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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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They were forced to learn a new way of existing. They now had one singular, unified identity, an identity that was being forged in the freezing permafrost under the watchful eyes of the Black Dragon. And that identity was simple, absolute, and unyielding, they were no longer the wild, sovereign riders of the independent steppes, they were simply the nomadic tribes that will be fully, permanently assimilated into the great, eternal domain of the Hengyuan Dynasty. Their past belonged to the grass, but their future belonged entirely to the Throne.
The splinter tribes of the Xiongnu, Xianbei, Wuhuan, Yuezhi, and Fuyu, of course, deeply and intensely despised their new, cramped living arrangements at first. For thousands of years, the nomadic spirit had been defined by the absolute, boundless freedom of the open plains. Their ancestors had roamed wherever the grass was greenest and the water ran clear, pitching their yurts miles apart to give their massive herds room to graze.
Now, stripped of their weapons, their horses, and their sprawling autonomy, they found themselves violently compressed into the rigid, claustrophobic geometric grids designed by Sima Yi's engineers. The psychological shock was suffocating.
They were forced to live side by side, sharing communal cooking fires, drawing water from the exact same wells, and huddling for warmth under the same canvas structures with their bitter, generational rivals.
A hardened Xiongnu warrior, a man whose grandfather had been brutally slain by a Xianbei raiding party, was now forced to sit cross legged across a narrow, smoky fire pit from a scarred Xianbei horse archer. To their right, a Wuhuan family silently chewed on their rations of imperial rice, while a deposed Yuezhi merchant and a Fuyu infantryman tried to mend their torn furs in the same cramped corner of the timber longhouse.
The air inside these heavily insulated barracks was unspeakably tense, thick with the suffocating weight of centuries of ingrained hatred, unavenged blood feuds, and cultural disgust.
However, they absolutely could not do a single thing about it. They did not even dare to argue, raise their voices, or initiate a fistfight with the other tribes.
The fierce, untamed pride that had defined the barbarians of the north had been completely, utterly hollowed out by the fires of industrialized war. They were utterly terrified of angering the heavily armed Hengyuan soldiers constantly patrolling the camps.
Outside their thin canvas doors, the relentless, synchronized crunch of heavy iron boots upon the permafrost served as a perpetual reminder of their subjugation. The Han heavy infantry marched in shifts, their massive tower shields and polished halberds gleaming in the torchlight, their eyes cold and entirely devoid of mercy.
But more than the armored guards, more than the crushing weight of their defeat, these shattered remnants were especially, profoundly terrified of drawing the wrath of the demon like Emperor. The mere whispered mention of Lie Fan's name was enough to make the most battle hardened steppe veteran pale and fall completely silent.
They had seen him ride through the explosive carnage on his monstrous black steed, cleaving through their greatest champions as if they were made of autumn leaves.
They knew that if they even dared to unsheathe a smuggled bone knife to settle an old tribal score, the Black Dragon would not just execute the offender, he would eradicate their entire bloodline from the imperial ledgers, wiping them from the face of the earth. Thus, the boiling hatred they felt for their historic rivals was violently suppressed, buried deep beneath an overwhelming, paralyzing instinct to simply survive the night.
As for Lie Fan, the supreme architect of this newfound, terrified peace, he did not allow the dust of his victory to settle before moving to the next crucial phase of his continental assimilation.
Early the next day, as the pale, freezing dawn broke across the devastated, blood stained horizon of the northern plains, the Emperor grandly went out to formally meet with the chosen representatives of each splinter group from the five tribes.
This was no ordinary parley; it was a carefully orchestrated, awe inspiring display of absolute imperial dominance. The grand meeting pavilion had been erected in the very center of the refugee grid, a massive structure of black silk and heavy timber, surrounded by towering braziers roaring with coal fire.
For this monumental summit, Lie Fan was, of course, closely accompanied by the most terrifying and brilliant minds the world had ever produced. Flanking him as he strode toward the pavilion were his four brilliant advisors, Sima Yi, Xun You, Xu Shu, and Lu Xun. Together, they represented the inescapable, crushing bureaucratic and strategic weight of the Hengyuan Dynasty.
But intellect alone was not enough to subdue the wolf-lords of the steppes. They respected martial power above all else, and Lie Fan brought it in overwhelming, breathtaking abundance.
He was fiercely guarded by Lu Lingqi. Clad in her dark silver, bespoke armor, she walked with the predatory grace of a Valkyrie Queen, her hand resting casually near the haft of her lethal halberd. Her presence alone sent shivers down the spines of the nomadic prisoners who recognized her from the bloody vanguard.
