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It was a warning to all who remained. If they wanted a better future, there was only one option: absolute submission. The Grasslands, as they once were, could no longer support the rise of a powerful, unified force capable of threatening the Han. Even Batu’s Warring Lion Tribe, which had once been a force to be reckoned with, was now scattered and reduced to little more than a band of wandering refugees. It would take at least two generations of rebuilding before they could recover, and that was if they recovered.
Of course, if Batu was determined, the Warring Lion Tribe still had a chance, but looking at Batu right now…
“Godfather! Godfather! You’ve finally returned!”
Batu ran out from the foot of the mountain, bowing so deeply that his head nearly touched the ground. “Your son has come to lead your horse!”
Zhao Changhe nearly tumbled off his saddle. “When the hell did I acknowledge a son?”
“Godmother did.” Batu grinned and immediately prostrated himself at the horse’s side, offering his back as a stepping stone. “Please, godfather, dismount.”
“Spare me.” Zhao Changhe knew that this kind of ritualized submission was normal in the Grasslands, but he simply was not used to it. He shot Huangfu...
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