Lead a punitive action against barbarians up north

The wind from the desert bit at your face, carrying the scent of dust and ancient rivalry. You recall your teacher's lesson about how the Northern barbarians were a thorn in the side of the Kingdom.

They were not an existential threat to the Mandate of Heaven yet, but their incessant raiding of the border prefectures and the harassment of the silk-laden caravans bound had become annoying. You knew that a swift strike to dismantle their outposts would secure the frontier and, more importantly, cement your legitimacy in the eyes of the court. That's the reason why you're here, instead of your general.

You hand-picked the veterans, men whose skin was leathered by the steppe winds and who knew the erratic rhythms of Barbarian warfare. Clad in your ceremonial mountain-pattern plate armor, you sat astride your finest stallion, a silhouette of imperial resolve at the head of a column marching toward the desolate northern reaches.

In time, you crossed the Great Wall and entered the barbarian’s territory. The landscape was a harsh expanse of scrub and silence. You encountered their camps, squat, felt-covered gers huddled in the dips of the earth. You noted the primitive nature of their lives, the constant bleating of goats and the stench of unwashed wool. It was a wretched existence.

On occasion, a younger soldier’s eyes would gleam with the urge to plunder these miserable hovels, but the stern bark of a veteran always brought him back to form. You did not come to follow the barbarian's way; you were there to **** them to follow yours, to subjugate them.

Your discipline was rewarded when the scouts returned with word of a fortification. The casual banter of the march died instantly, replaced by the rhythmic clatter of iron and the heavy breathing of horses. Seeking the veil of surprise, you ordered the column to a halt behind a line of jagged hills.

You broke away with your generals, moving stealthily toward the edge of a thin treeline.

"There, Son of Heaven, atop the highest rise," your commander whispered, gesturing toward the horizon.

You followed his gaze. There, perched upon a hill 100 feet tall, sat the barbarian fort. It was a crude thing of timber and packed earth, its walls barely ten feet high, yet it stood as a challenge to your authority. Through the shimmering heat of the plains, you watched the silhouettes of their sentries pacing the ramparts, oblivious to the imperial storm gathered at their feet.