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The early morning grassland stretched out in an unbroken expanse of emerald green, rolling all the way to the foot of the mountains, where the shifting light and shadow deepened the color into something richer. A gentle breeze brushed past, setting the long, slender blades of grass swaying. Crystalline dewdrops quivered and then rolled slowly down the leaves, like translucent pearls scattering a rainbow of light.
Through one such glistening, translucent dewdrop, one could see several tents standing scattered in the near distance, along with a large circular wooden stockade that penned in a herd of cattle and sheep.
The door flap of one tent, patched over and over again with thick cloth scraps, was suddenly lifted. From within emerged a Hu woman, a cooking pot clamped under her arm. Her wide, loose sheepskin robe, though old and worn, was still fairly clean. The slightly sparse woolen fleece trembled gently in the air.
Humming a nameless little tune, the Hu woman walked around to the back of the tent. She pushed open a waist-high wicker gate and approached a cow. First, she cut some dried grass and placed it into the feeding trough for the cow to eat. Then, she scratched the cow's neck and patted it gently a couple of times.
The cow lowed softly, grinding the dry grass in its mouth. Its dark, glossy eye rolled around as if it were offering a faint smile.
The woman crouched down, drawing close to the cow's belly. She breathed a puff of warm air into her hands, then rubbed her palms vigorously together several times until they had warmed up a bit. Only then did she reach out, take hold of a swollen udder, and begin squeezing gently and softly. Streams of snow-white milk sprayed into the pot with a hissing sound, stirring up a shallow layer of froth.
A black-beaked sparrow came fluttering over in a burst, landing in the grass. It cocked its head slightly, hopped forward a step, then lowered its head to peck at something on the ground. Suddenly, the black-beaked sparrow jerked its head up, neck rigid, tilting its head as though listening intently. Then it pushed off with both legs and shot up into the sky in the blink of an eye.
The sparrow flew higher and higher, swiftly crossing the vast grassland, then soared past a small hillside. There, it abruptly saw a tide of cavalry sweeping in like storm clouds blanketing the earth. In its panic, it flapped its wings frantically, shedding two or three feathers as it fled toward the heights.
The soft, pale grayish-white feathers drifted down through the air, only to be caught by the wind trailing in the wake of the cavalry below and instantly whisked away to who knew where.
All that could be heard was the muffled thunder of hooves erupting, shaking the very ground until it seemed to quiver ceaselessly.
In front of the tent, the Hu woman was walking back, holding the pot half-full of milk, when she noticed ripples spreading circle after circle across its surface. A few drops of milk were even jolted out by the vibrations.
A shadow fell over everything. A tri-colored banner rose slowly from the crest of the small hill. A rider emerged, silhouetted against the sun, his features entirely hidden in shadow. All that could be seen was the long blade laid across his horse, gleaming with a chilling, heart-stopping light.
The Hu woman's eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and her hands went slack. The small bronze pot dropped straight to the ground, milk splashing everywhere.
More and more cavalry revealed themselves along the ridgeline, a dark mass forming a solid line. Horses of various colors snorted and blew gusts of hot breath, veiling the riders' figures in a layer of shimmering, distorted haze.
Amid the Hu woman's sharp, miserable shrieks, Ma Yue raised his long blade. At once, the cavalry spurred their horses down the slope, spreading out like a giant crab extending two thick, powerful claws to clamp down upon the Hu tribe before them.
The sound of ox-horn trumpets filled the sky. Many Hu people scrambled out of their tents, some clutching bows, others grabbing long blades, but it was already too late.
Dozens of arrows streaked down like a line drawn across the open ground in front of the tents. The black shafts and white fletching seemed to mark out a forbidden zone, instantly freezing the movements of the Hu people. Though not a single word was spoken, nor any shouted command given, those arrows carried a dense weight of deterrence and warning. Everyone knew that any further hostile move would mean the next volley of arrows would be burying itself in human flesh.
Ma Yue sat upright on his horse, not even sparing a glance at the panicked people of the small tribe. His attention was entirely focused on his own contingent of cavalry, watching them crisscross and gallop, intertwining like twisted hemp as they looped around several times, carving the entire Hu tribe into scattered, isolated pockets.
The Hu cavalry—or rather, the Southern Xiongnu cavalry—perhaps due to some innate deficiency, or perhaps by natural adaptation, were even more practiced and more cohesively synchronized than the Han cavalry of Bingzhou.
Ma Yue had been constantly observing and analyzing. When the Hu charged in an assault, they basically needed no special commands. They looked like a chaotic tangle at the start of their gallop, but during the charge, they would slowly and spontaneously shift into an arrowhead formation. What was most distinctive was that throughout the entire process, one saw absolutely no one directing or coordinating them. It was as if it were an instinct etched into the very bodies of the Hu people, allowing them to adjust the rhythm and tempo of the attack with such ease.
This kind of seamless coordination within small-scale teams had been the skill Ma Yue previously lacked the most. But now, it seemed to be gradually compensated for, bit by bit. Compared to the earlier raids, the feeling now was noticeably much smoother.
Ma Yue sat on horseback, chin slightly raised. The personal guards behind him held the battle flag, as steady as a mountain. No orders were issued. The entire operation relied solely on the soldiers and low-ranking officers making their own adjustments. This spontaneous, nuanced mutual cooperation allowed them to adapt more effectively to changes on the battlefield. The soldiers did not need to constantly watch the central battle flag for signals; they only had to coordinate well with their nearby comrades and follow the deployments of their junior officers.
In other words, the original Han cavalry was strong and robust but slightly lacking in agility—like a mechanical puppet whose every move had to be coordinated and commanded by a central officer, making stiffness and sluggishness hard to avoid. Now, learning the Hu cavalry model was akin to adding a few drops of lubricating oil into the joints of that cavalryman-shaped puppet.
"Raise the flag! Sound the horn!" Ma Yue ordered, seeing that the entire tribal ground was now essentially under control.
A twin-headed Golden Crow war banner was hoisted high, flying alongside Fei Qian's tri-colored flag. At the same time, the bleak, distant call of the ox-horn trumpet sounded once more.
Receiving the signal, Ma Yue's cavalry began shouting terse commands in the Hu tongue, ordering everyone within the small tribe to kneel, on pain of death. Warhorses' hooves flew, kicking up tufts of grass as they wove between the tents. The short, hard commands in the Hu language repeated, brooking no protest or question, carrying an iron-tinged, bloody edge.
Within the Hu tribe, some people clutched their heads in terror and wailed. Others stared wide-eyed, looking around wildly. Some gripped tightly onto whatever was beside them, as though using it to lend themselves the strength to remain standing.
An aged hand slowly lifted a corner of a tent, revealing the faint gleam of a blade's edge.