The wind ran wild across the endless Mongolian steppes, carrying with it the scent of horses, campfire smoke, and the wide-open sky. In this vast land—where summer heat burned the grass and winter storms howled like wolves—a child was born in the year 1162.
His name was Temujin.
No one knew then that this small boy, wrapped in a rough fur blanket, would one day shake kingdoms, break mighty empires, and become known as Genghis Khan, the ruler of millions.
But every story of greatness begins quietly.
Temujin belonged to the Borjigin clan, one of many families who lived a nomadic life—moving from place to place with their herds. Their homes were round tents called gers, warm inside, covered with felt and held together by wooden frames.
His father, Yesügei, was a respected chief. His mother, Hoelun, was strong, wise, and brave—a woman who understood the hard life of the steppes better than anyone.
Life for young Temujin should have been simple—learning to ride a horse before properly walking, helping the family tend sheep, learning to hunt rabbits and birds with a small bow. But fate had written something different for him.
One morning, when Temujin was still very young, Yesügei left the camp to find a bride for his son. This was normal in Mongol culture—marriages were arranged early, and bonds between families were important.
On his way back after arranging Temujin’s marriage to a girl named Borte, Yesügei met a group of strangers. He shared food and drink with them, not knowing they were from a rival clan who hated his people. The drink he swallowed was poisoned.
Yesügei fell sick. His body weakened.
He returned home only to collapse.
Before long, the chief of the Borjigin clan, the father of Temujin, was dead.
Temujin’s world shattered.
And the clan, instead of protecting the family, abandoned them.
Without a strong leader like Yesügei, they believed the family was a burden.
One cold dawn, the clan simply rode away—leaving Hoelun, Temujin, and his younger brothers and sisters alone beside the empty steppe.
Life became brutally hard.
The family had no warriors, no wealth, no protection.
They lived on whatever they could find—wild berries, roots, tiny animals caught in traps. Winters were cruel. Wolves stalked the darkness around their lonely camp.
Temujin, though only a boy, quickly learned that survival needed courage sharper than any sword.
He helped Hoelun gather firewood.
He trapped fish in frozen rivers.
He carried water, hunted birds, and learned to read the land like a book.
This hardship carved something deep inside him—a strong will, an unbreakable spirit, and a belief that a person could rise no matter how poor or abandoned he was.
During these difficult years, Temujin also formed friendships that changed his life. The most important was with a boy named Jamukha, noble-born and talented. They spent hours riding horses, practicing with small bows, and racing across the plains.
The boys became "anda"—blood brothers—swearing loyalty to each other.
But friendships on the steppes often turned into rivalries.
Temujin and Jamukha were both ambitious.
Both dreamed of becoming great leaders.
One day, their friendship would break.
But for now, they were simply boys sharing dreams in a world that gave nothing easily.
Temujin’s family slowly began to gather respect again. Other abandoned families, wandering herders, and lonely warriors sometimes came to Hoelun’s camp. Temujin watched how his mother spoke with strength, how she survived without fear. He absorbed her courage.
As he grew older, Temujin proved himself:
He hunted well.
He protected his siblings.
He spoke honestly and inspired trust.
He never forgot kindness and never forgave betrayal.
A small group of loyal friends—called Nökors—began to follow him.
Unlike normal Mongol clans, these followers came because they believed in him, not because they were born into his tribe. This idea was new.
This idea would change everything later.
But at this stage of his life, Temujin was still a young man who carried painful memories, heavy responsibilities, and a fierce desire to rise above the injustice done to his family.
When Temujin grew old enough, he returned to the family of his childhood bride, Borte. She welcomed him kindly, and their bond grew strong. They married and lived peacefully for a short time.
But peace on the steppes never lasted long.
A rival tribe called the Merkit, remembering old conflicts with Temujin’s father, raided the camp in the night. They stole Borte away, believing they had taken revenge upon Yesügei’s family.
Temujin’s heart burned with fury.
He had lost his father to enemies.
He had lost his clan to betrayal.
He refused to lose his wife.
He sought help—first from his blood-brother Jamukha, then from a powerful Mongol leader, Toghrul (Wang Khan). Together, they gathered warriors and launched a rescue.
Borte was saved.
Temujin’s courage and determination impressed many warriors.
From this moment, people began whispering:
“This young man will become something great.”
With Borte by his side, a small but loyal group around him, and a spirit made strong by hardship, Temujin slowly started rising in the world of the Mongols.
But this rise was not simple or peaceful.
The Mongol tribes were divided.
Old friendships turned into jealous rivalries.
The steppe was full of enemies, traps, and challenges.
Temujin’s journey as a leader had only begun.
And the world did not yet know that this boy—once abandoned and starving—would one day shake empires.
Unification of Mongolia (1206)
The sun lifted slowly above the wide Mongolian horizon, spilling golden light over endless grasslands that seemed to stretch forever. Horses grazed quietly in the distance, their shadows long and thin in the early morning. This land, so peaceful at first glance, had been torn for generations by rival clans, constant betrayal, and old hatreds.
But something was changing.
A single man—Temujin—was beginning to pull these scattered pieces together.
Not through luck, not through birthright, but through unbreakable will.
This is the story of how a boy once abandoned by his own tribe slowly became the ruler of an entire nation.
Mongolia in Temujin’s youth was not one nation. It was a maze of tribes, clans, alliances, and endless feuds. Every group believed they were the rightful leaders. Every chief wanted more power. Every insult became a reason for war.
Among them were:
- Borjigin (Temujin’s clan)
- Taichiud
- Tatar
- Merkit
- Kerait under Wang Khan
- Naiman
- Onggirat or Khongirad, the family of Borte
Instead of unity, the steppes were filled with suspicion. Brothers fought brothers. Friends turned into rivals. A land as vast as the sky had shrunk under the weight of stubborn pride.
Temujin had grown up in this world of shifting loyalties. He had tasted betrayal. He had seen the cruelty of rival clans.
But instead of breaking, he had hardened.
And now, he was rising.
Temujin did not believe in the old Mongol rule of leadership, where only noble families had the right to command. He wanted a world where loyalty mattered more than blood.
This idea attracted many people:
- warriors tired of corrupt chiefs
- families abandoned by tribes
- young men who wanted a fair chance
- soldiers inspired by Temujin’s courage
People began to say:
“He does not treat us like servants. He treats us like brothers.”
His group of nökors—bonded followers—grew into hundreds, then thousands.
