1221 CE – Near the Indus River

The sun had just crested the ridge when Jochi, a teenage scout of the Tumet tribe, crept to the edge of the ravine. Below him, the enemy army stirred—Persian banners snapping in the breeze, horses being saddled, a catapult crew dragging their machine into position.

He counted fast: five siege engines, two cavalry wings, and one exposed supply train. His heart thudded—not from fear, but from duty.

Jochi wasn’t a warrior. Not yet. He didn’t carry a bow or sword. He carried fire.

He opened the waxed pouch on his saddlebag, pulling out a small mirror and a crimson signal cloth. From his elevated perch, his job was simple: see everything. Say little. Move faster than death.

He flashed a signal west—three glints, paused, then five. That would reach Subutai’s signal officer, stationed a mile away on another ridge. The pattern meant: enemy engines seen, center vulnerable, cavalry exposed on right flank.

Then, Jochi reached into his belt, pulled a strip of leather soaked in pine sap, and lit it with his flint. A thin curl of smoke rose straight up. Then a second, shorter one. Then silence. It was enough.

Within minutes, the Mongol horns began to sound from beyond the valley, distant and terrifying. Like thunder before a storm.

The enemy commander turned just in time to see a hail of flaming arrows descend onto his catapults, while Mongol horsemen thundered in from the east, perfectly timed, already in motion before the Persians had even saddled up.

Jochi smiled grimly. The battle had started before the first blade was drawn.

He turned and rode hard for the next ridge. There were always more valleys. More signals to send.

He wasn’t a killer.

He was worse.

He was the man who told the killers when.

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