Northern Steppe, Oirat Tribe.
The vast Milky Way spanned the heavens, stars glittering bright, casting their light over the lush spring forests and grasslands.
After the shamans had held a blessing ritual, a great bonfire was lit on the broad square before the royal court’s golden tent, its flames illuminating countless yurts all around.
The firelight reddened the faces of Oirat men as they sat in circles, tearing at roasted meat with great bites, downing bowls of mare’s milk wine, and laughing boisterously as they talked. The young women, dressed in finery, danced gracefully; their songs resounded into the night sky.
This was a grand feast—celebrating the safe return of the great prince Aletan, and celebrating too that he had gained the full recognition of the Ulan Mountain’s sacred tree, bestowed with the title of shaman. From this day on, the Oirat tribe had yet another awe-inspiring great sorcerer, enough to strike fear into other tribes.
Khan Hu Kuoli, bedridden for many days, was stirred by this sudden good news. His spirits surged, and his health seemed to improve all at once; this night, he left the golden tent to drink and celebrate with his people.
Yet the guest of honor, once the wine had gone around three times, quietly slipped away. Alone, he walked across the meadow until he reached the banks of the Selenge River.
Under the moonlight, the dark water shimmered with silver scales, flowing quietly by.
Aletan had left his shaman’s robes in his yurt. Now he wore only a brand-new camel-colored cross-collared robe and boots of fragrant cowhide.
His waves of curling hair, once shoulder-length, now reached his waist. Bound into a long braid by a golden-threaded cord set with many gold beads large and small, it hung loosely over his shoulder.
His skin was dark, his hair pale as snow—making the gold ornaments gleam all the brighter. Yet even that brightness paled beside his eyes, glowing like a blazing sun.
Aletan stood by the riverbank for a while, then shed his robe, trousers, and boots, stepping bare into the water.
Though the northern spring nights were cold, and the river chill, as it flowed across his body it was as though it coursed over high, unyielding cliffs—he showed no trace of shivering. The water only carried away the frost and dust of his journey.
Droplets rolled down his strong young muscles. Aletan lowered his gaze from the tattoo upon his chest—darkened a deeper red by the water—to his left arm.
The ribbon was still tied there, stained a dark green by the sacred tree’s fruit juice. The skin beneath it had not absorbed the medicine, leaving behind rings of pale, spiral-shaped marks.
He remembered—this was his original skin color. He remembered every day spent with his father, brothers, and clansmen in the tribe.
But he could never remember where the ribbon had come from.
Judging by the material, it was made of Central Plains silk. Yet to his knowledge, he had never been to the Central Plains, knew no one from there, nor would he have bought such a trinket, so out of place with his attire, at the border markets.
So where had it come from?
The ribbon seemed like a mist coiled around his heart, impossible to grasp or pierce.
He had tried to banish the fog. When frustration drove him near madness, he had more than once thought of burning it. But whenever he cast it toward the fire, some sudden impulse would seize him, forcing his hands to snatch it back.
At such moments, he always recalled the words of the old shaman guarding the sacred tree: “If you forget, it means it was not important. If it is truly important, one day you will remember.”
Forget it, Aletan thought. Let it stay tied there. Perhaps one day I will recall that memory. Or perhaps I never will. Either way, it is Heaven’s will.
A night wind brushed his ear. Suddenly, Aletan’s ear twitched, and he turned his head toward the riverside grass that had grown as tall as a man.
“Great Shaman Heiduo,” he said in a deep voice.
The grass rustled, and a tall, thin figure cloaked in black emerged, strips of leather dangling from the robe’s hem swaying in the wind. It was indeed Heiduo.
From beneath the hood came a hoarse, coal-swallowed voice: “They say the Son of the Sacred Tree, Aletan, has the eyes of an eagle. It is true.”
Aletan replied, “No. I did not see you. I heard the sound of bronze rings on your leather cords struck by the wind, and I smelled the sacred oil upon you.”
Heiduo said, “Why did the prince flee the welcoming feast? Has your long absence made you feel estranged and ill at ease in your ancestral land?”