Unlike other tribes, where warriors changed sides often, Temujin’s followers stayed loyal. They believed he would never abandon them the way his clan once abandoned him.
Bit by bit, Temujin’s influence spread across the steppes like a rising storm.
Temujin never forgot his childhood captors—the Taichiud, the clan that once tied him to a wooden board and left him to die.
Now, years later, Temujin was no longer the helpless boy they mocked.
He was a rising leader with determined men riding at his side.
The war came swiftly.
The Taichiud were fierce fighters, but they were divided within. Temujin’s warriors struck their camps, broke their defenses, and scattered their forces.
Battle after battle, the Taichiud fell back.
In the end, their leaders were captured.
Temujin punished only those who had been cruel.
He spared many others and welcomed them into his group.
This victory sent a message across Mongolia:
Temujin forgave the weak but destroyed the wicked.
People began trusting his judgment.
Another enemy stood in the way — the Tatars, an old and bitter rival of Temujin’s father.
They were strong, proud, and dangerous.
The conflict was brutal. Temujin’s forces moved with speed, surrounding Tatar camps, cutting off escape routes, and striking when least expected. The Tatars were defeated and scattered.
Temujin made a bold decision:
He reorganized captured families into new units under his rule.
No tribe would be allowed to rise without discipline.
All must follow a single leader.
This was something no Mongol leader had ever done.
This was the beginning of a nation, not just a winning army.
But the greatest challenge remained — Jamukha, Temujin’s childhood friend, blood-brother, and now a rival.
Jamukha believed only noble families should rule.
Temujin believed leadership should be earned.
This disagreement became a storm.
Jamukha gathered aristocratic clans around him. He promised to preserve old traditions and old hierarchies. Temujin gathered common families, skilled fighters, and loyal followers who wanted a new world.
The steppes are divided into two great camps.
The first clash came suddenly. Jamukha raided Temujin’s camp, capturing and killing young followers in a merciless attack. Bodies were left on the ground to send a message.
Temujin felt the loss deeply.
He vowed never to let such cruelty happen again.
The war began.
The fighting between Temujin and Jamukha lasted years.
It was not one battle, but many:
- ambushes in the hills
- chases across plains
- night raids
- alliances formed and broken
- warriors switching sides
Temujin proved again and again that he understood not only courage, but strategy. He moved faster than his enemies, used scouts to learn every secret, and rewarded loyalty generously.
More and more warriors joined him.
Even some of Jamukha’s followers switched sides when they saw Temujin’s fairness.
Finally, a decisive battle was fought.
Jamukha’s forces were defeated.
He was captured but not humiliated.
In a moment that showed his character, Temujin refused cruelty.
Jamukha, accepting his fate, asked only for a noble death without bloodshed, which Temujin granted.
The long rivalry ended quietly, without hatred.
With Jamukha gone, one powerful enemy remained: the Naiman, a rich and strong tribe controlling western Mongolia.
They believed Temujin was becoming too powerful.
They expected he would soon challenge them.
So they moved first.
A massive battle unfolded in the mountains and valleys near the Altai region.
The Naiman warriors were skilled and well equipped, with fine horses and experienced commanders.
But Temujin’s army was unified, disciplined, and deeply loyal.
The fighting was intense.
Dust clouds rose as horses thundered across the plains.
Arrows darkened the sky.
Swords flashed in the sunlight.
But Temujin’s generals, including his gifted brothers and close friends, executed brilliant maneuvers. The Naiman resistance weakened, crumbled, and finally shattered.
Their leaders were captured.
Their people joined Temujin.
One more great power had fallen.
By now, Temujin controlled:
- the eastern steppes
- central Mongolia
- the regions of the Merkit
- the lands of the Tatars
- the territory of the Naiman
- the remnants of Jamukha’s allies
For the first time in living memory, nearly all the tribes of Mongolia followed one leader.
But Temujin had not done all this merely to gather land.
He had a vision: a united Mongol nation that lived by law, discipline, loyalty, and respect.
He reorganized all tribes into groups based on skill, not birth.
He created leaders based on merit.
He punished betrayal and rewarded bravery.
He ensured no family or clan could dominate unfairly.
The steppes, after centuries of chaos, finally had order.
In the year 1206, a great Kurultai (a gathering of all chiefs and families) was called on the Onon River plains.
Tents filled the horizon.
Smoke from hundreds of fires rose into the sky.
Warriors stood in rows, wearing armor that shone like silver in the sunlight.
Women brought food. Children watched in excitement.
The leaders of every Mongol tribe came forward.
They bowed to Temujin.
They declared with one voice:
“You are Genghis Khan — the Universal Ruler of all Mongols.”
A roar thundered across the plains.
Drums beat. Horses neighed. People cheered with joy and relief.
For the first time in history, Mongolia had a single ruler.
Temujin—now Genghis Khan—stood tall before his people.
He did not smile proudly. He did not celebrate his victory loudly. He simply looked across the endless land he had united and felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.
A nation had been born.
But beyond the borders of Mongolia lay powerful kingdoms, wealthy cities, proud emperors, and armies far larger than anything the steppes had ever seen.
Genghis Khan did not yet know that soon he would clash with the world itself.
Invasion of Western Xia (1209)
The wind swept across the newly united Mongol lands, carrying with it a sense of change. Genghis Khan now ruled all of Mongolia, but peace was never something that stayed still for long on the steppes. Beyond the mountains, beyond the flowing rivers, there stood kingdoms that did not yet understand the strength of the new Mongol nation. One of those kingdoms was Western Xia, a wealthy desert empire known to the Mongols as the Tangut.
Western Xia was not very large, but it was rich, with strong fortresses, skilled soldiers, and clever rulers who controlled important trade routes. Their cities were full of grain, silk, and fine goods that passed between China and Central Asia. They believed themselves safe behind thick walls, deep deserts, and the wide Yellow River.
Genghis Khan did not look at Western Xia with greed, but with necessity. If Mongolia was to survive as one nation, it needed safe trade routes, allies, and respect from its neighbors.
Yet when he sent envoys with peaceful offers, the Tangut rulers treated the Mongols as wandering nomads who could be ignored. They refused to help him, refused to recognize his authority, and believed the Mongols had no power beyond their grasslands.
Genghis Khan remembered every insult.
He remembered every envoy who returned with empty hands.
And he decided that if Western Xia wished to learn who the Mongols were, they would learn through actions, not words.
