Mongol Empire

A Speech by the Great Khan

"You call him a demon. You call him a scourge. You whisper his name like a curse upon the wind. But you are wrong. You do not yet understand what has come for you."

"I speak of a man whose name will be written in fire across the world. I speak of Subotai—my thunderbolt, my right hand, the wolf that runs before the storm."

Before he was the hammer of empires, before his name made kings tremble, he was but a boy among the endless sea of grass. A child of the steppes, born to the harsh winds and the unyielding sun. He was not of noble blood, not a prince, not a khan's son. No, he was born of a simple family, yet the fire in his soul burned brighter than any gilded birthright.

He did not seek power through inheritance—he took it with his own hands.

From the first, he understood what few ever do—that war is not a thing of honor, not a thing of chivalry. War is the art of destruction, of movement, of inevitability. And so he learned, as all sons of the steppe must, to bend a bow on horseback, to strike like lightning, to disappear like smoke.

But he learned more.

He learned to think. To see war not as battle, but as a great game, a game where only fools play by the rules of lesser men.

"CHINESE CAMPAIGN"

"When I unleashed Subotai upon the world, I did not send a mere general—I sent a force of nature."

In the East, he tested his steel against the greatest walls mankind had built. The Chinese thought themselves untouchable behind their stone fortresses, their vast cities stretching beyond the horizon. They had stood for a thousand years, their emperors drunk on their own invincibility.

Subotai shattered them like rotted wood.

He did not march to their gates and beg for battle like a fool. No. He struck where they did not expect, where their maps ended, where their arrogance blinded them. He tore their supply lines to pieces, he severed their trade routes, he made them bleed before they even saw the enemy. And when they finally did—when their cities burned and their warriors lay dead in the streets—they knew the name of Subotai, and they feared it.

"THE GREAT MARCH"

"But the East was only the beginning."

"It was the West that would know his full fury."

Across the frozen rivers of the Khwarezmian Empire, he led my armies like a storm. The Shahs of Persia fell before him, their armies slaughtered, their cities ground to dust. He did not stop to celebrate, to rest on his conquests—no, he saw further. He saw a world beyond the deserts and the mountains. He saw Rome's broken remnants, the fattened lords of Europe, blind to the fire that raced toward them.

"And so he rode."

"For seven thousand miles, he rode."

Think of it! No army in history had moved as he did, no conqueror had ever reached so far, so fast. He crossed the Caucasus, where the mountain kings thought themselves safe. He crushed the Georgians, shattered the Russian princes, drowned the steppe in blood.

"Kalka River!"

The foolish Slavs thought they had him cornered. They came with their knights, their banners, their pride. They outnumbered him. They thought him weak.

They did not understand.

Subotai lured them forward, let them taste the thrill of pursuit, let them believe victory was within their grasp. Then—he turned, like the wolf who has been leading the flock to the slaughter. From the dust and smoke, his cavalry encircled them, trapped them. He did not offer mercy. He buried them beneath the earth. He crushed their bones to powder beneath his riders' hooves.

"Do you hear them?"

"Even now, the rivers whisper of that slaughter."

"THE DOORSTEP OF EUROPE"

"And now—now he stands at your gates, at the very edge of Christendom."

The kings of Europe squabble like dogs over scraps. They war against each other, blinded by their petty rivalries. They send letters, they send spies, they send prayers to their gods.

None of it will save them.

"Subotai does not care for your crowns, your bloodlines, your sacred vows. He does not care for your castles, your treaties, your ancestors' names carved in stone."

"He cares only for the wind, the sky, the endless road before him."

"And he will not stop."

The Pope calls for war. The Holy Roman Emperor rallies his knights. They call themselves the greatest warriors in the world, their steel heavier, their armor thicker, their lances sharp.

"It will not matter."

"Subotai does not fight where you are strong—he fights where you are weak. And everywhere, you are weak."

"THE INVASION OF HUNGARY"

The last stand of the West begins.

At Mohi, in the heart of Hungary, the knights come, lances gleaming, banners high. They believe they will hold. They believe that courage and steel will stand against the tide.

"They are fools."

Subotai waits. He lets them march forward. He lets them feel the rush of battle, the charge of their warhorses.

Then—he strikes.

Flaming arrows rain down like judgment from the heavens. The ground beneath them quakes as Mongol catapults tear their ranks apart. Then, from the dust, the riders come—swift, merciless, unyielding.

"The knight is strong in a duel. The Mongol is strong in a war."

Subotai does not fight for honor. He fights to destroy. The knights are encircled, their flanks shattered, their retreat sealed. They scream, they fall, they die. The last defense of Europe burns to the ground.

"And yet—fate spares you."

"Not your armies. Not your kings. Not your God."

"Fate alone."

The Khan dies. I die. And in that moment, the Mongol host turns back. Not because we were defeated. Not because we could not go further. But because destiny called us home.

You were granted mercy by death itself.

"THE WARNING"

"And so, you live."

"But know this—if we had not turned back, Europe would not be what it is today. Your kings would have been dust. Your cities would have been ruins. Your faith, your history, your empires—erased as if they had never been."

"Remember this when you speak of the Mongols. Remember this when you tell of Subotai."

"Not because you defeated him."

"But because you never could."