Aletan narrowed his eyes slightly. “No matter how far my body may travel from this soil, my heart remains here. Unlike some, who live in their homeland but whose hearts have long gone elsewhere.”
His voice was as proud and towering as the mountains, yet carried a blade-like sharpness. It struck Heiduo suddenly—Aletan was not the same as before.
Not merely his hair, skin, and eyes had changed. In some deeper realm of the soul—one only gods themselves could touch—there had been an avalanche-like transformation.
Heiduo could not help but glance toward the distant Altai Mountains. In the night, the snow upon their peaks was invisible, but the silhouette of the ridges was clear. The young man before him made him think of that mountain.
Heiduo was silent for a long time. At last he bowed slightly and retreated into the dark.
Aletan suddenly smiled and said, “Great Shaman, while I was gone, thank you for treating my father.”
“This is both my duty and my will.”
The hoarse voice faded into the wind, and the black figure vanished into the grass.
With the sound of water flowing, Aletan walked step by step back to the bank, letting the night wind carry away the droplets on his body before putting on his robe again.
He returned to the royal court—but not to the square alive with song, dance, and wine. Instead, he slipped into one of the many yurts nearby.
Inside, a dozen burly men were drinking. When they saw him, they leapt to their feet, calling: “Great Prince—”
Aletan pressed his palm downward, signaling them to sit. He sat among them, grabbed their wineskin, and took several deep swallows. Wiping the wine from his lips with the back of his hand, he said:
“Your fathers, your brothers, your sons—those guards who followed me away from Oirat last year—none of them will ever return.”
The dozen men’s eyes instantly reddened. Gritting their teeth, they said: “Seeing the great prince return alone, his appearance changed, we already guessed something.”
Aletan said: “I only remember taking them with me. I do not remember how I lost them. I need your help.”
One man said: “Before my elder brother departed, he said he was going with the great prince to Ming.”
Another man thought a moment, then added: “Yes, to sell horses. The great prince himself said it was a trial task given by the elders, one that must be completed.”
“Last September, a shipment of tea and salt came from Ming to our tribe. They said it was from selling horses, the earnings of the great prince. The soldiers escorting the goods were also Ming people. I chatted a little with the guide and heard they came from Lingzhou’s Qingshui Camp.”
Lingzhou. Qingshui Camp. Aletan firmly etched the names in his mind, then asked: “All the transporters were Ming people? None of my guards, not a single one?”
“No, none. Even the guide was arranged by them. I asked too, why the great prince had not returned with the caravan. They couldn’t say. In the end, they left behind those scrawny pack horses and slipped away in the night.”
“If it were now, not a single one of those Ming would escape alive,” one man growled after draining a mouthful of wine. “Every last head would be nailed to the stakes outside our camp.”
“What do you mean?” Aletan asked.
“You vanished in Ming, no word, and not one guard returned. Only the great shaman Heiduo and his boy attendant came back. They said Ming officials used despicable means to murder you, then dumped your corpse. He only managed to snatch back a lock of your hair.”
A dim light flickered in Aletan’s eyes as he touched his braided hair.
“That’s right—just like now, a lock of white hair, tied with gold ornaments bearing the royal seal. The Khan recognized them. The great sorcerer said your hair had turned white because you were poisoned by Ming’s deadly toxins.”
Ming officials. Murder. Poison. Aletan silently committed it all to memory, then asked: “From then on, my father’s health declined?”
A boy of sixteen or seventeen sitting beside him sighed: “The Khan truly loved you… Such a pity. My father Qige will never love me again.”
Aletan reached out and patted his shoulder, encouraging: “The spirits of our ancestors become the long wind, circling at our side. Your father is no exception. He is watching you.”
The Oirat youth drew in a hard breath, swiped his sleeve across his face, revealing a look of grim, stubborn fierceness. “You’re right, Aletan. I cannot disgrace him. I am the only man left in my family now.”
The man across from him kicked his ankle: “Call him great prince!”