He ordered to invade on Western Xia.So the march began.
The Mongol army gathered like a moving horizon—warriors, horses, carts, supplies, all prepared for months of travel. The sound of tens of thousands of hooves rumbled through the land. The soldiers carried bows, long lances, curved sabers, and enough discipline to fight without confusion.
When the army moved, it moved like a single living creature.
The path to Western Xia was not gentle. The Mongols traveled across stony plains, through dry valleys, and into sharp desert winds that cut like sandpaper. Many men had never seen lands like these. The sun burned during the day. Nights grew bitterly cold.
Yet every warrior pushed on, knowing Genghis Khan rode with them and shared everything they suffered. He never asked his men to face hardships he would not endure himself.
As the Mongols approached the borders of Western Xia, scouts returned with news of fortified cities. The Tangut rulers had gathered soldiers behind walls that rose like cliffs. Their watchtowers were filled with archers, and the surrounding fields were protected by deep trenches, wooden barriers, and stone defenses. They believed their thick walls would keep the Mongols out forever.
The first great city the Mongols faced was Wulahai, a strong fortress near the Yellow River.
Genghis Khan did not rush blindly. He studied the land. He listened to scouts. He rode around the area to feel the ground and watch the river’s flow.
The Mongols were expert horsemen, but Western Xia’s field defenses made fast cavalry attacks impossible. A different strategy was needed.
So the siege began.
Mongol archers surrounded the city from a distance, launching arrows in waves. Warriors climbed the walls with hooked ropes but were pushed back by stones and spears. The Tangut defenders were skilled and determined. Day after day, the struggle continued, and the Mongols realized the Tanguts would not surrender easily.
Genghis Khan then ordered a daring move.
The Yellow River, flowing north of the city, could be turned into a weapon.
Engineers and workers were brought forward—Chinese, Khitan, and others who served under the Mongols. Under Genghis Khan’s command, they diverted part of the river using makeshift dams and channels. Slowly, water began rising against the walls. The defenders watched with fear as the river that had protected them for years now threatened to drown them.
Under pressure from rising waters, hunger, and constant attacks, Wulahai finally opened its gates.
The Mongols entered the city, not to destroy everything, but to break resistance and show the price of refusing peace. Supplies were taken. Soldiers who resisted were punished. Civilians were mostly spared.
The message was clear: surrender early, and the Mongols would be merciful; refuse, and the consequences would be severe.
The fall of Wulahai shook Western Xia, but they still believed they could resist. They retreated deeper into their territory, protecting the capital, Zhongxing, a city filled with towers, thick walls, and warriors armed with advanced siege weapons.
They expected the Mongols to weaken in the desert heat, but Genghis Khan pushed forward, crossing dry lands and narrow passes that even the Tanguts believed were too difficult for a large army.
On the road to Zhongxing, the Mongols faced another fortress, but this time the Tangut defenders used tall stone walls and fire arrows to hold back the attackers.
The battle lasted many days. The Mongols suffered losses, yet their spirit remained unbroken.
Genghis Khan rode through the camps every night, checking on injured soldiers, eating the same food as everyone else, and speaking calmly with his generals. His presence gave strength to his men.
When the fortress finally fell, its defeat opened the path to the Tangut heartland. Fear spread through Western Xia. Their ruler understood now that this was not a simple raid by nomads. It was a full, organized campaign led by a leader far stronger than they had imagined.
Finally, envoys came to Genghis Khan. They brought gifts of silver, silk, horses, and a promise of service. They bowed and lowered their pride. They agreed to submit to Mongol authority, pay tribute, and send soldiers to support future Mongol campaigns.
Genghis Khan accepted their surrender, but not out of weakness. He had achieved what he came for: respect, security, and the knowledge that Mongolia’s western border would no longer be threatened by a proud and defiant neighbor.
Instead of destroying Western Xia completely, he made them allies—aware that sometimes it was wiser to gather strength for greater battles ahead.
As the Mongol army prepared to return home, the desert winds softened. Warriors looked across the land they had crossed, remembering the hardships, the sieges, the long nights outside enemy walls, and the moment the Tanguts finally bowed. They felt stronger than before. They felt the world beginning to recognize Mongolia’s power.
Genghis Khan rode at the front, silent and thoughtful.
This victory was not the end. It was only the beginning of something far larger.
Beyond Western Xia stood China’s Jin Dynasty, powerful and proud. Beyond that stood Central Asia, Persia, faraway kingdoms that had never heard the name Genghis Khan.
But they would.
For now, the army rode home, the banners of Mongolia waving proudly in the wind, carrying the story of their first great conquest outside the steppes—a campaign that proved the Mongols were no longer just scattered tribes, but a rising force the world could not afford to ignore.
The story does not end here.
The next challenge was far greater, far more dangerous, and it would test the Mongol army in ways they had never imagined.
Invasion of the Jin Dynasty (1211–1215)
The dust of the Western Xia campaign had barely settled when the eyes of Genghis Khan turned eastward toward a land far older, richer, and more powerful than any Mongol had ever faced. It was the Jin Dynasty, the ruling power of northern China, a proud empire that rested behind massive stone walls, crowded cities, and armies so large that foreign kingdoms trembled at their name.
For generations, the Jin emperors had believed themselves unchallengeable. Their lands were filled with thriving trade, thick forests, iron mines, and fertile fields. Their cities rose like mountains, protected by walls taller than anything on the steppes. To the Mongols, the Jin Empire was not just another enemy—it was a world of its own.
Long before war began, messages had passed between the two nations. Genghis Khan, after unifying Mongolia, had sent envoys seeking peace. But the Jin court, resting on their wealth and ancient traditions, demanded that he bow as a vassal, declaring the Mongols their inferiors. Their tone was cold, dismissive, and carried the arrogance of a kingdom that believed nomads were nothing but dust blown by the wind.
The insult struck deep.
Genghis Khan did not forget it.
He remembered every slight and every moment when neighbors tried to treat the Mongols as shadows.
And so, the decision was made.
The Mongols would march.
In the year 1211, the call went out across Mongolia. Riders galloped across plains, carrying Genghis Khan’s command. Banners were raised. Herds of horses were gathered. Warriors sharpened arrows, checked their bows, tied armor plates with leather cords, and prepared to fight an enemy far stronger and more advanced than anything they had seen before.
