The steppes stretched endlessly, like a sea of golden grass swaying beneath the cold whisper of the wind. Above, a gray sky loomed low, and in its silence lay the foreboding breath of war.
In the heart of this vast wilderness trudged a boy—barefoot, ragged, and hollow-eyed. His name was Baatar, though he had long forgotten the meaning of strength. The chains that once bound him as a slave had been broken, but the shackles in his heart remained.
He remembered the blood.
He remembered the screams—the fire that devoured the home of the kind couple who had raised him after his parents were slaughtered in another raid. They had given him warmth, a name, and dreams. War had taken it all.
Now, all that remained was the will to keep walking.
He passed the burnt remains of yurts, the smell of ash and death heavy in the air. In the distance, crows circled, and wolves howled as night crept in.
But Baatar didn't stop. He walked not just for survival, but for a purpose he barely understood. A desire that burned deep in his chest.
A world without war…
Could such a world exist?
A sudden gust of wind carried with it the clash of swords and the echo of a horn. He dropped low to the ground, crawling to the edge of a ridge. Below, a battle unfolded between two rival tribes—one flying the black banners of the Jirgin, the other marked with red, the Khartsag.
Steel met flesh. War cries tore through the air. And amid the chaos, he saw a boy—no older than himself—cutting down grown men like a tempest. Eyes wild, movements precise, he moved as though possessed.
Baatar watched, transfixed.
So this is what power looks like…
That night, under the starless sky, Baatar whispered to himself:
"I'll become stronger. So strong that no one will take anything from me ever again. So that no child has to lose their home… the way I did."
In the shadows of kings, a new fire was born.