, they conform to a cycle that has repeated itself throughout every age in which reliable records have been kept. The political order of the Yuan admits no lasting equilibrium.

Whenever a horde accumulates sufficient territory, wealth, and followers, it inevitably presses against the domains of neighboring hordes until further expansion can proceed only at the expense of another great confederation or of the Empire itself. Thus, periods of apparent peace are most accurately understood not as permanent settlements but as intervals between successive redistributions of power.

The immediate cause of the present instability is the continued expansion of the Orange Horde under the leadership of Chiggis Khan. During the preceding decade, numerous lesser clans have either submitted to his authority or been absorbed by force, while several rival chieftains have disappeared from contemporary accounts altogether. Such consolidations are characteristic of the early stages in the rise of every great horde.

Whether Chiggis Khan intends merely to establish supremacy over the central Steppe or ultimately to direct his ambitions southward toward the Imperial frontier remains uncertain at the time of this writing. Prudence therefore demands continued observation rather than premature mobilization. It must furthermore be remembered that the military strength of a horde cannot be measured solely by the number of its riders. Among the Yuan, political authority is inseparable from personal martial accomplishment.

A ruler who consistently triumphs in battle attracts retainers with remarkable speed, while one who suffers repeated reverses may find his followers dispersing long before his armies have been defeated in the field. Consequently, the apparent size of a horde may increase or diminish with astonishing rapidity. Imperial commanders are therefore advised to regard all numerical estimates with caution, for reports considered accurate in one season may prove entirely obsolete in the next.

For this reason, frontier administrations have long judged it wiser to observe the fortunes of individual Khans than to concern themselves exclusively with the movements of ordinary clans. The death, triumph, or humiliation of a single Khan frequently alters the political geography of the Steppes more profoundly than the destruction of several thousand warriors.

As shall be discussed in Chapter VIII, the institutions governing succession among the Yuan ensure that authority remains perpetually contested, and it is from this condition that both the resilience and the instability of their society arise. The Empire has therefore endured not one northern enemy throughout history, but many. Hordes rise; horde confederations fragment; ambitious Khans unite territories that their descendants invariably lose. Only the Steppes themselves remain unchanged.

To mistake the present Orange Horde for a singular threat would be an error. It is instead the latest manifestation of a pattern older than the oldest frontier fortifications, and one that will doubtless continue long after the names of its present rulers have passed into the histories.

On Commerce Between the Empire and the Yuan Although relations between the Empire and the Yuan are commonly remembered through accounts of raids, campaigns, and treaties imposed after costly wars, such events represent only one aspect of a relationship extending across many centuries. It is a common error among those who have never served upon the northern frontier to imagine the boundary between the Empire and the Steppes as one of perpetual hostility. The records of the Ministry of Revenue demonstrate otherwise.

In every generation, even during periods in which armies contested the passes and fortresses of the Great Wall, merchants continued to cross its gates in considerable numbers. Commerce has repeatedly survived conflicts that diplomacy could not. The principal reason for this continuity lies in the commercial institutions established during the age of Jenghiz Khan, whose influence upon the northern trade routes has endured far longer than the political order he created.

Among the most significant of these institutions are the ortoghs, merchant associations in which capital, risk, and liability are shared collectively among numerous investors rather than borne by a single caravan master. This arrangement permits expeditions to traverse the immense distances of the Steppes without exposing any individual merchant house to complete ruin should a journey fail.

Imperial merchants have, in recent centuries, adopted comparable practices independently, though none possess either the antiquity or the authority of the Yuan system. The ortoghs derive their legitimacy from a decree issued by Jenghiz Khan himself during the foundation of the Great Horde. Yuan scholars refer to this decree simply as the Fatwa, a term denoting an ordinance invested with both political and sacred authority.

Although the empire established by Jenghiz dissolved many centuries ago, the Fatwa remains universally acknowledged throughout the northern peoples. Successive Khans, regardless of their rivalries, have refrained from violating its provisions.

Even those rulers whose wars have devastated neighboring territories have seldom interfered with merchants travelling under its protection, for to disrupt the established arteries of commerce would invite retaliation not merely from a rival horde but from every confederation whose prosperity depends upon them.

Closely associated with the ortoghs is the institution known as the yam, a network of caravan stations, relay posts, fortified encampments, and wayhouses extending across nearly every significant route within the Steppes. These establishments provide fresh mounts, provisions, shelter, guides, and secure storage for merchants and official envoys alike. Their maintenance is shared among the various hordes according to customs too intricate to describe in full here, yet remarkably effective in practice.

Indeed, several military observers have remarked that, despite the Yuan's reputation for disorder, the reliability of their relay system often surpasses that maintained by many settled kingdoms. The importance of these institutions cannot be overstated. The Steppes are vast beyond ordinary comprehension, and travel through them would be impossible on any significant scale without an infrastructure capable of sustaining movement across immense distances.

Roads, in the Imperial sense, are comparatively rare; rather, commerce follows inherited routes marked by generations of experience, with the yams serving as fixed points within an otherwise shifting landscape. Together, the ortoghs and the yams constitute the true framework upon which northern commerce rests. Their continued operation has allowed trade to persist despite wars, dynastic collapses, and the continual reconfiguration of the hordes themselves.