Directly behind the royal couple moved two imposing Yellow Ghost Bodyguards. They wore no colorful banners, only pitch black armor and emotionless iron masks, moving with the silent, fluid lethality of executioners who were just waiting for the Emperor to blink before severing a throat.
And flanking the entire procession were two of the realm's most peerless, legendary generals, Zhao Yun and Ma Chao. For the Yuezhi and Xiongnu representatives present, the sight of Ma Chao, a man who had butchered their raiding parties in Liang Province for years, standing obediently at the Emperor's side was the ultimate, crushing proof of Lie Fan's absolute supremacy.
As the Emperor took his seat upon a heavy, fur draped mahogany chair at the head of the pavilion, the atmosphere inside the tent was pulled so tight it felt as though the very air might shatter.
During this tense, profoundly historic meeting, Lie Fan was meticulously accompanied by several elite translators.
These were not the covert Oriole spies from the interrogation tents, but highly educated, formally dressed scholars of the imperial court who had spent their entire lives mastering the guttural, complex dialects of the far north. Lie Fan positioned them directly beside his throne.
He intentionally brought them to make absolutely sure he could perfectly understand every single nuance, every subtle inflection, and every hidden meaning of what was being said by the tribal leaders.
He was a sovereign who knew that wars could be started, and empires fractured, over a single misinterpreted word. Furthermore, these elite linguists were there to guarantee that what he meant, and what he commanded, could be conveyed fully, one hundred percent, without any dangerous misinterpretations.
When the Emperor of the Hengyuan Dynasty issued a decree, it had to land upon the ears of the barbarians with the exact, terrifying clarity of a falling blade.
This crucial meeting was held by Lie Fan for a highly specific, Machiavellian purpose. He was there to carefully evaluate the remnants of the broken horde and see which of the tribes actually had the biggest potential and capability for him to officially put as the supreme head of these newly assimilated peoples.
To merge five historically homicidal factions into a single, cohesive demographic was a monumental task. Lie Fan knew that simply forcing them to hold hands would never work. If he left them without internal leadership, they would eventually unite in their shared misery and target their collective hatred toward him, the conqueror.
Instead, he deployed a brilliant, deeply insidious psychological strategy. He would give them a crown to fight over.
Lie Fan knew that once a supreme head of the tribes was explicitly chosen and elevated by him, granted special privileges, better rations, and the authority to enforce Hengyuan law, the other four tribes would be consumed by an overwhelming, burning jealousy. They would definitely do absolutely anything in their power to prove they were more worthy, more capable, and more loyal, in the desperate hope that they could be the new head.
By dangling the ultimate prize of regional supremacy in front of them, Lie Fan was effectively creating a fierce but highly controlled internal competition.
Instead of plotting a unified rebellion against the Han, the tribes would exhaust all of their political and martial energy constantly trying to out perform, out produce, and out maneuver each other to win the Emperor's favor. It was a flawless mechanism that served Hengyuan's interests perfectly, turning their volatile tribal ambitions into a self policing engine of absolute loyalty.
To maintain this delicate balance of power, and to ensure that whichever tribe was placed in charge did not grow complacent or overly tyrannical, Lie Fan intended to make this position temporary. He would make it function like a grand election every ten years.
The title of supreme head was not a hereditary right to be passed down by blood, it was a leased privilege, rented entirely through merit, subjugation, and absolute obedience to the Dragon Throne.
So, kneeling before the Emperor in the center of the grand pavilion, the representatives gathered from each of the five tribes waited in terrifying silence.
They were not kings or supreme Khans, those men were all currently rotting beneath the mud of the blasted command camp. Instead, this fragile council consisted of five prominent chiefs or wise elders who had survived the purge.
They had been meticulously selected by Sima Yi's census because they either possessed the most powerful, healthy warriors remaining, were the absolute richest in surviving resources such as horses and hidden silver, or were simply the most politically influential, respected figures left alive to accurately represent each of the big five tribes.
There was an aged, heavily scarred Xiongnu elder, his face weathered like ancient leather, representing the largest surviving population of cavalry. Beside him knelt a shrewd, one eyed Xianbei chieftain, a man known for his political cunning and survival instincts.
A Wuhuan clan leader, clad in battered furs, represented the eastern archers. A massive, imposing Fuyu warlord, stripped of his armor but still radiating raw physical power, knelt for the deep forests. And finally, a wealthy Yuezhi merchant lord, his fine silks stained with the soot of the artillery barrage, represented the western deserts.
Lie Fan looked down at the five men. They were the broken pillars of a fallen world.
