Caelan slowly opened his eyes. The blinding sunlight made him instinctively raise his arm to shield himself.
As his vision gradually cleared, an endless emerald grassland unfolded before him, like a sheet of green silk carefully ironed by the gods, stretching all the way to where the horizon met the azure sky.
Caelan instantly sobered. 'This is definitely not Barbarus!'
'Barbarus had no such vast grasslands, nor skies this blue. A Barbarus without poisonous mists was simply unnatural.'
He knew he would not remain on Barbarus forever, eventually he would journey to other worlds. But why now?
The seeds of revolution had only just been sown, Mortarion's campaign had only just begun. He should not be leaving at this moment.
'Besides… where was this place?'
With such vast grasslands and a clear blue sky, it had to be a world of great beauty.
Among the primarchs' homeworlds, only Macragge, Chogoris, and Olympia could be called truly picturesque.
"First, eliminate Olympia."
Olympia's terrain was nothing but endless rugged mountains, incapable of nurturing such expansive plains.
As for whether this was Macragge or Chogoris, he could ask someone. The question was, how to find someone?
Caelan narrowed his eyes toward the horizon. At the line where grassland met sky, a cluster of faint black dots slowly spread like ink dropped into clear water. They were riders, galloping hard.
As the distance closed, the riders clearly spotted Caelan.
They quickly changed direction, spurred their horses, and charged straight toward him.
Hooves thundered like rolling drums, waves of grass rippled, and a clear track was carved across the boundless plain.
In moments, the riders had encircled Caelan. Their steeds were tall and powerful, manes flying, and atop their heads rose distinctive topknots, braids whipping in the wind.
'That confirms it, this is Chogoris.'
The lead rider pulled his reins tight, gazing down at Caelan. "Are you a Khitan?"
Around him, the riders tensed, hands tightening on reins while their other hands rested on the curved blades at their waists.
Under dozens of hostile stares, Caelan slowly shook his head. "No."
But his denial did not convince them. Instead, suspicion deepened in their eyes.
On Chogoris, there were only two kinds of people: the nomadic tribes and the Palatine Empire.
Caelan had no topknot, his attire was utterly unlike the steppe riders, and his fine clothing was clearly of great value. He looked far more like a Palatine noble, a sheep strayed into a wolf pack.
The rider's voice was cold, sharp as a blade scraping armor. "Prove you are not Khitan!"
The circle tightened. Curved blades flashed in the sunlight.
Given the generations of enmity between Palatine and the steppe tribes, the fact they hadn't cut him down immediately was already restraint.
"Will this prove it?"
Caelan slowly raised his palm. Pale-blue psychic energy swirled there, like starlight gathered from the steppe's night sky.
The glow lit the riders' bronzed faces, revealing every flicker of doubt. Horses shrieked and stepped back as their riders pulled tight on reins.
The leader did not move. His hawk-like eyes locked onto the light in Caelan's palm. "You are a Stormseer?"
"I am a psyker. Stormseers are psykers too."
The rider's sharp gaze swept Caelan several times before he finally slid his blade back into its beast-tooth-inlaid scabbard with a dull rasp of metal against leather.
He dismounted in a clean, fluid motion, boots thudding softly against the grass.
Standing three paces away, he studied the stranger.
"Why are your eyes not golden?"
"I am not a native."
"Then you are Khitan?"
"No."
"Why come to the steppe?"
"I am lost."
As the rider opened his mouth again, Caelan suddenly asked:
"You've been asking me all along. Isn't it time I asked you?"
"Then ask."
"What is your name?"
"Jaghatai."
"I am Caelan." A gentle smile touched Caelan's lips. "May I join your tribe?"
"Your reason?"
"I am alone, with nowhere to go. Is that reason enough?"
Jaghatai tilted his head slightly, gesturing to his men. "Give him my horse."
The riders exchanged wary glances, but none dared defy Jaghatai's order.
Each rider had at least three steeds. Jaghatai himself had two white and two black.
The chosen white horse nuzzled its master's shoulder affectionately. A fleeting trace of reluctance flickered in Jaghatai's eyes.
He handed the reins to Caelan. "She is yours now, stranger."
Caelan accepted them, pale-blue psychic light shimmering in his palm. As he stroked the horse's neck, the energy seeped into its mane like flowing water.
"Don't worry. You will always be his. I am only borrowing you for a while."
The horse, restless at the stranger's touch, calmed under Caelan's soothing. It flicked its ears, then pressed its head against his shoulder.
Caelan's mounting was clumsy, but through the subtle bond of psychic power, the horse shifted its weight in perfect harmony.
He stroked its mane, gaze turning to Jaghatai. "Where are you going?"
Jaghatai's hawk-like eyes pierced him. "Revenge."
Chogoris was a beautiful, fertile world, vast green plains, towering white mountains, and clear blue seas.
In the east lay rich farmlands stretching for thousands of miles, where the Palatines had built their empire, ruling with armored knights and matchlock infantry.
Westward, the land shed its fertile cloak, becoming endless barren steppe. The Palatines scornfully called it the "Empty Lands." The nomads, who followed water and grass, lovingly called it Altak.