The Oirat youth glared back: “My father also called him ‘Aletan’!”
“How can you be the same as your father? Besides, the prince is now a great shaman!” the man shot back, moving as if to kick him.
Aletan laughed and stopped them: “It doesn’t matter. Call me Aletan. I feel more at ease that way.”
As they spoke, the felt door of the yurt was lifted. A man in cavalry garb stood at the entrance and said: “So here you are. Great prince, the Khan summons you to the golden tent.”
Aletan rose, left behind the words “I’ll come find you again later”, and followed the cavalryman out of the yurt.
The golden tent was the Khan’s dwelling—ten noble yurts’ worth of size, adorned all around with gold, jade, and the pelts of wolves and leopards. Atop the tent’s golden spire perched a lifelike, fearsome statue of a divine eagle.
Standing before the golden tent, Aletan lifted his gaze to the golden eagle statue. For an instant, his eyes shone with a scorching brilliance.
The next moment, he returned to himself. Outside the tent door, he placed his hand to his chest and called in a loud voice: “Father, Aletan has come.”
Khan Hu Kuoli had drunk too much at the welcoming feast. Now his limbs trembled weakly; he had no choice but to lie back on the snow leopard-furred bed.
The guards led Aletan before him. Aletan half-kneeled at the bedside, placing his father’s hand upon his own head.
The Khan stroked his hair, saying slowly: “You’ve returned. That is enough.”
For the first time, Aletan realized—his father’s voice had grown so frail, so aged. The body once as strong as a mountain had wasted away, as though it could be toppled with a single blow.
A sour ache welled in his chest. Clearing his throat, he said: “Now that I’ve returned, Father will recover.”
The Khan withdrew his hand with a sigh: “Let us hope so. I called you here to give you two instructions.”
“Please, Father, speak.”
“First: our Oirat and Ming are already at daggers drawn. They harmed you—if not for Eternal Heaven’s protection, you would not have lived. And all the envoys we sent with our state letter were slaughtered in Ming’s official residence. Emperor Jinglong’s reply bore not the least remorse or apology, only the arrogance of a so-called Son of Heaven. He casually executed one petty official, claiming that one had poisoned you.”
“This war with Ming must be fought. Do not even think there is any chance of reconciliation.”
Aletan’s brows knit slightly. In truth, he bore no hatred toward Ming. Even toward the poisoned and executed official, he felt no desire for vengeance—since he had no memory of it at all.
On the contrary, he admired and yearned for Ming culture.
Yet within that yearning, was there not also a trace of ambition—to claim the Central Plains’ wealth and refinement as his own? Aletan searched his heart and found he could not honestly answer “no.”
Still, he did not believe now was the right time for war with Ming.
“Father, though our Oirat cavalry is strong, and a deep raid may tear through Ming’s frontier defenses, they are a vast power. Once their armies gather to strike back, we may not be able to take their capital. Besides, the northern tribes—especially the Tatars—have ever eyed us covetously. I fear if we strip our rear defenses bare, the Tatars will seize our royal court.”
“You need not worry about that!” Khan Hu Kuoli said firmly. “I have already reached a preliminary agreement with the Tatar Grand Master Tuo Huotai—we will join forces to strike Ming.”
Aletan’s heart gave a sudden jolt. He held his counsel and pressed no further.
The Khan continued: “Second, you must trust Heiduo’s loyalty and judgment.”
Aletan quickly lowered his eyes, not letting his father see the flicker of astonishment within them.
“If within the tribe there remains but one man worthy of trust, it is him. Aletan, promise me—whether your father still lives or has returned to Eternal Heaven—you must treat Heiduo as you would a master.”
I already have a master, Aletan thought. On his deathbed, he passed everything on to me, and I promised him I would see one task through.
Seeing his silence, the Khan’s voice rose, displeased: “Aletan!”
Aletan lifted his gaze, looking warmly and steadily at his father, smiling as heartily as ever: “I’ve taken both matters to heart, Father. Rest assured!”
