My father is Chongzhen? Then I have no choice but to rebel.

Therefore, the Ming Dynasty's traditional strategy toward the grasslands was always "control" – as long as you nominally submit and do not violate the borders, everyone can live in peace and occasionally do business.

The real enemies are those forces that attempt to establish a stable regime on the border and threaten the security of the Central Plains, such as the Oirat in the past and the Jurchens in the present.

In Qiqige's view, the Jurchens and the Ming Dynasty were fundamentally different.

They originated from the mountains and forests, and possessed a combination of fishing, hunting, farming, and even nomadic traits after absorbing the Mongols.

They were not content with plundering; instead, they built cities, cultivated land, and established administrative systems, harboring a clear ambition to annex the grasslands and even take control of the Central Plains.

They are the true, irreconcilable enemies of the Ming Dynasty and the Mongolians of the grasslands.

The cooperation with the Ming Dynasty was driven by both the circumstances and the interests at stake.

However, the elder brother's suspicions were deeply rooted, and his instinctive fear of the powerful neighbor outweighed his judgment of practical interests and common enemies.

Thinking of this, Qiqige sighed softly and helplessly again.

She knew that it would be difficult to completely dispel the heavy doubts in her brother's heart with just a few words.

It seems that the final answer can only be revealed to his elder brother by Zhu Cilang's personal arrival, through his words, demeanor, and perhaps even the power he might display.

For some reason, she had a strange confidence in this.

A brief silence fell inside the tent, broken only by the crackling of burning charcoal.

Abnai seemed to be lost in thought as well. He paced a few steps inside the tent, which was covered with a gorgeous carpet, with his hands behind his back. Then he stopped in front of the huge copper pot in the center of the tent, which was set on an iron triangle and was simmering with succulent mutton.

The rich aroma of meat mixed with spices fills the air, making one's mouth water.

Abunai stirred the bubbling broth in the pot with a long-handled wooden spoon, scooped up a spoonful, blew on it, and put it down again.

He suddenly spoke, asking a question that seemed unrelated to matters of national importance, yet caught Qiqige completely off guard:
"Qiqige, tell me the truth. During those two years in the Ming Dynasty, living in the Eastern Palace, I saw His Highness the Crown Prince every day... He really never touched you? Not even once?"

With a "buzz," Qiqige felt a surge of heat rush to her head, her cheeks instantly turning hot, and even her ears turning bright red.

Like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, she was both ashamed and angry. She suddenly raised her head, glared at Abner, and her voice rose with excitement, clearly filled with anger:

"Brother! You... why are you asking this again! Haven't I already answered you so many times before? No! No! Really, no! He... he treated me with courtesy and never did anything inappropriate! You... you insist on asking this again and again, how am I supposed to save face?!"

She was genuinely angry, and her anger was mixed with an indescribable sense of grievance.

She was a girl with the reserve and dignity of a young woman, yet her own brother repeatedly questioned her with such private, even humiliating, questions during this serious discussion of national affairs, as if her value lay solely in whether she had been "defiled."

Abunai looked at his sister's agitated and indignant appearance, remained silent for a moment, and did not continue to press her for answers, but the doubt in his eyes did not completely disappear.

He turned around, picked up a piece of charcoal with tongs, and threw it into the brazier, sending up a shower of sparks. The light inside the tent flickered with the glow of the embers, illuminating his sharply defined profile.

After a while, he spoke again, his tone calm but heavier, as if stating an unalterable fact:

"Qiqige, you are already sixteen years old this year, right? According to our Mongolian tradition, you are already of marriageable age and able to support a yurt."

He paused, his gaze sharp as he looked at Qiqige, as if trying to see into her heart:
"You can't just stay in the Ming Dynasty, by that prince's side, without any official status or clear identity, can you? If this goes on, the rumors and gossip will do you no good, nor will they do good for the reputation of the Khorchin tribe. Today, it's just the two of us siblings here. Tell your brother what's on your mind—"

Abner took a step forward, lowered his voice, and every word struck Kikige's heart with crystal clarity:

"Do you really want to... marry the Crown Prince of the Ming Dynasty?"

"boom!"