The Palatines dismissed the Empty Lands, never incorporating them into their empire.
Yet every year, Palatine nobles led hunting parties deep into the steppe. Their prey was not cattle or sheep, but the steppe people themselves.
Thus, the nomads called the eastern Palatines "Khitan."
Caelan found the name ironic, but the steppe folk had long grown used to it.
But Jaghatai's vengeance was not against the Khitan, it was against another steppe tribe.
The steppe was vast enough to hold hundreds of tribes. Yet it was small enough that tribes constantly slaughtered each other for pasture, sowing seeds of hatred.
Just yesterday, Jaghatai's foster father, Khan Ang of the Talskars tribe, had been slain by the rival Haelun tribe.
When Jaghatai returned, he found only the Talskars tents weeping in the wind, his foster father's corpse slumped before the golden tent, blood dried into a dark-red sash.
So he gathered the warriors of Talskars to exact blood for blood. Meeting Caelan along the way would not change his plan.
Night fell like ink. The steppe wind carried fragments of laughter from the Haelun camp, scattering them into the dark.
Jaghatai reined in his horse. Its breath steamed white in the cold night.
The Talskars warriors lay silent on their mounts, blades rasping faintly against leather armor.
They stared at the firelit camp. The Haelun drank and feasted, unaware that death's shadow loomed above them.
"So, what is the plan?"
"You would stop me?" Jaghatai turned to the stranger.
"Blood for blood, debt for debt, that is just. But they are many. If you seek revenge, you should have a plan."
Jaghatai's face was carved in moonlight, cold and hard. "The plan is to kill every one we see."
Before the words faded, he spurred his horse. It shot forward like an arrow toward the Haelun camp.
The Talskars warriors followed, exhaustion drowned by the burning liquor of vengeance.
The Haelun bonfires still blazed. They celebrated their raid on Talskars, revelry not yet faded.
Had they been a larger tribe, they might have built defenses. But Haelun, like Talskars, was small. Their defenses guarded only livestock. The camp lay open.
They were utterly unprepared.
A Haelun night watch spotted danger, galloped to warn the camp. But Jaghatai's blade slit his throat before the cry could finish.
Hooves thundered closer. Some looked up in confusion, some staggered to their feet, only to meet curved blades gleaming cold under the moon.
"For the Khan!"
Jaghatai's warcry split the night. Talskars riders surged like a tide through the tents. No distinction of women or children, all were slain. Blood painted the dawn.
The scattered resistance had barely gathered on the western side of the camp when Jaghatai led his men like an iron wedge, piercing straight through the Haelun defenses.
The Haelun warriors, blades still hanging at their waists, had their throats opened before they could even draw steel.
Jaghatai had laid no formal plan, but in his mind he had already played out the battle. A primarch's grasp of war was far sharper than any mortal's.
Whenever the Haelun tried to rally, he struck first, shattering their defenses and their will.
"Let Eternal Heaven witness my loyalty!"
Realizing the battle was lost, the Haelun khan cried out his surrender.
He stripped off his armor straps, laid his curved blade across his palms, and knelt, letting the weapon fall into the dust.
Among the steppe tribes, even mortal enemies often spared those who surrendered. Population was precious; absorbing defeated tribes could strengthen one's own.
But Jaghatai did not hesitate. He spurred his horse forward.
Before the Haelun khan could even lift his head, the blade swept across his neck. His head rolled into the dirt, eyes frozen in shock, blood spraying skyward like a fountain.
"Slaughter them all. Leave none alive!"
There was no mercy in Jaghatai's eyes, only the cold fire of vengeance.
The Talskars warriors obeyed. Blades flashed, screams mingled with blood.
Jaghatai himself charged into the broken enemy lines, each swing of his blade casting a mist of crimson.
Whether they begged for mercy or fought to the death, all alike fell beneath his sword.
The night wind carried the heavy stench of blood, bearing witness to the merciless massacre.
The Haelun had killed his foster father. They would pay the price.
Caelan rode beside him. "Truly none left alive?"
"You plead for them?" Jaghatai's hawk-like eyes were cold, unyielding.
Caelan shook his head. "Had I come years earlier, or even days, I might have urged you otherwise. But not now."
One should not preach virtue to those who have suffered grief one has never known.
Jaghatai's foster father was dead. Any words now would be hollow.
He was here to teach Jaghatai, but teaching required timing and method.
Charging in with moral lectures regardless of circumstance was madness.
Besides, Caelan was no saint. Konrad Curze had killed far more, and Caelan had never urged him to be merciful.
Each primarch held to their own unshakable principles. These were not easily changed by others' words.
Curze's principle was justice. Mortarion's was endurance.
Jaghatai was no different.
If Caelan dared plead for the Haelun, it would only turn Jaghatai against him.
Jaghatai frowned. "Then why ask me?"
Had Caelan truly tried to dissuade him, he would have cut him down without hesitation.
If you pity them so much, then join them in death. But Caelan's answer was unexpected.
"I only wished to ask, do you practice the Wheel Execution here?"
