But now, this migration had just barely begun when it was hit by consecutive severe blows.
The winter this year, for some reason, not only arrived half a month earlier than usual, but the weather also turned colder.
It was only early winter, yet it felt as bitterly cold as deep winter.
Even the fearsome heavy snowstorms began to appear as frequently as normal snowfall on the grasslands.
The tribes migrating south under Mou Yan's command had already lost dozens during their journey, swallowed by the heavy snowstorms.
The dead numbered three to five hundred thousand already.
At this rate, by the time all the remaining tribesmen migrate here, it's hard to say whether there will even be a million people left.
The thought that his once nearly five-million-strong great tribe had dwindled to a mere two million in scale due to war and blizzards caused Mou Yan a pang of pain.
This was all his wealth, the source of his power.