For the Empire, the Steppes remain a source of resources whose value cannot readily be replaced elsewhere beneath Heaven. This wealth derives not merely from the industry of the Yuan but from the extraordinary concentration of spiritual power permeating their lands. Qi saturates the soil, the rivers, and the very air, giving rise to countless substances unknown within Imperial territory.

Spirit herbs of uncommon potency, alchemical minerals, enchanted timbers, beast hides, amber infused with residual qi, monster bones suitable for forging, and innumerable lesser commodities enter the Empire each year through the northern markets. Many articles regarded as commonplace by Imperial alchemists and tool refiners owe their existence entirely to this commerce. Foremost among these imports are the Thousand Mile Horses, universally acknowledged as the finest mounts known to man.

Although numerous attempts have been made to breed them within Imperial territory, none have succeeded. The peculiar conditions of the Steppes, discussed in Chapter VII, appear indispensable to their development. Their endurance, intelligence, and capacity to traverse great distances without exhaustion have rendered them essential to overland commerce throughout the Empire.

It is estimated by the Ministry of Revenue that nearly half of all ground-based caravan traffic within the northern provinces depends directly upon these animals. Consequently, no administration, however bellicose its disposition toward the Yuan, has found it advantageous to prohibit their importation for any extended period. The Empire's own exports are no less valued beyond the Wall.

Silk remains the most celebrated among them, though tea, refined sugar, wines, medicinal preparations, spices, lacquerware, porcelain, enchanted instruments, and works of artistic craftsmanship likewise command high prices throughout the northern markets. It would, however, be mistaken to conclude that these luxuries alone sustain commerce between the two civilizations.

In truth, the volume of trade extends far beyond those commodities most frequently mentioned in official inventories, encompassing every variety of manufactured article that the pastoral economy of the Yuan finds difficult to produce independently. For these reasons, the Great Wall should not be understood solely as a military fortification. Such an interpretation, though widespread among foreigners, is incomplete.

The Wall functions simultaneously as a defensive barrier, a customs frontier, an administrative boundary, and one of the greatest commercial institutions maintained by the Empire. Its gates regulate, rather than prohibit, the movement of people and goods. Merchants, caravans, licensed pilgrims, diplomatic envoys, craftsmen, and designated Yuan traders pass through under carefully supervised conditions established by frontier law.

During times of peace this regulated permeability enriches the Empire, strengthens provincial economies, and provides the Throne with valuable knowledge concerning conditions beyond the frontier. Only when a Khan openly abandons established custom and declares hostile intent do these arrangements cease. The gates are then closed, customs officials yield their stations to military governors, and the Wall resumes the purpose for which it is most celebrated.

Throughout the centuries, this alternation between commerce and war has defined Imperial policy toward the northern peoples with greater consistency than either perpetual friendship or perpetual enmity. The wise administrator therefore regards trade and defense not as contradictory enterprises, but as complementary instruments by which stability along the frontier is maintained.

On the Natural Wealth of the Steppes and the Medicinal Arts of the Yuan As observed in the preceding chapter, the prosperity derived from commerce with the northern peoples rests not merely upon the movement of merchants but upon the singular character of the Steppes themselves. No other region known to the Empire possesses an environment so profoundly shaped by spiritual influence.

The land, the waters, and even the winds are permeated by an unusually dense concentration of qi, the origin of which shall be examined in Chapter VII. It is this abundance, rather than any uncommon diligence on the part of the Yuan, that has rendered the Steppes a source of resources unavailable elsewhere beneath Heaven. The flora of the northern plains displays remarkable diversity despite the apparent uniformity of the landscape.

To those unfamiliar with the region, the Steppe appears little more than endless grassland. Such an impression is misleading. Within its plains grow innumerable species of medicinal herbs, flowering plants, climbing vines, mosses, and fungi whose properties have no equivalent within Imperial territory. Many derive their efficacy not from ordinary botanical characteristics but from prolonged exposure to the qi permeating the land.

Certain roots absorb elemental aspects over generations; others become repositories for ambient spiritual essence, making them indispensable ingredients in pills, elixirs, talismans, and restorative draughts. Nor does the wealth of the Steppes end with its vegetation.

The beasts inhabiting the northern plains provide hides of extraordinary durability, bones suitable for spirit forging, horns prized by alchemists, amber containing concentrated traces of ancient qi, and metals whose unusual spiritual conductivity has made them increasingly sought after by Imperial tool refiners. Even products ordinarily considered mundane – wool, leather, animal fat, resin, and preserved meats – are exported in quantities sufficient to sustain numerous frontier prefectures.

It is therefore no exaggeration to state that a considerable portion of the Empire's northern economy depends upon materials whose origin ultimately lies beyond the Wall. Among all the accomplishments of the Yuan, however, none has attracted greater scholarly attention than their medicinal tradition. It differs so substantially from Imperial Pill Concoction that comparison between the two must be undertaken with caution.

