City of Datong, Late December 2404

Snow blanketed the rooftops and ancient monuments of Datong, softening the edges of the Great Wall of China that stood sentinel against the elements. Workers from the True Horde dug trenches near the wall, their breath visible in the frosty air.

Alam stood amidst the bustling activity, glancing at the wall's towering presence. “In the past, the Chinese used this wall to fend off nomadic tribes. Now, we’re using it against the Red Army,” he remarked, a hint of pride in his voice.

Fang, close by, nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed, the Great Wall was a formidable defense against the Mongols. Today, it will serve as a bastion against the Red Army’s expansionist ambitions. It symbolizes the strength and unity of the Chinese people, and now, it embodies our determination to defend our homeland.”

Alam chuckled, a playful glint in his eye. “Well, I’m not Chinese by birth,” he said with a wink, “so maybe I’m a bit of a foreigner in this narrative.”

“True,” Fang acknowledged, a smile creeping onto her face. “You may not be Chinese by birth, but you’ve made this land your home. Your commitment to protect its people makes you a true leader in my eyes. The people can be proud to have someone like you fighting for them.”

“Thank you,” Alam replied, his tone shifting slightly. “But enough about me. You’ve been rather coy about your backstory, Fang.”

Fang grinned, leaning back slightly as she began. “Ah, my story? It starts in a small village, far from here. A quiet place where I lived with my parents and younger brother. They were farmers, toiling away so I could one day become a warrior. I guess you could say I was destined for this life.”

Alam raised an eyebrow, sensing there was more to the tale. “I have a feeling the story of a woman warrior isn’t that straightforward. There must be a deeper reason, something primal.”

Fang hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right. My family held traditional views; they believed women shouldn’t be warriors. But I had an insatiable thirst for battle and a desire to prove myself. I trained in secret, defying my parents’ wishes. When I finally became a warrior, it felt like a monumental achievement.”

“That’s quite a journey,” Alam said, his voice sincere. “But have you made peace with your parents?”

Fang sighed, a hint of nostalgia in her eyes. “We’ve come to an understanding. They still don’t approve of my career, but they support me. They know I’m following my own path. In the end, that’s what matters—doing what you believe is right.”

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

“Yeah, no regrets, huh?” Alam mused, raising his binoculars to scan the horizon. “I pity this ancient wall, though. In a week or a month, it’ll probably bear the scars of Red Army cannon fire.”

Fang’s expression turned somber. “It’s unfortunate that this historic wall will likely sustain damage. But it will also symbolize our commitment to defend this land to the bitter end. That’s an important message to send.”

“True,” Alam replied, a glint of humor in his eyes. “Imagine machine gun fire echoing off a thousand-year-old wall. It would be quite a sight for a film.”

“It would be dramatic, for sure,” Fang chuckled. “Picture this: the Red Army’s machine gun fire blasting apart the ancient stones, marching through its ruins toward Datong. Fascinating from a historical perspective, but a military disaster. They’d destroy a symbol of our resistance and advance unchecked.”

“Yeah, but before that happens,” Alam declared with fierce determination, “we’ll make them bleed. A lot.”

“Of course,” Fang affirmed, his tone resolute. “We won’t let them pass without fierce resistance. The Red Army will learn that they can’t just push us around—we’ll make them pay for every inch.”

Alam looked around, taking in the hilly terrain. “This area is perfect for hidden tunnels. We can ambush them at the wall.”

“Absolutely,” Fang agreed, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “The hills could serve us well. We can set traps and wait for the Red Army to walk right into them. Catch them off guard and cause chaos in their ranks.”

“Good. Now we just wait for them to come,” Alam said, a grin spreading across his face.

“Yep, that’s the plan,” Fang replied, cracking his knuckles in anticipation. “Let’s set these traps and prepare for our ambush.”

Later on office, Alam summoned Sima Yijin, General Sima's twin.

“Hey, so you’re his twin, huh? Tell me about the machine inside the mine. I know the Khaganate structure is a bit... old school. What’s this little rebellion within the Khaganate all about?” Alam asked, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Sima Yijin sat down, his demeanor calm and composed. “There’s an old pre-war bunker somewhere in Siberia. My brother plans to create a powerful drill machine to access it.

Alam nodded, remember his time when meet mad figure like ruan mei, he intrigued. “But why don’t you want to join the Red Nation? Besides the desire for autonomy?”

Sima replied without hesitation, “I understand Zion’s game. He wants to make his allies dependent on the Red Nation. The Khaganate is a proud society. Before the war, we had independence in food, coal, and industry. But after opening our market to Zion’s influence for technology exchange, our farmers and industries can’t compete with their superior economy. It’s made us slaves to our own country, and we’ve accumulated a lot of debt to Zion.”

Alam rubbed his chin, still trying to grasp the situation. “So, it’s like you’ve caught an ‘African disease’?”

Sima nodded. “Exactly. Before colonialism, Africa was a prosperous region, a breadbasket. But after European powers arrived, they became impoverished.

Now, we import Red Nation grain, paid for with resources we can barely afford to extract. It’s a slow bleed, Alam. They take our raw materials, sell us back finished goods at inflated prices.”

A memory flickered in Alam’s mind: grainy images from old Earth history vids – vast plantations, exploited workers, ships laden with raw materials sailing to distant shores. The word “colonialism” echoed in his head. He understood. A familiar story, played out on a different stage

Alam tapped his lips thoughtfully. “Yeah, colonialism isn’t about democracy or liberty; it’s about the submission of their subjects.”

As the conversation unfolded, Alam couldn’t help but feel the weight of Sima’s words. The parallels between the Khaganate’s struggles and historical injustices were striking. It was a reminder that the past often casts long shadows over the present, and the fight for autonomy was as relevant as ever.

With a newfound determination, Alam leaned back in his chair, a grin creeping onto his face. “Well, Sima, it sounds like we have a lot of work to do.. After all, who doesn’t love a good underdog story?”

Sima chuckled, a spark of hope in his eyes.