Only then did Hu Kuoli breathe easier, shutting his eyes wearily. Beneath the thin lids, his eyeballs twitched rapidly and uneasily. Forcing himself, he muttered: “Father is tired. You should go and rest too.”
Aletan brushed his lips against his father’s withered fingertips, then rose and left the Golden Tent.
Hu Kuoli endured, holding on until he was certain his son had gone far away. Then at last he cried out hoarsely: “I said it all! Just as you told me, I said it all! Medicine—give me the medicine!”
He writhed upon the bed, biting down on the bedding, ramming his head against the planks, tears and snot streaming, squeezing from his throat a howl of pain that was no longer kingly in the least. He was not even human in that moment, but more like a trapped beast driven to madness.
“Medicine… give me the medicine… quickly…”
A black figure emerged from the depths of the tent. Hu Kuoli tumbled off the bed, crawling frantically toward him, clawing a black pill the size of a longan from his palm and shoving it into his mouth in desperation.
After a long while, Hu Kuoli exhaled a deep breath. His spirit, scattered and torn, seemed to drift back into his withered body. Once a king who had swept across the northern steppe, he now lay hunched upon the ground, muttering incoherently.
Heiduo looked down on him, like a silent, chilling ghost.
—
Aletan stepped out of the Golden Tent.
The feast in the square was nearing its end. The Oirat men were wrapping their arms around the women they fancied, heading back to their own yurts.
Many bold, beautiful girls, flushed with wine and laughter, gathered eagerly around Aletan. Even with his skin and hair changed, the Great Prince remained tall and striking, now tinged with an almost uncanny allure. They longed for his favor—even without a name or promise, a single night of joy would suffice.
The most forward of them clutched tightly at his waist, laughing: “Great Prince, look at me—am I not the most beautiful woman in the tribe?”
Aletan lowered his head, studying her. “Indeed, you are.”
The girl laughed with delight. “Then do I have the right to serve you tonight?”
“You do,” Aletan said.
Her cheeks flushed crimson, her eyes glittering like the starry sky above. “Then where shall we go?”
“You have the right, but I have no such intent.” Aletan gently pried her hands away, slipping a great golden bead into her palm. “Buy yourself a bolt of silk, have a fine dress made. Wearing it, every young man in the tribe will fall in love with you.”
The girl accepted the bead, crestfallen. “Every young man… except you, Great Prince.”
Aletan only smiled and said nothing, turning to leave these blossoms of the steppe.
He did not return to his own yurt, but walked out into the wild. In the dark, away from all eyes, his face sank, his eyes burning with fury—
On his father Hu Kuoli, he had smelled not only age and decay, but that same sickly-sweet, putrid stench.
He had smelled it before—in the old shaman’s medicine chest.
The old shaman had pointed to that box of pitch-black paste and said: “When they first chopped off my legs, I lived only by this.”
“Is it divine medicine?” Aletan asked.
The shaman had let out a chilling laugh: “It is the devil’s drug! It can make you forget pain and grief for a time, but it drags your soul down into h*ll, never to rise again! It took me ten years to rid myself of its grip.
“Breathe deep of this smell. Remember it well. I should never have given it to Heiduo. If you ever meet my traitorous disciple again, you must not only reclaim my legs, but destroy this medicine utterly!”
Aletan had promised.
The old shaman, fearing he would not take it to heart, had even made him raise a bear cub on the stuff.
When the cub was denied the drug, it went mad, thrashing and howling, hurling itself again and again against the fence until it was bloodied. At last, with half-grown claws, it tore open its own belly and died in agony.
Aletan had watched in horror, learning full well what the devil’s drug was.
And now, he had smelled it on his father.
“Is Shaman Heiduo still within the tribe?”
“Of course! He’s called the Great Elder now. Even the Khan shows him great reverence—how dare you speak his name so lightly!”
Aletan remembered his talk with the scout cavalry, his fists clenching hard inside his sleeves.
Golden eagle upon the Golden Tent’s peak—did you see all this as well? If you truly carry the spirits of our ancestors, leave that throne ensnared by darkness and descend upon my shoulder.