Whereas Imperial physicians concern themselves principally with the regulation of qi, the harmonization of the meridians, and the prolongation of life through measured refinement, the medical arts of the Yuan developed under conditions of continual biological catastrophe. From the earliest surviving records, the Steppes have suffered recurrent outbreaks of diseases unknown within the Empire. Many are borne not through ordinary contagion but through corrupted or unstable qi.

Such afflictions have repeatedly devastated entire clans, and older chronicles describe instances in which whole hordes vanished within a single season beneath epidemics that consumed flesh, transformed bone, or corrupted the spirit before death. Although Imperial scholars have questioned the embellishment of certain accounts, there exists little reason to doubt the frequency of such calamities. Even contemporary observers continue to report sporadic outbreaks whose symptoms defy ordinary medical classification.

Necessity, which instructs more effectively than comfort, compelled the Yuan to develop remedies unequalled elsewhere. Lacking the extensive academies and licensed physicians maintained by the Empire, they entrusted this responsibility to shamans, herb-keepers, and wandering healers who accumulated practical knowledge across innumerable generations. Their methods are empirical rather than theoretical.

A Yuan healer seldom concerns himself with abstract principles of cosmology if observation alone can establish the efficacy of a treatment. Consequently, many remedies dismissed by Imperial scholars as lacking philosophical refinement nevertheless achieve results that cannot be denied. Foremost among these preparations is the substance known throughout the northern markets as Firemilk.

Despite its name, it is neither milk nor true alchemical fire, but a complex medicinal compound whose composition remains among the most carefully guarded secrets of the Yuan. Contemporary accounts agree that, when properly administered, Firemilk purges the body of most known diseases by provoking an intense internal purification of qi. Patients commonly endure considerable pain during the treatment, yet recovery is said to follow with remarkable consistency.

The Imperial Coalition of Alchemists and Pill Refiners has repeatedly attempted to obtain complete samples for examination; none have yielded a satisfactory understanding of its manufacture. Equally celebrated is the Qilin Breath Elixir, a restorative medicine commanding exorbitant prices throughout the Empire despite official restrictions upon its importation. Unlike Firemilk, which is employed principally against disease, the Qilin Breath Elixir is valued for its extraordinary capacity to repair bodily injury.

Flesh severed by blade or claw may knit together with astonishing rapidity, while wounds that would ordinarily cripple even accomplished cultivators often heal without lasting impairment. Military physicians have long petitioned the Throne for increased access to this medicine, though the quantities available through legal commerce have remained insufficient to satisfy demand.

It should not be inferred, however, that the superiority of certain Yuan remedies indicates a corresponding superiority of their medical philosophy. The two traditions arose in response to fundamentally different circumstances and consequently pursue different ends. Imperial medicine seeks harmony before illness appears; Yuan medicine concerns itself with survival after calamity has already arrived.

The former excels in preserving health across long years; the latter in wresting life from conditions under which death would ordinarily be inevitable. Each therefore possesses strengths the other lacks, and wise physicians have increasingly argued that the greatest advances may yet arise from the careful study of both traditions together. For this reason, successive Emperors have generally resisted proposals to prohibit the importation of Yuan medicines even during periods of military tension.

Whatever dangers accompany commerce with the northern peoples, the practical value of their pharmacological knowledge has repeatedly justified continued exchange. The preservation of life has, on more than one occasion, proven a stronger foundation for diplomacy than treaties drafted by ministers or victories won by generals.

On the Settlements and Civil Administration of the Yuan Among the many misconceptions held by those who have never travelled beyond the northern frontier, none is more persistent than the belief that the Yuan are a wholly nomadic people, possessing neither permanent settlements nor institutions of civil government. This opinion appears frequently in popular literature and in the jade slips of those whose knowledge of the Steppes is confined to military reports.

It is an error born of incomplete observation, and one that has led to no small number of costly misjudgements on the part of commanders who underestimated the logistical capacity of their adversaries. That the Yuan spend much of their lives on horseback cannot be disputed. The seasonal migrations of the clans, the great campaigns of the hordes, and the continual movement of merchants across the plains have encouraged the mistaken assumption that the entirety of Yuan society exists in perpetual motion.

Such is not the case. Mobility constitutes only one half of their political order. The other is found in their cities. Every major horde maintains at least one principal settlement from which its Khan governs whenever the horde is not upon campaign. Likewise, numerous clans possess fortified towns, market settlements, and permanent encampments that serve as administrative centers for the surrounding territories.

These settlements vary considerably in size and character, yet all perform functions familiar to Imperial officials. Taxes are gathered, disputes adjudicated, tribute received, caravans inspected, artisans employed, and military stores accumulated. To describe them as temporary camps is therefore misleading, for many have remained upon the same ground for generations. The appearance of these cities differs markedly from that of those within the Empire.

Where Imperial capitals express permanence through stone walls, tiled roofs, and ordered avenues, Yuan cities embrace adaptability. Vast districts of monumental tents, felt halls, and richly embroidered pavilions surround clusters of permanent buildings erected wherever permanence proves advantageous. Workshops, granaries, foundries, shrines, bathhouses, and warehouses stand beside avenues lined with structures that may, if necessity demands, be dismantled and transported with surprising speed.