The Mongol army gathered like a rising storm—tens of thousands of horsemen, each carrying a bow, a sword, and enough supplies for months. They were not weighed down by heavy wagons like the Chinese armies. Everything they needed could be carried across the saddle: dried meat, milk, leather water pouches, spare bows, and tools to repair arrows.
When the Mongols moved south toward the Jin frontier, they moved with precision. Scouts rode far ahead through forests and hills. Messengers ran like lightning between different divisions. Genghis Khan kept complete control over his commanders, and each commander controlled a thousand men, then ten thousand, and so on. It was not an army; it was a carefully shaped machine, taught to move and strike with perfect discipline.
The first obstacle was the Great Wall.
To the Jin, it was a solid shield separating civilization from the wild steppes. They believed no Mongol army could cross it in any meaningful way. Yet the Mongols did not ride straight into its strongest gates. Instead, they moved along its length, searching for weaknesses, storming smaller passes, capturing outposts, and breaking through points that Jin generals had neglected.
In the northern mountains, a heavy wooden gate guarded a narrow pass. The Jin forces believed it was safe, protected by cliffs. But Mongol climbers scaled the rocky slopes in the night, silently eliminating guards who thought no one could reach them. By dawn, the gate was opened, and the Mongol cavalry poured through like a river bursting its banks.
The Jin commanders were stunned.
The Mongols had crossed the Wall.
War had begun.
The early battles were brutal. Jin troops fought with crossbows, heavy spears, and armored infantry. Their cavalry wore thick lamellar armor and carried large shields. But the Mongols were faster. They moved like the wind—riding forward, firing arrows, retreating, turning back suddenly, and overwhelming the slower Jin formations. Their horses could run for hours without tiring, and their riders shot arrows with deadly accuracy even at full speed.
The Mongols struck one fortress after another. Some cities surrendered quickly, knowing resistance meant destruction. Others resisted fiercely. The Mongols did not waste time with slow sieges—they surrounded cities, cut off supplies, used flaming arrows, and sometimes even captured local engineers who showed them secret tunnels and weak points in the walls.
As months passed, the Mongol armies pushed deeper into Jin territory. The empire began to tremble. Messengers raced to the Jin capital, Zhongdu (the city that eventually became known as Beijing), carrying news of defeat after defeat. Panic began to spread. Refugees fled south. Fields were abandoned. Villages burned.
But the Jin emperors still believed their capital could withstand anything. Zhongdu was one of the greatest cities in Asia—protected by thick walls, moats, towers, artillery, and thousands of soldiers. The Mongols had never before faced a city of this size or complexity. Many believed they would avoid it and settle for smaller victories.
Genghis Khan thought differently.
He wanted the capital.
With winter winds cutting across the plains, the Mongol forces surrounded Zhongdu. The city’s towers rose like stone giants, staring down at the camps below. Smoke curled from thousands of chimneys inside the walls. Thousands of defenders watched nervously as the Mongols took their positions.
The siege began slowly. The Mongols learned every corner of the city’s defenses. They built their own siege engines, guided by Chinese defectors who taught them the secrets of catapults and rammed towers. Giant stones flew over the walls. Fire bombs exploded in courtyards. Defenders who tried to repair the walls at night were struck by Mongol arrows fired from hidden positions.
Inside Zhongdu, fear grew. Food supplies thinned. The wealthy hoarded grain while the poor starved. Fights broke out in the streets. Disease spread among the crowded refugees. Every morning, families climbed the walls and looked out hopelessly at the Mongol camps that stretched across the horizon like storm clouds.
One night, a group of desperate citizens tried to escape by lowering ropes over the wall. The Mongols caught them and learned of the city’s suffering. Genghis Khan tightened the siege even further, cutting off all remaining routes. He did not hurry. Time was his weapon now.
Finally, after months of pressure, the city cracked. Part of the wall collapsed under repeated bombardment. Mongol warriors flooded inside, fighting street by street, pushing back defenders who were too exhausted to stand firm. The Jin soldiers fought bravely, but the city was doomed. Flames rose. Arrows rained. The sound of swords striking armor echoed through the night.
By dawn, Zhongdu had fallen.
The Mongols did not destroy everything, nor did they slaughter everyone. But they made sure the Jin Dynasty understood the price of pride and insult. The great city, once the heart of northern China, was now under Mongol control. News spread across the empire like fire through dry grass.
The fall of Zhongdu shattered the Jin Dynasty’s confidence.
Their strongest walls had fallen.
Their greatest army had failed.
Genghis Khan, however, did not stay to rule the city. He left garrisons behind and returned north, satisfied that the message had been delivered:
no wall, no empire, and no army could stand against the united Mongol nation.
The invasion of the Jin Dynasty was far from the end of Mongol involvement in China, but this first campaign had opened a door that would never close again. The Golden Empire had been shaken, its northern lands taken, its pride crushed, and its future burned into the hands of a ruler from the steppes.
The Mongols rode home, their banners snapping proudly in the wind.
They had defeated one of the richest and strongest kingdoms in the world.
And yet, beyond the western horizon, another empire stood waiting—one that would challenge Genghis Khan’s patience, his strategy, and his heart in ways the world had never seen.
Invasion of the Khwarezm Empire (1219–1221)
The fires of the Jin Dynasty campaign were still warm when Genghis Khan turned his gaze westward, toward lands far beyond the mountains, deserts, and deep valleys of Central Asia. This region was the Khwarezm Empire, a rich and sprawling realm ruled by Shah Muhammad II, whose territory stretched across present-day Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and Kazakhstan. It was a land of bustling markets, beautiful cities, great scholars, skilled craftsmen, and treasure flowing in and out through the Silk Road.
The Mongols had never seen an empire so wealthy.
But Genghis Khan did not dream of conquering it at first. He wanted peaceful trade, not war. He wanted silk, spices, metals, and prosperity without sending his men into another massive campaign. And so, in a gesture of respect and diplomacy, he sent a caravan filled with precious goods—silk, gold, silver, and fine furs—toward the Khwarezm borders, hoping it would open doors to peaceful commerce.
The caravan reached the city of Otrar, ruled by a governor named Inalchuq, a man known for pride, suspicion, and ambition. When he saw the valuable goods the Mongols brought, greed filled his heart. He accused the merchants of being spies—without evidence, without reason—and ordered them all killed. Their goods were seized. Their bodies were thrown aside like trash.