He raised his hand, and the pavilion fell completely silent, save for the crackle of the braziers.
"You kneel before the Dragon Throne not as Xiongnu, or Xianbei, or Fuyu," Lie Fan began, his voice smooth, resonant, and carrying a terrifying, unyielding authority. The elite translators instantly mirrored his words, their voices echoing the exact tone and cadence of the Emperor in five different dialects. "You kneel as subjects of the Hengyuan Dynasty. The era of the endless steppes, of raiding, of your petty, blood soaked feuds... is permanently over. I have burned it to ash."
The five representatives kept their heads bowed, trembling slightly, not daring to look directly into the eyes of the man who had ordered the Hwachas to fire.
"However," Lie Fan continued, leaning slightly forward, his dark eyes observing the subtle shifts in their body language. "I do not intend to leave you as a chaotic, squabbling mob in the snow. An empire requires order. It requires hierarchy. And it requires leadership."
At the word 'leadership', the ears of the five men practically twitched. Despite their broken state, the ancient, ingrained ambition of the steppes flared to life within their chests.
"I shall elevate one among you," Lie Fan declared, laying the trap with masterful precision. "One tribe shall be lifted above the rest. The chosen head will be granted the authority to administer the imperial laws, manage the distribution of the winter grain, and command the newly formed auxiliary cavalry divisions under the direct supervision of my generals. The chosen tribe will dine on meat, while the others eat millet. The chosen tribe will sleep in the warmest barracks, while the others maintain the outer palisades."
The psychological impact of his words was immediate and profound. Lie Fan, flanked by his brilliant advisors who watched the scene unfold with silent, awe struck admiration, could literally see the hatred in the room shift.
The five representatives stopped radiating fear toward the Emperor, and immediately began projecting a sharp, venomous, and highly competitive intensity toward each other.
The Xiongnu elder side eyed the Xianbei chieftain, his mind already calculating how to prove his riders were superior. The Yuezhi lord frowned at the Fuyu warlord, silently vowing to offer the Emperor all of his hidden desert wealth to secure the position.
Lie Fan had successfully redirected their animosity. They were no longer victims of the Han, they were rivals in an imperial court.
"But this elevation is not eternal," Lie Fan warned, his voice dropping into a colder, deadlier register, snapping their attention back to him. "It is a mandate of performance. Every ten years, a grand reckoning shall take place. You will be evaluated on your loyalty, your military contributions to my vanguard, the prosperity of your herds, and your ability to keep the peace. If the ruling tribe fails, or if another tribe proves themselves vastly superior in their devotion to Hengyuan... the crown of the steppes will be stripped away and handed to your rival."
The absolute genius of the ten year election settled heavily upon the minds of the nomadic leaders. They realized they could never, ever rest.
They could never plot rebellion, because the moment they did, the other four tribes would immediately betray them to the Emperor in order to steal the supreme position. They were trapped in a perfect, inescapable cage of their own ambition.
"The final result of this carefully planned ten year election," Lie Fan stated, rising slowly from his mahogany chair, his towering, armored frame dominating the entire pavilion, "will then go directly to me. I, the absolute Emperor, reserve the sole, unquestionable right to decide whether I will formally approve and legitimize this new head of the tribes. You do not vote. You perform, and I judge."
The five representatives pressed their foreheads against the cold, hard earth, their voices crying out in absolute, terrified submission, pledging their undying loyalty, their sons, and their herds to the Black Dragon. They frantically tried to out shout one another, each desperately trying to be the loudest to pledge their obedience, entirely validating Lie Fan's psychological mastery.
Lie Fan looked down at the prostrate men, and then out past the open flaps of the pavilion, looking at the sprawling, rigid, mathematically perfect refugee city that now housed the remnants of a shattered civilization.
"Under my imperial decree," Lie Fan proclaimed, his voice echoing out into the freezing winds of the north, signaling the true, permanent end of the old world and the birth of a new era. "Your old names are dead. Your old alliances are dust. From this day until the end of time, this newly forged, highly regulated nomadic alliance will officially be called the Confederacy of the Northern Tribes. You belong to Hengyuan. Do not disappoint me."
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Name: Lie Fan
Title: Founding Emperor Of Hengyuan Dynasty
Age: 36 (203 AD)
Level: 16
Next Level: 462,000
Renown: 2325
Cultivation: Yin Yang Separation (level 11)
SP: 1,121,700
ATTRIBUTE POINTS
STR: 1,010 (+20)
VIT: 659 (+20)
AGI: 653 (+10)
INT: 691
CHR: 98
WIS: 569
WILL: 436
ATR Points: 0