This peculiar arrangement reflects neither poverty nor architectural ignorance, as certain commentators writing at a considerable remove from the frontier have suggested. Rather, it arises from the practical requirements of a society whose ruling class expects to campaign regularly and whose political fortunes may change within a single season. A city capable of partially relocating possesses advantages unknown to more sedentary civilizations. Nor should it be imagined that these settlements lack sophistication.

Successive generations of conquest have brought to the Steppes artisans, architects, masons, and craftsmen from every corner of the continent. Some arrived as merchants in search of patronage, others as captives taken during campaigns, and still others as tributaries seeking the favor of powerful Khans. The resulting cities possess an architectural diversity seldom encountered elsewhere.

It is not uncommon for a single marketplace to contain workshops built according to Imperial principles, temples recalling northern conclaves, irrigation works copied from southern polities of the Empire, and fortifications whose origins lie in lands now forgotten. The Yuan themselves appear to regard such diversity not as contradiction but as a visible testament to the greatness of the horde. A Khan's city is expected to display the wealth, influence, and victories of its ruler.

Foreign craftsmen are therefore valued as highly as foreign treasure, for each contributes another visible sign of the Khan's supremacy. The cities of the Steppes consequently evolve less through orderly planning than through the continual accumulation of peoples, traditions, and monuments gathered from successive generations of conquest. Among these capitals, particular mention must be made of the city maintained by Batuk Khan of the Blue Horde, wherein stand the celebrated Fountains of Kwaraziman.

Although described by travelers in terms that occasionally verge upon the fantastical, their existence is supported by sufficiently numerous and consistent accounts to be accepted as authentic. Constructed by cultivators whose identities remain uncertain, the fountains are said to condense water-aspected qi directly from the atmosphere, producing an uninterrupted flow of pure water despite the surrounding plains possessing no corresponding natural source.

The principles by which this is accomplished have been a matter of considerable interest to the Ministry of Works for several generations. Three separate expeditions have been dispatched with instructions to obtain reliable architectural drawings of the complex; none has returned with documentation sufficiently complete for meaningful study, and the most recent attempt produced plans that two independent reviewers found mutually contradictory in their central measurements.

The compiler notes this failure not to discourage future efforts, but to caution against treating any single account of the Fountains as authoritative until a proper survey can be completed. Whether the principles underlying their construction derive from forgotten techniques, advanced alchemy, or knowledge now lost cannot presently be determined. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

The existence of such works should caution the reader against underestimating the civilization of the northern peoples. Although the Yuan reject many of the institutions esteemed by the Empire, they have nevertheless produced centers of government, commerce, and craftsmanship fully capable of sustaining populations measured in the tens of millions. Their cities are not lesser versions of our own, but expressions of a political order adapted to conditions unlike any found within the Empire.

The prudent administrator therefore distinguishes between mobility and rootlessness. The Yuan travel because their society demands movement, not because they lack civilization. To mistake one for the other is to misunderstand both their strengths and their ambitions.

On the Legacy of the Dead Qilin and the Beast Cultivation of the Yuan The cultivation practiced by the Yuan differs so fundamentally from the orthodox methods of the Empire that many early commentators concluded it to be an entirely separate discipline. Such a conclusion, while understandable, is imprecise. The principles governing the circulation of qi, the refinement of the dantian, and the flow of the meridians remain common to all cultivators beneath Heaven.

What distinguishes the Yuan is not the destination of their cultivation, but the source from which their strength is principally derived. That source is the lingering essence of the immortal qilin whose remains lie buried beneath the Northern Steppes. The existence of this creature is accepted by all but the most obstinate critics. The extraordinary concentration of spiritual essence within the region, and the peculiar physiology of the Yuan themselves, admits no simpler explanation.

Whether the immortal perished during the Shattering, or the War of Heaven, or by causes now forgotten belongs properly to the province of antiquarians and theologians. For the purposes of the present work, it is sufficient to observe that its death transformed the entire northern region of the continent in ways that persist to the present day. The qi released by an ordinary spirit beast disperses within years or decades. That of an immortal does not.

Across uncounted millennia, the qilin's essence seeped into the soil, entered the rivers, rose upon the winds, and permeated every living thing within the bounds of the Steppes. Plants drew nourishment from it. Beasts incorporated it into their flesh. Stones, metals, and even the rains acquired subtle spiritual characteristics absent elsewhere beneath Heaven. Thus arose the singular environment described in the preceding chapters, whose abundance has enriched both the Yuan and the Empire for countless generations.

The influence of this qi extends to mankind no less than to the natural world. Any person born within the Steppes, or any foreigner residing there for a sufficiently prolonged period, gradually experiences the intrusion of the qilin's essence into the meridians and dantian. Imperial cultivators ordinarily regard such contamination as dangerous and seek to expel it through disciplined refinement. The Yuan, by contrast, have built an entire civilization upon accepting what others reject.