When Genghis Khan heard this, he did not react with immediate rage. Instead, he sent three ambassadors to the Shah—one Mongol and two Muslim envoys—to demand justice. According to the rules of diplomacy, envoys were sacred. No ruler was allowed to harm them. Genghis Khan expected the Shah to punish the governor and calm the storm before it grew.
But Shah Muhammad II made a mistake that would destroy his empire.
He ordered the Mongol ambassador to be executed.
The two Muslim envoys had their beards burned off and were sent back humiliated.
This act tore apart the last thread of peace.
Genghis Khan listened to their report in silence.
No anger showed on his face.
But every man around him felt the air turn colder.
He stood up slowly, looked at the horizon, and made a vow that echoed across the steppes:
“The blood of my people will be repaid a thousand times.”
From that moment, the invasion of the Khwarezm Empire became not just a military campaign, but a mission of vengeance.
The Mongol army gathered once more—larger, sharper, and more experienced than ever before. Generals like Jebe, Subutai, Jochi, Chagatai, and Ögedei took their positions. Thousands of horses were prepared. Supplies were packed. Bows were strung. The Mongols moved swiftly across the steppes and toward the deserts of Central Asia.
What awaited them was a land rich with walled cities—Otrar, Bukhara, Samarkand, Urgench—each guarded by tall towers, thick walls, and defenders who trusted those walls too much.
The first target was Otrar, the place where the tragedy began. Genghis Khan sent his sons Jochi and Chagatai to lead the siege, along with experienced generals. They surrounded the city on all sides, cutting off food and water. The defenders fought fiercely, but the Mongols settled in for a long siege. They built siege engines, dug trenches, and blocked every escape route.
After months of pressure, part of the city wall was breached. Mongol warriors stormed in, fighting street by street, taking down defenders who refused to surrender. Inalchuq, the governor who started the entire conflict, hid in the inner citadel. But the Mongols were patient. They broke down his defenses and captured him alive.
Genghis Khan had given specific orders: the man who killed innocent merchants was not to be granted a quick death.
When Inalchuq was finally brought before Mongol commanders, he was punished in a manner that matched the severity of his betrayal. The message was unmistakable: dishonoring envoys brought consequences no empire could escape.
With Otrar’s fall, the Mongol army spread like a storm across the empire. Shah Muhammad II, terrified and confused, began to flee from city to city. He was a ruler suddenly unsure of his own commands, doubtful of his generals, and paralyzed by fear as he watched the Mongol advance.
The next great city the Mongols approached was Bukhara, one of the jewels of the Islamic world. Its mosques, markets, schools, and palaces stood proudly beneath the desert sun. When the Mongol scouts appeared on the horizon, the defenders prepared for a long struggle. But the Mongol army arrived quickly, surrounding the city before the citizens could organize a proper defense.
Some of the city’s outer defenses collapsed quickly under Mongol siege machines—catapults, battering rams, and towers built with the help of engineers from conquered lands. When the gates finally fell, Mongol troops entered the city in waves. In an act both symbolic and chilling, Genghis Khan himself rode into Bukhara’s central mosque, using the platform as a place to address the city’s leaders.
He did not speak with cruelty, but with cold truth. He told them their own ruler had failed them—had brought ruin through arrogance and blindness.
The people listened, trembling, as the Mongol army spread through the city.
After Bukhara came Samarkand, the capital of the empire—grand, wealthy, and filled with soldiers. The Shah had gathered a massive force there, including war elephants armored with iron plates. The Mongols had never faced elephants before. But they adapted quickly, frightening the animals with fire and arrow volleys. The elephants panicked, trampling their own lines. Order crumbled.
The siege tightened. Food ran out. The city’s great walls could no longer protect the people trapped behind them. When Samarkand fell, it became clear that the Khwarezm Empire was breaking apart.
Shah Muhammad II continued running westward, crossing deserts and mountains in disguise, terrified of being found. He died alone, sick and abandoned, on a small island in the Caspian Sea—so far from the wealth and power he once had.
But the Mongols were not finished.
The city of Urgench, ruled by the Shah’s mother, resisted fiercely. Its walls were strong, and the defenders fought with desperate courage. The siege took months. The narrow streets made Mongol cavalry useless inside the city, so the fighting was slow, brutal, and costly. Every house became a battlefield. Every rooftop held archers. Every corner was a trap.
Genghis Khan sent reinforcements.
His sons joined the siege.
The Mongol army fought block by block, inch by inch, through a city that refused to surrender.
When Urgench finally fell, it was one of the bloodiest moments of the entire war. The city had pushed the Mongols to their limit, and the punishment was harsher than in other places.
With Urgench’s fall, the Khwarezm Empire had no strength left. Its cities were ruins. Its armies were destroyed. Its ruler was dead. The Silk Road, once guarded proudly by Khwarezm, now lay open in Mongol hands.
Genghis Khan had accomplished what he had sworn to do.
The blood of his envoys had been repaid.
The insult had been erased.
And the Mongol Empire had expanded westward in a way the world had not seen before.
Yet as the Mongols rode home, the story did not end.
The sons of the Khwarezm Shah, desperate for revenge, fled across the western plains, seeking refuge with distant tribes. And Genghis Khan, unwilling to leave his vengeance incomplete, sent two of his greatest generals—Jebe and Subutai—on a long chase that would take them to the edges of Europe.
Campaign Against the Kipchaks & Russians (1220–1223)
The dust of the Khwarezm Empire had not yet settled when the steppe winds carried whispers of unfinished business. Though Shah Muhammad II was dead and his empire shattered, not all his bloodline had been caught. His son, Jalal al-Din, had escaped across the mountains to the west. Other royal family members fled north, toward lands where the Mongols had rarely ventured—the great plains of the Kipchaks, and beyond them, the forests and river valleys of the Rus’ princes.
To Genghis Khan, the war was not over until every threat was gone. He could not allow surviving enemies to rebuild power or stir rebellion. And so he chose two of the greatest generals in Mongol history—Subutai and Jebe—and gave them a mission unlike any before: pursue the fleeing princes, cross unknown lands, discover new kingdoms, test the strength of foreign armies, and destroy anyone who protected the enemies of Mongolia.
He did not set a time limit.
He simply said: “Do not return until your task is done.”
And so began one of the longest, boldest, most extraordinary military journeys the world had ever seen.