This question was more direct and sharper than the previous one, like the coldest icicle on the grassland, instantly piercing through Qiqige's defenses as she tried to maintain her composure.

Her eyes froze, and she showed a brief moment of confusion and panic.

Yes, I'm sixteen.

Time flies, and before she knew it, she had left the grasslands and spent nearly two years in that vast, unfamiliar, and alluring imperial capital.

From initial unease and resistance, to later adaptation and observation, and now to complex and indescribable feelings...

"Marry him?" This thought, she might have instinctively resisted and resented in the past, regarding it as a symbol of humiliation.

But she didn't know when it started, but when this option was presented to her so bluntly, she found that what welled up in her heart was no longer simple resistance, but a sense of confusion, panic, and...

A subtle, secret stirring within her that she herself was unwilling to delve into.

The figure of that person, his eyes, his words, his focus when handling government affairs, the occasional patience he showed when talking to her about grassland customs... countless fragmented memories flooded into my mind in an instant.

Just then, Abuna's voice rang out again, cold and realistic, pulling her back from her momentary daze, and like a bucket of ice water, extinguishing the untimely warmth that had just risen in her heart.

"Qiqige, you need to wake up."

Abuna's voice carried a cold, insightful understanding of the world, as well as the responsibility and helplessness of a tribal chief.

“You have the blood of the Borjigin clan flowing in your veins, which means that, like your brother, from the moment you were born, our lives and our choices cannot be concerned only with personal joys and sorrows, or love and affection. We are ‘politics,’ the bargaining chips for the continuation of the tribe, and the pawns for balancing the various forces. Everything about us—marriage, offspring, and even life and death—must be considered and weighed from the perspective of the tribe’s survival and from the perspective of ‘politics.’”

He returned to the head of the table and sat down, placing his hands on his knees, leaning slightly forward, his gaze fixed intently on Qiqige, each word carrying immense weight:
"Therefore, from the perspective of the Khorchin tribe, and even from the perspective of the future potential unification of Southern Mongolia, your best way out, and the greatest contribution you can make to the tribe, is to marry Zhu Cilang, the Crown Prince of the Ming Dynasty. Become his concubine, preferably gain his favor, and then give birth to a son for him who carries the blood of the Borjigin clan and the Ming imperial family."

A calculating glint flashed in Abuna's eyes, the shrewdness and ruthlessness of a chief plotting the tribe's future:
"With this marriage ties and this child, the Ming Dynasty and the Mongols have a stronger bond. At least for the next few decades, as long as the Ming Dynasty needs this child as a symbol of stability in the northern frontier, and as long as we still have this 'nephew' or 'grandson' who shares the blood of both families, the Ming court will be least likely to use force against us."

If the borders remain peaceful and trade flows smoothly, our people can recuperate and grow stronger. This is the most beneficial choice for you, for Khorchin, and for the whole of Mongolia.

As for love? That's too much of a luxury, something people like us shouldn't even dream of.

"..."

Qiqige stood there blankly, listening to her brother's blatant words, which put a price tag on her marriage, her body, and her potential future children, placing them on the political scales.

An indescribable, bone-chilling cold instantly spread from her feet throughout her body, causing her to shiver involuntarily; it was colder than the howling wind outside the tent.

Immediately afterwards, the chill transformed into a surging, stifling anger and immense resentment, choking her and making it difficult for her to breathe.

She's just a sixteen-year-old girl!

She also dreamed of galloping carefree on the grasslands and secretly imagined what her future husband would look like.

But why, just because she was born into this family, must she become an object, a bargaining chip, the center of a transaction?

Why must her happiness, her emotions, and her life give way to those cold, incomprehensible "politics" and "tribal interests"?
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she held them back tightly, refusing to let them fall.

She bit her lower lip tightly until she tasted a slightly metallic sweetness.

Looking at her brother's calm yet almost cold face, she suddenly felt that the brother who had doted on her since childhood had become so unfamiliar, so...heartbreaking.

Seeing his younger sister Qiqige's face turn deathly pale, her lips pressed tightly together, and the complex emotions of shock, humiliation, anger, and helplessness rapidly gathering in her clear eyes, Abuna felt a pang of pity.