Rather than resisting the invading essence, they harmonize with it. From the earliest stages of cultivation, the Yuan permit the qi of the dead immortal to mingle with their own. Through carefully regulated cultivation and inherited methods preserved by clan and horde alike, they refine this foreign essence until it becomes indistinguishable from their native qi. The process yields abilities unknown among orthodox practitioners.

Their physiques become extraordinarily resilient; scales emerge upon the skin; the body's internal fire may be directed outward as a cleansing flame capable of consuming corruption as readily as flesh; and their speed, endurance, and agility surpass those attainable through ordinary refinement alone. Imperial observers have often remarked upon the apparent ease with which even inexperienced Yuan warriors display physical capabilities equal to those of cultivators within the Qi Condensation Realm.

Such observations are substantially correct. The environment of the Steppes performs much of the labor that cultivators elsewhere must accomplish through prolonged meditation. A child born beneath those skies begins life immersed within a reservoir of spiritual essence greater than many Imperial disciples encounter even after years of disciplined practice. Yet the advantages enjoyed by the Yuan are not confined to the earliest stages of cultivation.

Their method admits progression through all the recognized realms of orthodox cultivation. Practitioners advance from Qi Condensation to Foundation Establishment, from Foundation Establishment to Core Formation, and thence to the Nascent Soul Realm according to principles broadly familiar to Imperial scholars, though each transition is profoundly altered by the increasing dominance of the qilin's essence within the body. As advancement proceeds, this transformation becomes visible.

The slight scales first appearing upon the limbs gradually spread across the body. The cleansing fire grows hotter and more readily summoned. The senses sharpen beyond ordinary human limits. Bone, muscle, and sinew are remade according to patterns increasingly reminiscent of the immortal beast from which their power is drawn. By the attainment of Foundation Establishment, the transformation has advanced beyond the possibility of concealment.

Most Yuan cultivators thereafter assume the characteristic quadrupedal form so frequently described by frontier soldiers: a draconic lower body bearing the weight of the cultivator, while the torso, arms, and countenance remain recognizably human. These changes continue through Core Formation and beyond, until the distinction between man and spirit beast becomes one of intellect rather than appearance.

This progression has led certain Imperial scholars to classify Yuan cultivation as a species of transformation art. Such terminology is not wholly inaccurate, yet it fails to describe the phenomenon adequately. The Yuan do not merely imitate the form of a qilin, nor do they temporarily assume the likeness of a spirit beast through external technique. Rather, they believe themselves to be awakening an inheritance already present within the land and, through the land, within themselves.

Their cultivation is therefore understood by them not as metamorphosis but as remembrance. Whether this doctrine possesses philosophical merit lies beyond the scope of the present volume. It is sufficient to observe that no equivalent method has ever been reproduced outside the Steppes. Numerous cultivators have attempted to transport Yuan techniques into the Empire, while others have sought to transplant spirit-rich soils or raise children upon imported beasts of the northern plains.

None have achieved lasting success. Bereft of the immortal's pervasive essence, the methods lose the very foundation upon which they depend. The cultivation of the Yuan must therefore be regarded as inseparable from the geography of the Steppes themselves. Neither may be understood in isolation from the other. The land gives rise to the cultivator, and the cultivator, in turn, becomes an expression of the land.

This reciprocal relationship distinguishes the northern peoples from every civilization presently known beneath Heaven.

On the Degeneration of the Spirit and the Horde Without End Every method of cultivation exacts a price. Within the Empire, the orthodox sects caution against deviation of the qi, the corruption of the meridians, and the innumerable forms of imbalance collectively described as cultivation deviation. The Yuan are not exempt from these universal principles.

Yet the danger accompanying their own discipline is of a nature altogether more profound, for it threatens not merely the body or the soul, but the continued existence of the cultivator's humanity. As demonstrated in the preceding chapter, the strength of every Yuan practitioner derives from the gradual assimilation of the lingering essence left behind by the immortal qilin. Assimilation, however, is not domination.

Although the dead beast no longer possesses consciousness in any ordinary sense, its instincts remain embedded within the spiritual essence saturating the Steppes. Every refinement of that essence therefore carries with it a corresponding burden. To draw upon the qilin's strength is also to invite its nature into one's own. For cultivators of modest attainment, this influence is often scarcely perceptible.

They may exhibit heightened aggression, an unusual attachment to the open plains, or an instinctive aversion to confinement, yet such tendencies rarely impair judgment. It is only as cultivation deepens and greater quantities of the immortal's essence are incorporated into the dantian that the true danger emerges. At every great threshold, the instincts carried within the qilin's essence press against the cultivator's own consciousness, seeking not to destroy it but to subsume it. The distinction is significant.

Those who fail do not perish immediately. Rather, they continue to live after every quality that once distinguished them as human has been consumed. Yuan scholars interviewed during the compilation of this survey were consistent in describing such breakthroughs as a sustained effort of will, during which the cultivator may be wholly incapacitated and should not be left unattended. The Yuan describe this condition of failure as Returning to the Herd.

Imperial scholars, lacking a more precise classification, have generally translated the phenomenon as feral degeneration. Neither term is entirely satisfactory. The afflicted retain their cultivation, their formidable physiques, and many of the abilities acquired through decades of disciplined refinement. What they lose is reason. Language disappears. Memory fragments beyond recovery.