Subutai and Jebe gathered a detachment of expert warriors—small enough to move quickly, strong enough to crush any force that stood in their path. They left the main Mongol army behind and rode westward, crossing deserts, mountains, and plains where no Mongol soldier had ever set foot before.
Their first challenge came from the Kipchaks, fierce nomadic warriors who ruled vast grasslands stretching from Central Asia to the Black Sea. The Kipchaks were cousins to the Mongols in lifestyle—they rode horses, fought with bows, lived in felt tents, and moved with the seasons. But they were bound by loyalty to the surviving princes of Khwarezm, and when those princes begged for protection, the Kipchaks answered.
Subutai and Jebe knew this alliance would not break through words. Only war would decide the steppe.
Their first encounter with the Kipchaks was swift and sharp. Mongol scouts spotted moving herds and dust rising in the distance—signs of large groups traveling quickly. The generals ordered their men to separate into several wings, spreading like a fan across the plain. When the Kipchaks saw them, they expected a normal steppe battle—two armies riding toward each other, exchanging arrows, then clashing with sabers.
But the Mongols were different.
Their movements were unpredictable, their formations shifting like shadows in the wind.
They struck from multiple directions, vanished behind hills, reappeared at the flanks, and surrounded their enemies before the Kipchaks understood what was happening.
The first wave of Kipchak resistance collapsed.
Villages were abandoned.
Families fled deeper west.
But their warriors did not submit easily. They regrouped under powerful chiefs and returned again and again to block the Mongol advance. Every time, Subutai and Jebe met them with superior strategy, drawing them into traps, cutting off their retreat, and breaking their formations.
The chase continued for months across endless plains where the sky touched the horizon, and the earth seemed to roll forever like an ocean of grass. At night, the Mongols slept with their saddles under their heads. By day, they moved like tireless spirits, always pressing westward.
The surviving Kipchak tribes realized they could not stop the Mongols alone. They sent desperate messages to the Rus’ princes—the rulers of many small medieval states scattered across forests, rivers, and wooden-walled cities. These princes did not trust each other, but they feared the Mongols more. For the first time in many years, they united their armies to face a single threat.
From Kiev, Smolensk, Galich, Chernigov, and other cities, warriors marched toward the plains where the Kipchaks begged for help. Together, they formed a large coalition—heavily armored knights, sword-bearing infantry, long-spear soldiers, and mounted nobles wearing chainmail that shone in the sun. Their weapons were different from the Mongols, heavier and built for close combat, and they believed their combined strength could crush the foreign invaders.
The two sides finally met near the Kalka River, a place destined to be remembered for centuries.
The coalition forces, confident in their numbers, pursued the Mongols across open land. They thought Subutai and Jebe were retreating in fear. But the Mongols were not running—they were leading their enemies exactly where they wanted them.
The retreat lasted days.
Every time the Rus’ forces thought they had cornered the Mongols, the steppe warriors slipped away again.
Frustration grew. Pride clouded judgment. The allied princes pushed forward, stretching their army into a long, unwieldy line.
Then, at the perfect moment, the Mongols turned. Their horsemen formed in disciplined ranks. Drums thundered like distant storms.
Dust swirled as tens of thousands of hooves struck the earth. The Mongols charged—not in panic, but with precision.
Arrows rained from all directions. The Rus’ infantry raised shields but could not protect themselves from the endless volleys. Their heavy armor slowed them. Their horses tired under the scorching sun. The Kipchaks broke first and fled, leaving the Rus’ soldiers confused and surrounded.
Subutai and Jebe had sprung the trap.
The Mongols closed in like tightening rings.
Every escape path was blocked.
The coalition force began to crumble.
Panic surged through the Rus’ lines. Knights tried to regroup, but Mongol arrows found every gap in their armor. Infantry was cut down before they could form proper defensive walls. Entire divisions collapsed into the river, drowning under the weight of their own armor.
The Mongols pressed forward without mercy.
Their discipline held firm while the coalition forces fell apart.
By midday, the coalition—once so confident—was completely defeated. Several Rus’ princes were captured. Their armies were shattered. The Mongols treated defeated leaders with cold calculation, punishing those responsible for betraying envoys earlier in the campaign.
The battlefield lay silent except for the wind and the distant cries of wounded men. No Rus’ army had ever been so thoroughly destroyed. The Mongols stayed for only a short time, taking what supplies they needed.
Then they moved again.
Subutai and Jebe continued onward into lands even farther west, exploring regions the Mongols had never known. They rode into the Caucasus Mountains, fought tribes who hid along rocky cliffs, survived ambushes, crossed freezing rivers, and then—like ghosts—slipped through lands where local rulers didn’t even know who they were.
Their small force traveled thousands of kilometers, mapping rivers, studying roads, identifying strong kingdoms and weak ones. They learned which cities had stone walls and which used wood. They counted the number of soldiers in different regions. They observed how the people farmed, traded, and defended themselves. Every detail was recorded and sent back across the steppes to Genghis Khan.
This was not just a chase—it was research for the future.
After completing their journey, Subutai and Jebe did not immediately return to Mongolia. They circled around the Black Sea, fought more battles, then finally took a long route home, carrying news of lands far richer and more divided than even the Khwarezm Empire.
When Genghis Khan heard their report, he realized the world beyond Mongolia was even larger than he had imagined. Empires, kingdoms, forests, mountains, seas—there was no end to what lay beyond the horizon.
The campaign against the Kipchaks and the Rus’ had not been a conquest. It had been a test of Mongol reach, a message to foreign lands, and a warning that the steppes were no longer isolated.
The world had felt the Mongols once—and they would feel them again.
But before those distant campaigns could happen, another unfinished story called Genghis Khan’s attention.
Far to the south, Western Xia—the desert kingdom he had once tamed—had rebelled.
And the Khan would not ignore rebellion.
Second Invasion of Western Xia (1226–1227)
The winds of the Mongolian steppes had carried Genghis Khan through a lifetime of battles, victories, and impossible journeys. He had crossed deserts that swallowed armies, rivers that broke kingdoms, and mountains that seemed higher than the sky itself. He had defeated empires that once believed themselves untouchable. His name traveled across continents—spoken with fear, respect, confusion, and awe.
But even the greatest rulers face moments when loyalty breaks and old alliances crumble.
And so, after years of expansion and conquest, Genghis Khan received news that stirred a quiet storm within him.
Western Xia, the desert kingdom he had once conquered and accepted as a loyal subject, had rebelled.
