At the southernmost tip of the Central Plains Empire, beyond the edges of Verdant Valley City,

Deep into the untamed southern grasslands, a sea of barbarian tents sprawled across the snow-dappled terrain. This area, usually tranquil with only the occasional rustle of wild animals, now echoed with the hum of life. Thousands upon thousands of tents stood under the starlit sky, their forms illuminated faintly by scattered fires. The encampment teemed with activity—barbarian warriors patrolled in disciplined formations, others prepared for the night ahead, while the soft neighs of restless horses blended with the distant clang of sharpening weapons.

This was the Holy Tribe of Khan Fo, a coalition of tribes forged through blood and determination under the leadership of the warlord himself. At the heart of the camp, amidst the rows of tents, stood a grand pavilion adorned with tribal insignias, lit dimly from within by a brazier’s warm glow. Inside sat Khan Fo, the man who had unified the scattered and broken tribes of the southern grasslands, his expression one of calculated resolve.

Khan Fo leaned over a rough wooden table, his calloused fingers tracing the edges of a hand-drawn map. The map depicted Verdant Valley City and its surrounding areas, marked with detailed notes on troop movements and defenses. His dark eyes gleamed with a fierce hunger as he considered the strategy that had consumed him for the past two decades. The cold wind that crept into the tent only seemed to fuel his determination.

This would not be a mere raid for winter supplies, as his ancestors had done for generations. No, Khan Fo had no intention of retreating once his men claimed the spoils. This time, the central plains would feel the weight of his vengeance. He had spent twenty years forging alliances, merging tribes, and building an army capable of not just surviving but conquering.

His fingers paused over the depiction of Verdant Valley City, its location marked by a cluster of lines and symbols. Barely visible in the distance outside his tent, the city lights shimmered faintly on the snowy horizon, their glow defiant against the winter's darkness. It was a city that had grown from an insignificant settlement into a beacon of prosperity, thanks largely to the influence of the Verdant Valley Sect.

But Khan Fo harbored no fear of the sect. While it may have risen to prominence over the years, it specialized in healing and medicine—not warfare. Their defenses, he believed, would crumble under the sheer force of his unified tribe.

Twenty years ago, the story had been different. Back then, Khan Fo was a young teenager, one of the few survivors of the brutal war between the barbarian tribes and the Central Plains Empire. The memory of that war was seared into his mind—a conflict that began with hope and ended in devastation. What started as a campaign to assert the tribes’ strength had spiraled into a slaughter, with the Emperor himself leading the charge alongside the empire's most powerful sects. Reinforcements from the Western Continent, including mages of formidable power, turned the tide irrevocably.

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Khan Fo’s tribe, once proud and flourishing, was reduced to ashes. The great Khan of that era, his grandfather, had made the fatal mistake of allowing messengers to escape during a raid. Those messengers had summoned imperial reinforcements with terrifying speed. The barbarians, outnumbered and outgunned, were crushed.

Khan Fo survived the carnage, though the scars it left ran deep. His family, his tribe, his very way of life—all had been ripped from him. For years, he wandered, nursing his wounds and his hatred, until he vowed to rebuild what had been lost. Slowly, meticulously, he worked his way through the grasslands, uniting tribe after tribe under his banner. His charisma, coupled with his sheer determination, forged alliances where once there had only been rivalries and blood feuds. The result was the Holy Tribe of Khan Fo—a coalition stronger than any the barbarian lands had ever known.

Now, as he sat in the heart of his creation, the culmination of twenty years of relentless effort, his eyes gleamed with anticipation. Tomorrow, the Verdant Valley City would fall. Unlike his predecessors, he would leave no loose ends. There would be no survivors to summon reinforcements, no messengers to warn the imperial court. His warriors would raze the city to the ground before pressing further into the empire's southern territories.

A gust of icy wind rattled the tent’s fabric, but Khan Fo paid it no mind. He rose from his seat, stepping out into the frigid night air. The camp stretched before him, a testament to his vision and tenacity. Fires flickered in the distance, casting long shadows over the snow-covered grasslands. Warriors huddled in groups, their breath visible in the cold, while others patrolled the perimeter with unwavering vigilance. The sheer scale of the encampment filled him with pride.

Turning his gaze to the horizon, he caught sight of the faint lights of Verdant Valley City, their glow a stark contrast to the dark expanse around them. His lips curved into a smile, one born of both satisfaction and a thirst for vengeance.

“They think their walls and their sect will protect them,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and steely. “But they don’t understand what’s coming.”

For years, he had waited for this moment, honing his army and his strategy.

The city's defenses, he was certain, would crumble under the sheer weight of his assault. There would be no mercy, no hesitation. He had learned from his grandfather’s mistakes and vowed never to repeat them. This time, his revenge would be absolute.

As the clouds above shifted, the moonlight broke through, illuminating the camp with a cold, pale glow. Khan Fo inhaled deeply, the icy air filling his lungs, and closed his eyes for a moment. The faces of his family and tribe, long lost to the war, flashed through his mind. He would honor their memory with fire and steel.

When he opened his eyes, they burned with resolve. Tomorrow, Verdant Valley City would fall, and the Central Plains Empire would finally feel the weight of the barbarian tribes’ fury.

“This is only the beginning,” he whispered, his words carried by the wind across the sprawling encampment. “The empire will remember the name Khan Fo.”

He turned and re-entered his tent, the brazier’s glow casting long shadows across his hardened face. There was still work to be done, but for now, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Tomorrow would mark the start of his long-awaited vengeance, and he would not falter.