Family, allegiance, ambition, faith, and even self-preservation gradually yield to impulses inherited from the dead immortal whose power they embraced. They cease to participate in society, not because they have forgotten how to do so, but because society no longer possesses meaning for them. Contrary to several early military reports, such individuals do not ordinarily become indiscriminately violent. Many simply abandon their clans without explanation, departing alone into the northern horizon.

Others linger briefly at the margins of Yuan settlements before wandering away, resisting all attempts at restraint. The Yuan seldom pursue them. Indeed, to interfere with one who has begun Returning to the Herd is regarded by many clans as both futile and impious, for they believe the transformation to be neither punishment nor disease but the inevitable completion of the path they have chosen. What follows remains among the greatest mysteries of the Steppes.

Regardless of the horde from which they originated, regardless of language, lineage, or former allegiance, all who succumb eventually travel toward the same destination. Across thousands of recorded years, no reliable account has described a single exception. They journey ever inward, toward the central reaches of the Steppe, guided by an instinct that no shaman, cultivator, or Imperial investigator has satisfactorily explained.

Neither rivers, mountains, hostile territories, nor the passage of seasons appear capable of diverting them from this course. There, beyond the regions habitually traversed by merchants or armies, they gather. Imperial expeditions have never penetrated sufficiently far to establish precise numbers, yet every trustworthy account agrees that the population exceeds comprehension.

The central Steppe is inhabited by innumerable feral qilin representing every recognized stage of cultivation, from newly transformed wanderers to creatures whose spiritual pressure rivals that of the greatest Khans. They roam the plains in vast migrating hosts, hunt the monstrous beasts of the interior, contest territories amongst themselves, and fill the skies in numbers said to darken the sun during seasonal flights. The Yuan collectively refer to this immeasurable aggregation as the Horde Without End.

Scholars have frequently questioned why so immense a multitude has never overwhelmed the surrounding world. The answer appears to lie within the instincts governing the creatures themselves. They display little interest in conquest. Their conflicts are almost exclusively directed against one another or against the monstrous fauna inhabiting the innermost Steppes. Those few that stray toward the outer plains are generally destroyed by Yuan hunting parties long before reaching settled lands.

Consequently, the Horde Without End exists less as an invading army than as a vast and self-contained ecosystem, terrible in scale yet curiously indifferent to the civilizations surrounding it. Such equilibrium must not be mistaken for safety. Every Khan understands that the continued survival of the Yuan depends upon preventing any force from unifying the Horde Without End.

The Empire, likewise, has long regarded the existence of that innumerable host as one of the principal reasons against undertaking campaigns deep into the northern interior. An enemy that ignores mankind may be endured; an enemy that acquires purpose cannot. For this reason, the campaigns of Jenghiz Khan occupy a singular place within both Yuan and Imperial history.

The chronicles agree that he alone succeeded in imposing his authority upon the Horde Without End, compelling even the feral hosts to march beneath his banner. Whether this mastery arose through cultivation, lineage, divine favor, or methods now lost remains a matter of enduring controversy. Its consequences, however, are beyond dispute.

For the only time recorded since the death of the immortal qilin, the innumerable beasts of the central Steppe ceased to exist as an undirected natural phenomenon and became instead an army. The conquests that followed reshaped the history of the entire continent. As those campaigns have been examined extensively in the historical volumes of this collection, the present compiler shall not repeat them here. It is sufficient to observe that no subsequent Khan has reproduced Jenghiz's accomplishment.

Whether this should be attributed to inability or wisdom remains uncertain. The possibility that another might one day succeed, however remote, continues to influence every calculation made by the Ministry of War concerning the northern frontier. Thus the greatest danger presented by the Horde Without End lies not in its present condition, but in the possibility that it may once again become obedient to a single will. Until such a day arrives, it remains a calamity contained by its own nature.

Should that nature ever change, the consequences would extend far beyond the Steppes themselves.

On the Geography of the Northern Steppes Among the territories lying beyond the authority of the Empire, few have occasioned greater perplexity among geographers than the Northern Steppes. Since the earliest frontier expeditions, scholars have repeatedly attempted to reconcile travelers' accounts with the principles by which most other lands are measured. None have succeeded.

Distances fail to correspond with the time required to traverse them, maps compiled independently often contradict one another while remaining internally accurate, and expeditions following identical routes have returned with irreconcilable observations. Such inconsistencies would ordinarily invite accusations of exaggeration or incompetence.

Yet the remarkable consistency with which these anomalies have been reported across successive centuries has compelled the Imperial Court to conclude that the fault lies not with the observers, but with the land itself. The prevailing opinion among contemporary natural philosophers attributes these peculiarities to the immeasurable quantity of spiritual essence released by the death of the immortal qilin.

Just as a sufficiently powerful cultivator may distort the flow of qi within a battlefield, so too may the remains of an immortal reshape the world over which its influence extends. The Steppes should therefore be understood not merely as a geographical region, but as a domain continuously altered by a concentration of qi unparalleled elsewhere beneath Heaven. The ordinary distinctions between natural philosophy and cultivation cease to be entirely adequate within its bounds.

