Steppe Territory, Near Karakorum — Year 1226
Winter's breath clung to the throat of the world.
The wind howled like a drunk with no family. It screamed across the plains, snapping prayer flags and freezing the piss midstream from any fool dumb enough to relieve himself into the wind.
One such fool — twelve years old, bastard-born, mongrel-souled — had just done exactly that.
And now he was shivering, squatting behind a half-frozen yak carcass, teeth rattling like a gambling den full of cowards.
> "Should've pissed downwind," Tegüs muttered, slapping warmth back into his hands. "Bloody clever, me. Smart as dog shit and twice as lucky."
He stood, adjusting the belt on his tattered coat — still stained with horse milk vomit, half-dried blood, and something he refused to identify.
The sky above was wide and sharp.
The land below was worse.
But Tegüs? Tegüs was grinning.
---
🏕️ In the Camp
Tegüs wasn't important.
Not yet.
He was the bastard grandson of a Khan's lesser son — the kind of child no one claimed, but no one dared to kill outright.
So he lived. On the edge of fire pits. On the scraps of warriors. On insults and thrown bones. Among dogs, madmen, and worse — family.
His cousin Bolor, older by two years and dumber by four, sneered across the fire.
> "Still smell like goat's cock," he said, biting into half-cooked meat.
Tegüs sniffed his sleeve. Then shrugged.
> "Could be worse. Could smell like your ma."
That earned him a fist.
He ducked. Not by instinct — by experience.
He'd dodged Bolor's punches fifty-three times.
> [Skill: Footwork (Basic) — Proficiency 4 → 5]
Tegüs didn't notice the update.
He just planted a fist in Bolor's gut.
Bolor wheezed. Dropped. Shat a little, maybe. Tegüs grinned.
> "Eat slower next time, cousin. Or die quicker."
---
🤼 Bökh Ring
Later that morning, the warriors gathered near the central ring. Two men — giants, flesh like boiled leather — wrestled in the snow. Bökh wrestling. Real steppe sport.
Tegüs watched.
Not with reverence.
With curiosity.
He tilted his head like a drunk owl, watching their feet, their hips, their shoulder tension.
> "He's got too much weight on his right leg," Tegüs mumbled. "Throw's coming left."
A second later — slam.
The smaller man flipped the larger one over his shoulder with a roar.
> "Told you," he said to no one, then muttered: "Fucker moved like a lopsided goat."
> [Combat Insight: Reading Balance — Detected]
[Skill: Pattern Observation — Proficiency 1 → 2]
Tegüs didn't see that either.
He was too busy mimicking the throw behind a yurt — on a half-frozen sheep carcass.
It didn't go well.
> "Argh! Ya bony bastard!"
"Break my bloody ribs, why don't you?"
---
🌌 At Night
The fire cracked.
Meat sizzled.
Somebody in camp was already drunk, singing about horses and tits.
Tegüs lay on a fur, staring at the stars — but not because he was dreaming.
> "Bastards," he whispered at them. "All of you. Shining up there like you've never had your nose broke in the dirt."
He spat.
> "One day I'll make you remember me. Not with poems. With blood. With fists. With noise."
His hand curled in the dirt — not around a sword, or a scroll, but a rock. The same one he used to split a dog's head last week when it tried to steal his food.
He grinned, wide and violent.
> "Aye," he muttered, eyes half-closed, breath steaming.
"I'll punch the fuckin' sky one day. Let it bleed stars."
---
🧬 SYSTEM RESPONSE: [INTERNAL — NOT VISIBLE TO HIM]
> Tegüs of No Banner
Level: 1
Glory: 0
Stat Potential Unlocked: INT (S Rank), DEX (B Rank), STR/VIT/END (C Rank, D Rank)
Style: None. Path: Undefined. Will: Active.
Notes: Subject highly volatile. Growth unlikely… unless madmen are involved.
Flag: "Seeks Conflict Over Meaning" — Activated
Warning: This one will be a fucking problem.