They had refused to send troops during his hardest war against the Khwarezm Empire. They had ignored envoys, delayed tribute, and acted as if the Mongol Empire no longer held power over them.
To Genghis Khan, this was more than a political problem—it was an insult, a break in the order he had worked so hard to build. A ruler who tolerated rebellion would soon lose the respect of allies and the obedience of conquered lands.
The Khan did not shout. He did not show rage. But those closest to him felt the decision forming in the quiet, sharp look in his eyes.
The campaign would be swift. It would be complete. And it would be the last he personally led.
He summoned his generals, his sons, and his most trusted warriors. Soon the Mongol camps filled with the rhythm of preparation—horses saddled, weapons sharpened, banners unfurled. Men who had marched with him for decades readied themselves once more, knowing the Khan would never ride into battle without purpose.
The long columns of Mongol cavalry began moving south once again, crossing old trails, revisiting lands that had once bowed before their might. The riders moved through cold winds and dry plains, heading toward the deep desert where Western Xia’s stronghold cities stood like stubborn stones against the sky.
As the Mongol army approached the border, the first resistance came quickly. Western Xia armies tried to block mountain passes, believing the narrow paths would slow the Mongols. But Genghis Khan’s men had fought in every terrain imaginable—forests, valleys, dunes, cliffs. They moved through the mountain shadows like wolves. Cliffs did not stop them. Rocks did not intimidate them.
The defenders were swept away in battles that lasted hours, sometimes minutes.
Once the passes fell, the Mongols descended into the desert plains where the cities of Western Xia glimmered in the distance like islands rising from a sea of sand. Every city was protected by strong walls, watchtowers, and armies trained in years of desert warfare. But courage alone could not match the relentless precision of the Mongol machine.
City after city fell.
The Mongols attacked with siege engines—catapults, fire projectiles, and towers manned by archers. The defenders responded with their own weapons—stones, burning oil, arrows fired from high walls. But Genghis Khan’s forces pressed forward with unstoppable rhythm. They surrounded each city, starved it, sent messengers demanding surrender, and when refused, broke through gates with massive battering rams.
Fields were trampled. Fortresses crumbled.
Western Xia struggled desperately, but every attempt failed.
One city tried to negotiate, offering tribute if the Mongols would leave. Genghis Khan refused. He had not marched all this way for gold or grain. He had come for obedience—unconditional, unquestioning, final.
The Mongol army continued its march deeper into the kingdom. The sun beat down on armor and helmets. Nights in the desert froze bone and breath. Yet the warriors pushed forward, guided by the presence of their Khan, who still rode among them with the same strength he had shown decades earlier.
The city of Khara-Khoto, the “Black City,” resisted fiercely. Its giant walls were said to be unbreakable, standing tall above dunes and dry riverbeds. The defenders launched counterattacks from secret side gates. Archers shot arrows from hidden windows. For days the Mongols fought and pushed forward.
Finally, using a daring strategy, they redirected the waters of a nearby river, sending the flood against the city’s foundations. The water softened the soil beneath the walls until they cracked and collapsed. Mongol troops stormed through the breach, overwhelming the defenders in a storm of dust, steel, and shouts.
News of Khara-Khoto’s fall shook the entire kingdom.
Fear spread faster than sand carried by the wind.
Western Xia’s royal court retreated to their capital city, Zhongxing, hoping its powerful walls and large army would withstand the Mongol fury. They sent desperate letters to neighboring powers, begging for support. But no help came. Every kingdom feared the Mongols too much to interfere.
The final siege began.
The Mongol army surrounded Zhongxing completely, forming a ring of horsemen, siege weapons, and camps that stretched across the horizon. The defenders stood bravely on the walls, firing arrows and shouting down defiantly. But the Mongols had seen greater cities fall—Samarkand, Bukhara, Zhongdu—and they knew exactly how to tighten a siege until no city could breathe.
They cut off supplies. They captured escape routes. They blocked messengers. They attacked from multiple sides, day after day.
Inside the city, hunger crept into every home. Soldiers rationed food. Families boiled leather to survive. Fear gnawed at the hearts of the people.
But still, the Western Xia ruler refused to surrender. He believed a miracle might save them. He believed others would rise to protect his throne.
No one did.
The Mongols intensified the attack. Their siege engines pounded the walls. Fires spread across towers. Defenders were forced to retreat from outer defenses. Slowly, steadily, the walls of Zhongxing began to fall apart.
And then, in the midst of this mighty campaign, something happened that no one expected.
Genghis Khan became ill.
Some said he fell from his horse. Some whispered he suffered a fever. Others claimed he was wounded in a minor skirmish.
The truth was known only to a few close companions. But even as the illness worsened, Genghis Khan refused to leave the campaign. He continued giving orders from his tent, his voice steady, his mind sharp.
The Mongol generals obeyed every instruction, knowing the Khan was spending the last of his strength to ensure that Western Xia never rose again.
The final walls of Zhongxing collapsed under Mongol bombardment. The city fell with a roar that shook the desert.
The Mongol army entered without mercy, carrying out the Khan’s final command: Western Xia was never to rebel again.
The city burned. The royal family was captured. The kingdom was erased from the map with a completeness no empire had ever suffered before.
And somewhere in a quiet tent near the smoking ruins, the greatest conqueror in history breathed his last.
His death was kept secret from the army until the campaign was completely over.
The Mongols had to return home safely.
His body was carried back to Mongolia in silence, guarded by loyal soldiers who rode with lowered heads and hearts heavy with grief.
But Genghis Khan had achieved what he intended. Western Xia was destroyed. The rebellion was punished.
And the Mongol Empire, instead of shattering after his passing, would rise even higher under his sons and grandsons.
His final campaign had been one of fire and vengeance, but also one of resolve—a proof that even in his final days, the spirit of the Mongol Khan remained unbroken.
The desert winds carried the ashes of Western Xia across endless dunes.
And somewhere, deep in the heart of the steppe, legends began to grow—stories of the man who united tribes, defeated empires, crossed worlds, and changed history forever.
Legacy of Genghis Khan
The fires of Western Xia still burned in the desert wind when the quiet truth began to settle in the hearts of the Mongol generals. Their Khan—Temujin, the child once abandoned, the warrior who had crossed continents, the ruler who had changed the shape of the world—was gone. His body rested in a simple wooden coffin wrapped in layers of felt, guarded by riders who never let their horses fall behind. Their faces were hard, but their eyes carried a grief deeper than the steppe sky.