For this reason, the expression the Northern Steppes ought not to suggest a landscape consisting solely of grasslands. Such an impression, though common among those whose knowledge derives from popular illustration, bears little resemblance to reality.

Endless plains indeed occupy much of the region, yet they are interrupted by forests of spirit timber, mountain chains, inland seas, broad rivers, marshes, high plateaus, salt deserts, and valleys whose climates differ so greatly from the surrounding country that they appear to belong to separate worlds. Numerous species of beast and plant occur only within these isolated environments, many of which remain imperfectly catalogued by Imperial scholarship. Nor is the scale of the region readily comprehended.

No expedition, whether Yuan or Imperial, has ever produced a complete survey of the Steppes. Every generation has believed itself closer than the last to achieving such a map, only for subsequent explorers to discover territories lying beyond those previously believed to mark the outer limits. Some scholars have therefore argued that the Steppes possess no true boundary, expanding in proportion to the distance travelled within them.

Others reject so extravagant a conclusion while admitting that no satisfactory alternative has yet been proposed. The compiler expresses no preference between these opinions, observing only that every serious attempt at comprehensive cartography has thus far failed. The Yuan themselves display little concern regarding this uncertainty. They neither seek to measure the entirety of the Steppes nor regard such an undertaking as necessary. Their knowledge is practical rather than universal.

Through centuries of travel, warfare, and seasonal migration, they have assembled an immense body of geographical knowledge concerning those routes essential to commerce and governance. These maps are among the most jealously guarded possessions of every great horde, transmitted only to trusted navigators, military commanders, and caravan masters. It is said among the Yuan that a stolen herd may be replaced, but a stolen map enriches one's enemies for generations.

In the absence of complete surveys, the Yuan rely upon principles of orientation that have proven remarkably reliable. The Steppes form, in the broadest sense, a shallow basin. To travel with the natural descent of the land is to journey toward the center; to proceed against that inclination is to move toward the outer marches. This rule, though deceptively simple, serves as the foundation of nearly all long-distance navigation beyond the established caravan routes.

Countless apprentices reportedly spend years learning to perceive gradients so subtle that they escape ordinary observation. Beyond these general principles, navigation depends upon a network of landmarks known throughout the northern world. Unlike the milestones and administrative markers employed within the Empire, these are almost invariably natural or historical features whose permanence has rendered them trustworthy points of reference across many generations.

Foremost among these is the Dead Sea, whose waters sustain neither fish nor aquatic vegetation despite their unusual clarity. The Hoofprints of Naza comprise a succession of colossal depressions extending across many leagues, traditionally attributed to a single stride taken by the celestial beast from whom they derive their name.

The Antelope Heights, though modest in elevation, command extensive views over the surrounding plains and have consequently served as gathering places for merchants and armies since antiquity. Equally renowned is the Valley of Mists, wherein dense vapors persist throughout every season and are said to distort both sound and distance to a degree sufficient to mislead even experienced guides. No landmark, however, has inspired greater curiosity than the burial place of Jenghiz Khan.

The oldest Yuan traditions maintain that the Great Khan was interred somewhere within the central reaches of the Steppes, together with the regalia of his empire and relics accumulated during his conquests. Yet despite innumerable expeditions undertaken by Yuan and foreign seekers alike, no tomb universally accepted as authentic has ever been discovered.

Reports of its location appear with remarkable regularity, only to be contradicted by later investigations or abandoned after yielding nothing beyond ordinary burial sites. Certain Yuan clans maintain that the grave reveals itself only to one judged worthy by Heaven; others insist that no fixed tomb exists, but that the land itself continually conceals and reveals it according to principles unknown to mortal understanding.

Imperial scholars, while generally skeptical of such explanations, have likewise failed to produce evidence sufficient to dismiss them entirely. The prudent reader should therefore approach all maps of the Steppes with appropriate caution. A chart may faithfully record every feature known to its maker and yet remain incomplete through no fault of its construction.

The value of a map lies not in claiming to encompass the whole of the northern lands, but in accurately describing the paths by which men may safely travel through the portion already known. Thus the Steppes resist the ambitions of cartographers much as the sea resists the ambitions of those who would measure every wave. They may be crossed, inhabited, governed in part, and understood in fragments, yet they have never yielded themselves entirely to human comprehension.

Whether this condition arises from the lingering will of the immortal qilin or from principles not yet discovered by Imperial cultivators remains a matter upon which this compiler declines to pronounce an answer with certainty.

On the Office of Khan and the Governance of the Yuan Hordes Among the Yuan, no title possesses greater authority, nor inspires greater apprehension among neighboring peoples, than that of Khan. To imperial observers, the word is often used imprecisely, applied to any northern warlord who commands a significant number of followers. Such usage is incorrect. The title of Khan is not merely a designation of rank, nor a courtesy extended to powerful chiefs.

It represents the highest recognized office within Yuan political society, carrying with it obligations of leadership, conquest, and personal strength that few individuals are capable of fulfilling. By ancient custom, only those who have attained the Nascent Soul Realm may legitimately claim the title. This requirement reflects a principle fundamental to Yuan governance: that authority must arise from demonstrated strength.

