The ancient chronicles speak of a night when the moon bled red — a night the heavens themselves marked as the turning of fate.

Among the Xiango and the steppe tribes, the Blood Moon was never seen as a mere eclipse. It was a divine message — a sign that the veil between worlds had thinned, allowing the whispers of the dead to touch the hearts of the living.

They believed that under its crimson light, souls remembered old oaths, unpaid debts resurfaced, and the wheel of destiny turned once more. Those born or transformed beneath it were said to carry more than their own fate — they bore the burden of their people, the debt of their ancestors, and the unseen hand of destiny itself.

History tells that Altun Tengri, the first great khan of Xiango, rose to power beneath the Blood Moon’s light. Ever since, kings and conquerors sought its crimson blessing, believing their rule to be sanctioned by the heavens.

Yet the seers disagreed —
some called it a curse of blood and ruin,
others a dawn of renewal and rebirth.

Thus, the Blood Moon became both feared and revered:
a promise and a warning,
a symbol of endings and beginnings entwined.

“One who awakens beneath the Blood Moon no longer walks for themselves,”
whispered the Xiango bards.
“They walk the path chosen by fate — burdened by the shadows of their kin, and guided by the fire of the heavens.”

And they warn still:

“Under the Blood Moon, one either conquers their darkness… or is forever consumed by it.”