"We don't raise armies for conquest. We raise them because the world remembers our name—and wants it buried." — Altan, before the Council of Thirteen
The Zhong Empire was gone, but its wars never ended. The fields were quieter now, bones buried under new grass, but every gale across the steppe still carried the sound of screams if you listened too long. Altan didn't. He didn't have time for ghosts.
They raised the army because no one else would. Thirteen tribes—some proud, some broken, most barely speaking to each other—agreed on one thing: the next storm would not be survived alone. So they built a war engine, not out of banners or titles, but from scarred hands and old grudges. They called it the Gale Army. Not because it would bring peace. Because it would kill fast and leave nothing standing.
The city came first—walls, granaries, foundries, training yards. But Altan had said it from the beginning: the stones were not the end. They were the beginning. One night, he stood before the Council, the clan elders, and the sons and daughters of the thirteen banners. No throne behind him, no heralds. Just his voice and the fire behind his eyes.
"Another war's coming," he said. "Not one we get to choose. You think the world forgot about us just because we put up walls? You think it forgives us for surviving?"
Silence met him. Some nodded. Most stared. Altan didn't care. He stepped forward.
"The steppe made us. It bred us for war. But this... this is different. We're not tribes anymore. We're not raiders or outlaws. We're a people. And a people without an army dies screaming. So we build one. Not to conquer. Not to kneel. To survive."
He didn't wait for applause. He didn't need agreement. The elders stepped aside. Orders were given that night.
Altan gave the rest. The Council pretended to deliberate, but everyone knew who made the call. He didn't crown himself. He didn't need to. Khulan and Burgedai answered directly to him. No ceremony, no negotiation. Just war.
Khulan led the cavalry and scout detachments. No bloodline, no noble crest. She came from the sandstorms of the eastern flats, rode with bandits before Altan broke her. Once, she burned caravans for food. Now she drilled mounted infantry like clockwork, blades drawn, no mercy. The scouts and rangers, once separate during the last war, were now merged under her command. She enforced one martial doctrine for all: stealth, archery, and terrain mastery. Whether on foot or horse, they trained to vanish, to strike from shadow, and to disappear before the enemy screamed. She didn't talk much. Didn't need to. Her presence said enough: follow, or get crushed under hooves. Her eyes were the same as they were the day she lost to Altan—sharp, quiet, furious.
Burgedai held the infantry. Rootwake Battalion, they called his command, though no one dared say it to his face. He was older than the others, heavier, walked with a limp from Sang's siege. They said he buried a whole fortress wall with his fists and geomancy alone. He didn't brag. He taught trenchwork, pike charges, entrenchment warfare. His methods weren't pretty. Most of his soldiers didn't die cleanly. They just didn't die early.
The army formed in three parts: infantry, cavalry, scouts. No embellishment. Recruits entered at thirteen. If they couldn't carry their own weight, they were dragged through the mud until they did. At sixteen, they either broke or came out as steel. Seventeen and above had to pass the Trials. No second chances. No appeals.
The Trials were brutal. No bladeplay, no rituals. Qi wasn't forbidden, just ignored. They wanted pain. Endurance. The kind you couldn't fake. A candidate named Ashkai stepped into the arena barefoot, ribs visible through his tunic. Riverwind clan, no family. He said he had no element. He lied.
Three instructors circled him. Stormguard-trained, stripped of kindness. The first strike cracked his side. The second dropped him. He got up. The third drove him back. He stood again. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth, his skin started to glow. Not from will. From something older. A fire spark flared in his palm. He grabbed a stone, hurled it. It pulsed white. One instructor hesitated. That was all Ashkai needed. He slammed into her knees, used the momentum to rise, fists shaking, mouth bleeding. The whistle blew.
The lead trainer noted it, eyes hard. Wild fire-shaping, untrained. Watchlisted. Assigned to support. No ceremony. No applause. That night he took the oath. Alone, in a dark barrack room, whispering the words over a cracked bowl of water. Not clan, not coin, not blood. Just the flame that guards them all.
Khulan watched from above. She didn't comment. Just tapped her gauntlet once on the railing and left.
More came. Children, orphans, broken sons, angry daughters. The Gale Academy filled fast. Some wielded elemental qi. Others just bled harder than the rest. The Stormguard tracked them. Spirit binders, frostcallers, geomancers, even one with bone-chant resonance. All documented. The ledger had no names, only entries. Power levels. Battle potential. Termination risk. The Black Vein kept the rest.
Foreigners joined too. Mercenaries, war-scarred wanderers, former Zhong conscripts looking for redemption or coin. They swore the oath. If they broke it, they vanished. Simple system.
Khulan drilled her riders without mercy. No formations unless they could be executed at full gallop, over broken terrain, under arrow fire. Her voice rarely rose. When it did, someone bled. She didn't mention the Broken Fang, the bandit clan she once led. But the sabers at her back were curved in their style. Recruits joked once. Only once. After that, they avoided her shadow.
Burgedai trained in the dirt. He took his cane and used it to strike rhythm into the feet of young soldiers. Stagger-step, low pivot, counter-push. Infantry work was dirty, thankless. He made sure they embraced it. He led trench-digging drills in the rain, made recruits sleep beside their shovels. He didn't care about posture. Only if they held the line.
One boy named Tegri came in at fifteen. No clan. Raised by a tanner, dead in the last flood. He picked blade for the Trial. Fought a bigger boy, lost the first exchange, got stomped. Stood up, bleeding. Threw his weapon. Missed. Charged bare-handed. Fought dirty. Survived. Got in.
Khulan said he was soft. Burgedai grunted. "Let him harden."
Weeks passed. The southern quarter filled with training fields. Tents became barracks. Barracks turned to fortresses. Altan walked among them once. Never gave speeches. Just watched.
When the first true march came, no one asked why. They just packed their gear and moved. The Gale Army was ready. There was no glory in it. Just necessity. And when the sky broke again, they would not scatter.
They would ride.
After a year of city-building and another year spent grinding recruits into something resembling soldiers, the first united Gale Army was born. Four legions of infantry stood ready—scarred, sunburned, and quiet. Two would remain inside the city walls on garrison duty, while the other two marched to the borderlands, where old scars had a habit of reopening. Every three months, they would rotate. No one got too comfortable. No one got soft. Four legions of cavalry took shape alongside them, lean and fast, trained to move like wind over stone. A dedicated scout detachment roamed ahead of them—steppe-born, bone-thin, and invisible when they needed to be. Every rider and footman carried a bow. No exceptions. Sword and bow, shield and arrow. Dual purpose, no wasted breath. Altan had ordered it from the start: every warrior must kill at range before blood is spilled. Ammunition runs out. Nerve doesn't. Whether in saddle or shield wall, they were expected to kill at distance before it got personal. If it got personal, they were expected to win. This wasn't a parade army. It was a threat—shaped from old pain and new steel. And the world would come knocking, louder than before.
The army had two blades: one sharp, the other steady. The first—paid, seasoned, merciless—was the United Gale Army. The second—worn, weathered, unyielding—was the Reserve.
Alongside the regulars, the Gale Reserved Forces were born. Every elder, retired soldier, craftsman, and citizen past fighting age was conscripted into monthly training. No exceptions. The city had no civilians in wartime—only defenders. In peace, they resumed their trades. In war, they reported to arms. The Reserve drilled once a month, trained in formation, archery, and shelter defense. They weren't polished. They didn't need to be. They only had to hold long enough for the regulars to return. Altan made the distinction clear: the United Gale Army was the shield edge. Paid, trained, professional. The Reserve was the haft behind it. Together, they would either hold the line—or bury their enemies beneath it.