Jaghatai blinked. "What is Wheel Execution?"
"An ancient rite from Terra. Any man taller than a wagon wheel is slain. Only women and children are spared."
The concept was simple enough that even a child could understand.
It was Genghis Khan who popularized it, though its roots lay in Jurchen policies of reducing male populations. Ironically, the first to suffer it were the Mongols themselves.
"And what do I gain from this?"
"Order," Caelan replied. "If you wish to unite the steppe, unite Chogoris, you must have rules and structure. Unity always comes with law and order."
Jaghatai countered: "Why should I unite Chogoris?"
"That is for you to answer. You are the Khan."
"I am not Khan."
"You soon will be. Is there anyone in Talskars more suited than you?"
Jaghatai realized the stranger was right.
His foster father was dead. The burden of leading and protecting the tribe fell to him alone.
But how to protect them?
The steppe held hundreds of tribes, locked in endless wars. And the Khitan raided regularly. War never left Chogoris.
If he wished to protect his people, he had to end the strife, unite the tribes, stop the fratricide.
And the Khitan would not cease their hunts simply because the steppe united. He would have to end the Palatine Empire's tyranny.
Once he began, unification would follow inevitably.
Unless he did nothing, letting the steppe remain divided, tribes slaughtering each other.
Jaghatai turned his gaze on Caelan. "You are teaching me how to rule?"
The stranger was right, but why should he listen?
"Only advice. You need not heed it."
Jaghatai was harder to teach than Mortarion. He was colder, more ruthless.
Mortarion, despite his suffering under his xeno foster father, had always shown kindness and patience to mortals. He worked alongside them in the fields, defended them, even gave them choice in revolution.
His humanity was never low, only twisted by childhood trauma.
Jaghatai, though he too protected mortals, was among the most merciless of primarchs. In this, he resembled the Emperor most.
Faced with the trolley problem, many primarchs would try to stop the trolley, saving as many as possible.
The Emperor, and Jaghatai, would save five, then use the time to hunt down the madman who set the trolley in motion, ending the threat forever.
Even if there was time to do both.
It was not lack of humanity, but that honor, duty, and loyalty ranked above humanity. For many Astartes, the hierarchy was: Honor > Loyalty > Duty > Humanity. Humanity always last.
Jaghatai's gaze was sharp as a blade. "Who are you, truly?"
"A simple teacher from Terra. Sent by your true father to find you. If you wish to know more, ask, and I will tell you everything."
"I will ask." Jaghatai's eyes cooled. He sheathed his blade. A rider spurred forward, hooves squelching in blood-soaked earth.
"Spread the word. Women and children may be taken as slaves. All men taller than a wheel, kill them."
The stranger was right. Unity required law and order.
Jaghatai had insisted on exterminating Haelun to terrify other tribes, to show that raiding Talskars would bring bloody reprisal.
Wheel Execution could achieve the same.
Faced with certain death, men fought desperately.
But if sparing wives and children was promised, many would submit willingly, offering their necks for the blade.
The order spread quickly through the Talskars. They stormed through the Haelun camp, cutting down every man taller than a wagon wheel, while women and children were seized as captives.
The cries of surrender mingled with screams, the clash of steel, and the neighing of horses. Blood soaked the grass, but the slaughter was no longer indiscriminate, it followed a grim law.
Caelan watched silently. He had not stopped the killing, but he had planted a seed: the idea of rules, of order. Jaghatai's vengeance was still merciless, yet it now carried the weight of a principle.
The Haelun tribe was annihilated. Survivors, women and children, were bound together, driven into the night as spoils of war. The men lay lifeless, their bodies scattered across the camp, a warning to all who might dare attack Talskars again.
Jaghatai reined in his horse, blood spattering his blade. His hawk-like gaze swept over the carnage. "Now they will know," he said coldly, "that to strike at Talskars is to invite extinction."
Caelan rode beside him, his expression unreadable. He had seen vengeance, but also the birth of something larger: the beginnings of law, the first step toward unity.
Jaghatai's warriors gathered around him, their faces grim but resolute. They had avenged their Khan. Yet in their hearts, they knew this was only the beginning.
The grasslands were vast, filled with countless tribes. If Jaghatai wished to protect his people, he would have to unite them all. And beyond the plains, the Khitan, Palatine Empire, still hunted the tribes for sport.
The path ahead was clear: war, unity, and destiny.
Jaghatai turned to Caelan. "You say you are a teacher from Terra. Sent by my father."
Caelan nodded. "Yes. And if you wish to know more, all you need do is ask."
Jaghatai's eyes narrowed, sharp as blades. "I will ask. But not tonight."
He sheathed his sword. The riders began to round up the captives, driving them toward the horizon. The fires of the Haelun camp burned low, smoke rising into the starry sky.
Caelan looked out across the endless grassland. He knew this was only the first lesson. Jaghatai had tasted vengeance, but soon, he would taste ambition.
The Wheel Execution had spared some lives, but it had also marked the beginning of something greater: the forging of rules, the foundation of order, and the first step toward uniting Chogoris under one Khan.