The road back to Mongolia was long.
It crossed empty plains where the wind howled without mercy, valleys where rivers cut through the earth like old scars, and mountains that towered silently like ancient witnesses. Through all this, the Mongol escort never allowed a single stranger near the procession.
To them, the Great Khan’s death was not just tragedy—it was the moment the world trembled.
But Genghis Khan had prepared for this day long before it arrived.
Just as he planned his battles, he had also planned the future of his empire.
When the army reached Mongolia, the coffin was taken to a secret place—hidden so deeply in the mountains that no outsider would ever find it. Not a single stone marked his grave. No banners were placed. No monument rose into the air. The man who had defeated kings and shattered dynasties chose to return to the earth in silence, as if he wanted the land itself to guard him.
Yet his absence did not weaken the Mongol nation.
Instead, it turned them into a storm ready to sweep across the world.
His sons—Jochi, Chagatai, Ögedei, and Tolui—gathered with generals, chiefs, and nobles. They remembered his words, his orders, his warnings.
Even in life, Genghis had insisted that the empire must never be held by a single son. He wanted unity, not jealousy. He wanted long-lasting order, not a war of succession.
Thus, after his passing, the decision was made:
Ögedei, his third son, would become the next Great Khan.
The announcement carried the power of the father’s will. Mongol leaders bowed their heads and accepted it. There was no rebellion, no bloodshed, no argument. The unity Genghis Khan had carved with iron and brilliance lived on.
The empire he left behind stretched farther than any empire on earth at that time:
- From the forests of Siberia to the deserts of Central Asia
- From the mountains of Persia to the walls of northern China
- From the plains of Kazakhstan to the cold riverlands near Russia
- From the Gobi Desert to the shores of the Caspian Sea
Four great regions—ulus—were divided among his sons, each ruling their own land but loyal to one supreme authority. And under Ögedei’s leadership, the Mongol Empire did not shrink. It grew.
It grew beyond anything Genghis himself had imagined.
The news of his death traveled slowly across continents, carried by merchants, wanderers, traders, and frightened refugees.
In distant lands, rulers whispered the name “Genghis Khan” with a mix of fear and reverence. Some called him a destroyer. Others called him a brilliant lawmaker. Some said he was sent by heaven to punish the proud. Others believed he was simply a man driven by iron will.
But none could deny this: he had changed the world.
In Mongolia, life continued with the rhythm of the steppe. Families moved with their herds. Children learned to ride horses. Warriors trained in the open fields.
Yet in every campfire story, in every evening gathering, in every quiet moment when old men spoke to young boys, the tales of Temujin—the boy who lost everything and still rose to greatness—echoed through the tents.
They told stories of how he had been abandoned as a child, tied to wooden beams by enemies, nearly starved, nearly forgotten.
They told how he rebuilt his life with nothing but courage and determination. How he united tribes who had hated each other for centuries. How he rewarded loyalty, punished betrayal, and shared hardships with his men. How he brought new laws—Yassa—to create fairness, order, and discipline. How he allowed freedom of religion across his empire, letting Buddhists, Christians, Muslims, and shamans live without persecution. How he opened trade routes, protected merchants, and connected lands that had never been connected before. How he destroyed enemies who broke trust but honored those who surrendered peacefully.
Every part of his life became a lesson. Every decision became a legend. Every victory became a chapter in a much larger story.
Generals like Subutai, Jebe, Jochi, and Tolui expanded those chapters.
Under Ögedei, the Mongols conquered the Jin Dynasty completely.
Under Batu Khan, they reached eastern Europe and defeated armies near Hungary and Poland.
Under Kublai Khan, they would build the Yuan Dynasty in China and rule a population larger than any Mongol had ever seen.
Every road they traveled, every kingdom they challenged, every empire they touched—each one carried the invisible imprint of Genghis Khan’s guidance.
His ideas became the roots. His laws became the backbone. His spirit became the unbreakable thread tying the empire together.
Years passed. Generations changed. But the memory of Genghis Khan grew even larger.
Maps of the world shifted. Borders rose and fell. Kingdoms collapsed and new ones appeared. Yet historians, scholars, warriors, and storytellers continued to study the man who had risen from nothing and carved an empire with his bare hands.
To some, he was the greatest conqueror who ever lived. To others, he was a visionary leader who brought order to chaos. To many, he remained a symbol of unstoppable human will.
And though his grave remains hidden, though his body returned to the dust of the steppe, his story continues to live in the breath of every wind that crosses Mongolia—whispering through the grasslands, echoing across the hills, rising with the hooves of galloping horses.
Out there, somewhere in the silence of the open plains, the spirit of Temujin still rides.
The boy who lost his father. The youth who saved his wife. The man who united tribes. The warrior who crossed empires. The ruler who shaped the world. The world would never be the same again.
And that is the legacy of Genghis Khan—not just an empire of land, but an empire of memory that continues to live as long as stories are told.
All Names of Genghis Khan
1. Temujin
Who gave the name: His father Yesügei.
Region used: Mongolia and among Mongol tribes.
What’s special: His birth name meaning “iron/blacksmith.”
2. Genghis Khan / Chinggis Khan
Who gave the name: The Great Khuriltai (1206).
Region used: Entire Mongol Empire.
What’s special: Means “Universal Ruler,” his main legendary title.
3. Chinggis Qa’an
Who gave the name: Mongol imperial court and historians.
Region used: Official royal documents and ceremonies.
What’s special: Sacred, highest imperial form of “Khan.”
4. The Great Khan
Who gave the name: Foreign kingdoms and chroniclers.
Region used: China, Persia, Russia, Europe.
What’s special: Shows global recognition of his supremacy.
5. Ruler of All Under Heaven
Who gave the name: Chinese scholars and officials.
Region used: Northern China (Jin & later Yuan records).
What’s special: Traditional Chinese title for a world emperor.
6. Scourge of God / Punishment of God
Who gave the name: Persian and European historians.
Region used: Middle East and Europe.
What’s special: Reflected fear of his overwhelming conquests.
7. Saghaatu
Who gave the name: Turkic folklore storytellers.
Region used: Central Asia (Turkic tribes).
What’s special: Legendary warrior-king name in oral tradition.
8. Temujin Borjigin
Who gave the name: Mongol genealogists.
Region used: Clan lineage and historical records.
What’s special: Combines his birth name with his royal clan identity.