The Qin Dynasty stands as the black iron spine of Evil Land, an empire that emerged from order and cruelty alike, inheriting the mantle of the First Emperor’s will. Their legions march clad in lacquered steel, spears glinting like a forest of thorns, banners stitched with the golden dragon of Qin. Unlike the scattered tribes, decadent sorcerer-kings, and disjointed remnants of corporations, the Qin have one virtue: unity. That unity makes them the terror of Evil Land.
Their history in Evil Land is measured not in decades, but in invasions. From their mountain-forges and irrigated valleys, the Qin armies descend in waves—each campaign carefully calculated by the Emperor and his strategists to grind down resistance faction by faction. Every war is a step toward one ultimate vision: a land fully subdued beneath the dynasty’s seal, every voice silenced beneath the “Harmony of Qin.”
The first wars were against the wandering Ashlanders, who roamed the desert wastes of Evil Land in caravans, clinging to traditions older than memory. Qin legions encircled their oases, cutting them off from water. When the Ashlanders tried ambushes, Qin generals countered with fire-driven chariots and disciplined crossbow volleys. In time, the tribes fractured—some slaughtered to the last, others bent into vassalage. Yet, remnants survive, striking back as guerrillas who know the sands better than any general. They whisper that the Qin can never truly kill a tribe, only scatter it.
The ruined megacorporations of Evil Land still command armies of drones, security forces, and vaults of technology. Qin emissaries offered alliances, demanding tribute of weaponry and fuel. Most refused. The Emperor responded with precision invasions: entire corporate enclaves fell under storm assaults of iron-plated infantry supported by salvaged WWI tanks. Qin engineers learned quickly—captured drones were rewired, reprogrammed, painted in Qin black and red. Today, many corporate survivors exist only as puppet boards beneath Qin supervision, their logos stamped beneath the imperial dragon.
The Dominion of Canada, a stubborn northern faction of armored sleds and frost-bound knights, resisted fiercely. Qin forces burned their border forts, but the Dominion fought back with guerrilla raids in frozen forests, their soldiers clad in white cloaks blending with the snow. The Emperor declared this a war of prestige: no barbarian king of the north could defy Qin. In brutal winters, thousands of Qin soldiers perished, yet still they pressed on, building roads through snowfields, dragging siege engines across frozen rivers. The war continues in cycles, with neither side yielding, but the Qin have claimed borderlands where maple forests now grow crimson with imperial banners.
The Sorcerer-Kings of the Mirage Expanse—defiled tyrants ruling shattered city-states—proved unlike any previous foes. Their magic warped Qin steel, their undead armies marched without fear. Yet, Qin generals adapted. Siege towers were plated against sorcery, while legions advanced with talismans forged by captured warlocks. The Emperor personally decreed that “the sun will rise over broken thrones.” Many Sorcerer-Kings were crushed, their ziggurats toppled. Still, others endure, raising armies of slaves and monsters. The Qin do not retreat, but their progress in the Expanse is slow, costly, and bloody.
House Dagoth, risen from the ashes of Red Mountain, brought horrors the Qin had never seen—ash vampires, dream-swarms, and cursed legions of blighted soldiers. The Qin fought with fire, surrounding Dagoth citadels in iron rings, burning the tainted ground clean. Yet, Dagoth cultists infiltrate even the imperial ranks, whispering promises of unity under Dagoth Ur’s dream. Entire Qin legions have defected in trance-like loyalty. The Emperor views House Dagoth not only as an enemy of state, but as a spiritual corruption that must be annihilated.
The Kingdom of Baron, heirs of knights and airships, fielded armies that rivaled Qin discipline. Baron’s airships struck deep into Qin columns, bombing supply lines, while their dragoons charged with brutal efficiency. The Qin answer has been relentless ground offensives: encircle, besiege, starve. Baron resists not only with steel, but with myth—its knights and mages hold loyalty that Qin bureaucrats cannot replicate. Each Qin victory against Baron has been costly, and though cities have fallen, Baron remains unbroken, its king swearing to resist until the dragon standard is torn down.
Beyond great powers, the Qin wage endless smaller wars against scavenger bands, survivor tribes, and petty kings. These conflicts, though minor compared to the wars with Baron or Dagoth, bleed the empire constantly. Caravans ambushed, garrisons harried, supply trains burned. The Qin respond with overwhelming reprisals: burn the villages, salt the fields, enslave the young. To the Qin, the scattered commons of Evil Land are not peoples, but resources to be consumed, reorganized, and absorbed into the dynasty’s machinery.
The Qin invasions are not haphazard; they are cycles of crushing discipline. Their doctrine is to overwhelm, adapt, and assimilate. First, reconnaissance through emissaries and spies. Second, encirclement and strangulation of food and water. Third, massed assaults with crossbows, tanks, and disciplined infantry. Fourth, administrative integration: those conquered are reshaped under Qin bureaucracy, their customs erased, their leaders replaced with governors sworn to the Emperor.
For the Qin, war never ends. Each victory is a prelude to the next campaign. They believe Evil Land is destined to be a single empire, its chaos hammered into order, its tribes forgotten, its sorcery extinguished, its corporations made tools of the throne.
At the heart of it all is the Emperor himself, a figure both man and myth. He proclaims himself the successor to the First Emperor, the one destined to bring unity to Evil Land’s wastes. His generals are called the “Iron Mandarins,” elites trained not only in war but in ruthless statecraft. His court whispers of alchemical immortality, of forging a dynasty that will outlast even the ruins themselves.
Every invasion, every conquest, every atrocity—these are not seen by the Emperor as cruelty, but as necessity. Evil Land is chaos incarnate, and only Qin can cage it.
The Qin invasions have reshaped Evil Land. Tribes scattered, cities enslaved, corporations repurposed, kingdoms scarred. Yet, in their very victories, the seeds of resistance grow. For every Ashlander that bends knee, another sharpens a blade in the desert. For every sorcerer enslaved, ten rise to curse the dynasty. For every Baron knight slain, songs of defiance echo louder.
The Qin Dynasty marches ever forward, an unstoppable tide. But Evil Land is vast, and its factions are stubborn. Whether Qin will finally impose its dream of eternal unity—or collapse beneath the weight of endless war—remains the great question of the age.
Would you like me to expand this further into a chronicle-style “campaign by campaign” record, almost like a historical archive of Qin wars in Evil Land (with years, generals, and key battles), or keep it at this grand sweeping narrative level?