Whereas the Empire entrusts rulership to lineage, education, ritual legitimacy, and the careful operation of institutions, the Yuan place greater emphasis upon individual accomplishment. The ruler must not merely inherit power. He must possess the ability to defend it. This distinction explains many aspects of Yuan political behavior that appear chaotic to Imperial observers. Within the Empire, frequent challenges to a sovereign's authority are considered rebellion against the established order.

Among the Yuan, however, the contest for supremacy is itself part of the established order. A Khan who cannot defeat those who oppose him is regarded not as an unfortunate ruler facing disorder, but as one who has demonstrated his own unworthiness to rule. Consequently, the authority of a Khan must be continually renewed. The great hordes are rarely free from internal conflict.

Clans contest grazing grounds, commanders compete for prestige, and ambitious cultivators seek opportunities to prove themselves against rivals. Such struggles are not always conducted through open warfare, nor do they invariably threaten the stability of a horde. Indeed, many Yuan scholars argue that these contests serve a necessary purpose, preventing weak leaders from retaining power beyond their ability to command.

From the Imperial perspective this principle appears harsh; from the Yuan perspective it represents the natural preservation of strength. The greatest danger to any Khan therefore comes not from enemies beyond the horde, but from those within it. Every commander of sufficient talent understands that advancement through cultivation provides the only reliable path toward sovereignty.

The risks of Beast Cultivation are known to all Yuan, and the fate of those who lose themselves to the instincts of the qilin serves as a constant warning. Yet ambition has always proven stronger than caution. Generation after generation, warriors pursue the higher realms despite knowing that each advancement brings them closer not only to greatness, but to possible destruction. Should such a warrior successfully reach the Nascent Soul Realm, confrontation becomes inevitable.

The Yuan recognize no circumstance in which two Khans may govern the same horde. Alliances may be formed, subordinate commanders may hold considerable authority, and multiple clans may temporarily unite beneath a common banner, but sovereignty itself cannot be divided. A challenger who possesses equal cultivation cannot simply be ignored, for to ignore such a figure is to admit weakness before all followers. The resulting contests have shaped Yuan history as much as any external war.

During the era of Jenghiz Khan, the northern peoples existed beneath a political arrangement unlike that of the present age. The Great Horde united countless clans and lesser rulers beneath a single imperial authority, allowing numerous Khans to administer territories while acknowledging the supremacy of the Great Khan above them. This structure enabled the Yuan to project power across distances previously believed impossible and produced the greatest military expansion recorded in northern history.

Yet such unity proved difficult to preserve. Following the fragmentation of Jenghiz Khan's empire, no successor succeeded in recreating an equivalent order. The great confederation divided into competing hordes, each governed by its own Khan and each possessing ambitions that rarely extended beyond immediate survival and supremacy. Although occasional alliances have produced temporary periods of cooperation, these arrangements have invariably collapsed once the balance of power shifted.

Modern Yuan politics therefore differ greatly from those of the Great Horde. A Khan today does not rule as one among many equals beneath a supreme sovereign. He rules because he has defeated all rivals capable of challenging him. His authority rests not upon ancient decree alone, but upon the continued recognition of those who follow him. For this reason, the death of a Khan is frequently a moment of extreme uncertainty.

The succession of an Imperial Emperor follows carefully established rites intended to preserve continuity. The succession of a Yuan Khan is instead a contest in which every ambitious commander must immediately determine whether the new ruler possesses sufficient strength to maintain the allegiance of the horde. Some successions pass peacefully when no challenger exists; others result in campaigns that reshape the entire northern frontier.

Imperial commanders stationed along the Wall have long been instructed to pay close attention not only to the movements of Yuan armies, but to the condition of Yuan leadership. A strong Khan may preserve stability among previously hostile clans. A weak Khan may cause an entire region to descend into conflict. In this regard, the personal fortunes of a single individual may possess consequences equal to those of great battles.

It would therefore be a mistake to regard the Yuan political system as mere disorder, though its rulers change more frequently than those within the Empire. Its principles differ greatly from those of the Empire, yet they possess their own internal logic. The Empire seeks stability through institutions that endure beyond individuals. The Yuan seek stability through individuals strong enough to command institutions. Each system contains strengths and vulnerabilities particular to its nature.

The wise administrator must understand this distinction. The northern frontier has never been secured by hatred of the Yuan, nor by ignorance of their customs. Those who have underestimated them have repeatedly suffered defeat; those who have studied them have endured. The Yuan are a people shaped by an ancient land, an immortal inheritance, and a tradition in which strength serves as both law and virtue. To understand the Khan is therefore to understand the Steppes themselves.

For the Khan is not merely the ruler of the northern peoples. He is the living expression of the principles upon which their civilization was founded: conquest, endurance, transformation, and the eternal struggle between man and beast. End of Restricted Chapters III–X Further volumes covering military dispositions, frontier law, and historical campaigns are available through the Ministry of War upon presentation of appropriate authorization.