But he quickly hardened his heart and suppressed that tenderness.

He is the Khan of the Khorchin tribe and the future master of this grassland. He cannot and should not be swayed by personal feelings.

He took a deep breath, filling his chest with the slightly stuffy air of the tent, thick with the aroma of mutton and charcoal, and then slowly spoke, his voice calmer than before, yet carrying an undeniable, almost fatalistic weight:
"Qiqige, don't look at me like that, and don't be angry. Getting angry won't help. I'm not targeting you, and it's not that I don't love you, my little sister. I'm just telling you a reality we're born to face, a responsibility etched in our blood that we can't escape."

He stood up, walked to the spear and scimitar hanging on the tent wall, symbolizing the glory of Genghis Khan's Golden Family, reached out and gently stroked the cold metal spear shaft, his gaze becoming distant and resolute.

“You and I, the blood flowing in our veins is that of the Borjigin clan, the bloodline of the Golden Family bestowed upon the grasslands by the ‘Eternal Heaven.’ This bloodline grants us honor, but also binds us, making us no longer simply represent ourselves from the moment we are born.”

Our joys and sorrows, our marriages and even our lives are all inextricably linked to this grassland and the rise and fall of the countless people who live on it.

He turned around and looked at Qiqige again, his eyes sharp as an eagle's:
"If it were possible, if a marriage alliance could secure decades of peace for the Mongol tribes, allowing them to recuperate and their livestock to flourish, then let alone sending you to marry the Crown Prince of the Ming Dynasty..."

He paused, his voice resolute, carrying an almost cruel spirit of sacrifice.

“Even now, if you asked me, Abunai, to marry an old, dying woman with whom I have no feelings, I would do it willingly without batting an eye! Because this is our mission! It is a burden bestowed upon us, the descendants of the Golden Family, by the Eternal Heaven, which we must shoulder! We live not for our own pleasure, but for the responsibility on our shoulders, for the future of Mongolia!”

His words, like heavy drumbeats, struck Qiqige's heart and echoed in the empty tent, carrying an undeniable sense of tragic grandeur and resolve.

“We were not born as individuals. We never represent any ‘individual.’ We represent the Khorchin tribe, Southern Mongolia, and the hopes and interests of all the herders on this grassland! Do you understand?”

Qiqige stared blankly at her brother, at the mixture of helplessness, determination, and a solemn expression that resembled that of a martyr on his face.

The anger and resentment churning in his chest seemed to be gradually suppressed by these incredibly heavy words, replaced by a deeper, colder sense of powerlessness and resignation.

Yes, he's right.

If she were just an ordinary Mongolian shepherdess, she might have been free to fall in love with the bravest young rider on the grassland, follow him to chase the water and grass, have children, and live a simple and ordinary life.

But she wasn't.

She was a noble princess of the Khorchin tribe and a descendant of Genghis Khan.

From the time she could remember, she knew her identity was different from others. Everything she ate, wore, used, and even received education made her understand that she didn't belong to herself. Her fate was already inextricably linked to this grassland and the rise and fall of this family. Born for Mongolia, perhaps, she would also marry for Mongolia…

A long silence fell over the tent. The charcoal in the brazier crackled softly, and the aroma of mutton stewing in the copper pot still lingered, but this warm atmosphere could not dispel the heavy and oppressive feeling between the brother and sister.

Qiqige slowly lowered her head, looking at her hands, which were white from clenching her fists. Those hands, which should have been freely wielding the whip, now seemed to be bound by invisible shackles.

After an unknown amount of time, she spoke softly, her voice trembling and filled with confusion:
“I…I know you’re right. I’ve known this since I was little. But…but I…”

She looked up, her eyes filled with an unyielding mist.

"I don't know... what should I do? What is the right thing to do? What is... for Mongolia?"

Her voice was filled with helplessness. She understood the responsibility, but didn't know how to bear it; she knew the direction, but had no path to follow.

Seeing his sister's confused and distressed expression, Abuna felt a pang of pain in his heart, but he knew he had to be clear with her now, so she could fully face reality and make a choice. (End of Chapter)