Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Sheep Has Turned Into a Wolf
The one who had escaped this time was none other than Juqu, the great general under the Xiongnu Chanyu. After clashing with the iron cavalry of Youzhou, he kept glancing nervously over his shoulder, fear gnawing at his heart, terrified that another wave of those horsemen would come barreling after him. In his old worldview, the Han Empire, once a mighty tiger, had long since declined into nothing more than a bleating, defenseless sheep. The Han armies seemed so brittle, so easily shattered before the onslaught of Xiongnu cavalry. But what he had witnessed today had utterly upended his understanding of the world. Since when had the Han mustered such a fierce, almost demonic force?
It was only after fleeing dozens of kilometers that Juqu finally reined in his horse, immediately ordering his remaining men to keep quiet and hide behind a large, secluded boulder. He had set out with a full regiment of cavalry—more than two thousand of the tribe’s bravest warriors, the very backbone of their youth. Now, less than a fifth remained, scattered and battered, barely two hundred men—many missing arms or legs. How could he possibly answer for this disaster?
“The debt of blood we owe the Han will be repaid tenfold! If I ever lay hands on you, I’ll have you torn limb from limb!” Juqu cursed through clenched teeth, his humiliation at today’s defeat burning hotter than any wound. To become a captive of the Xiongnu was a fate worse than death—endless torment, where life was unbearable but death was denied. The Xiongnu were like wild beasts; for a prisoner, the best fate was to be worked into exhaustion. Many were simply slaughtered, or, like cattle, sacrificed for the spirits.
Yet among the Xiongnu, death was never something to be feared. To die on the battlefield was the highest honor; only in death during war could a warrior’s spirit return to the ultimate paradise.
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In the Xiongnu main camp…
“To think you were driven to such disgrace by a flock of Han sheep, and still you dare show your face before me!” The Xiongnu Chanyu glared murderously at his defeated general. Never had he imagined his own army would be routed so completely.
“How many were there?” The Chanyu’s eyes blazed with barely contained fury as he looked down at the kneeling survivor.
“Your Majesty, there were about two thousand of them. But they fought with strict discipline and unmatched bravery. They were clearly veterans of countless battles, brimming with killing intent. Their weapons, their armor, even their tactics—everything about them was utterly unlike the Han troops we’ve faced before,” the trembling survivors replied.
“Just two thousand, and yet they reduced you to this? You’ve disappointed me beyond words!” From behind the Chanyu stepped a frail old man clad in a great sable cloak, a feather fan in hand—none other than Dracula, the Xiongnu’s current Grand Adviser.
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“Since the Han are now well-prepared, and you say they fight like gods descended to earth, I’m determined to see for myself. Are they truly as formidable as you claim, or are you merely lying to me?” Dracula spoke, closing his eyes and waving his fan with a quiet confidence as he stood aside.
If the Chanyu was the Xiongnu’s supreme commander, then Dracula was the brain behind the entire army—the architect of every strategy and motive, the most learned and influential man among the Xiongnu, and the Chanyu’s most trusted confidant.
Without further hesitation, the Chanyu ordered the army to strike, hoping to catch the enemy off guard and force them into complacency.
The rhythmic thunder of hooves echoed from afar—rapid, chaotic, relentless. The earth itself trembled, pebbles and sand leaping with every beat. As they neared the Youzhou encampment, the Xiongnu horsemen pressed low against their mounts, gripping their bows, eyes bloodshot with the anticipation of the charge. This was their way, the way of a people born and bred on horseback, who had once swept across Eurasia with unstoppable force. In cavalry warfare, none could rival them—this was their greatest pride.
On the vast Xiongnu steppe, there were archers famed for never missing a shot. To shoot a thousand arrows, never once failing to hit the mark; to split two eagles fighting over meat with a single bolt—such skill was their deadliest weapon, allowing them to kill swiftly and keep their own losses to a minimum.
Yet they had utterly underestimated the Youzhou army’s speed and readiness. The Youzhou soldiers never went anywhere without their weapons and armor, always prepared for battle, never letting their guard down. This constant vigilance kept them in a state of perpetual tension, but it also meant they were ready for anything.
A hail of arrows descended, and the charging Xiongnu were cut down in droves. Never had they imagined their enemies would strike so quickly—using archery, no less, their own signature art.
While the Xiongnu reeled in shock, the Black Cavalry, led by Zifan, was already in formation. Zifan rode at the head, his spear darting forward to skewer the closest foe, lifting a Xiongnu rider clean from his saddle. Blood spattered as the spearhead burst from the man’s belly. Overhead, a shrill whistling followed—the sound of spears and arrows raining from the sky, dozens of them filling the air and blotting out the sun.
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Disaster! The barrage covered too broad a swath, and the pass was too narrow—there was no way to escape death! The Xiongnu leader at the front was stunned, but instincts took over; he leapt from his horse, rolling desperately on the ground, dodging most of the spear points, but it was useless—a sharp lance pierced his chest, pinning him to the earth.
Agonized cries rose as wounded Xiongnu lay sprawled across the ground, impaled through thigh or belly, the spear tips anchoring them fast and filling the air with their howls.
In mere moments, the Xiongnu line began to crumble under the charge of Zifan’s two thousand Black Cavalry. Their formations fell apart, their ranks collapsing layer by layer. “Hold them back! Stop them! Stop them!” The Chanyu’s entire body trembled as he repeated the command in a quivering whisper, until at last he screamed it with every ounce of his strength.
More and more Xiongnu riders fell, until only scattered, battered companies remained, barely enough to form even a single regiment.
Gone was any vestige of the Chanyu’s former courage. He wheeled his horse and ordered a retreat, and the remnants of his army, dragging their mangled bodies, fled after him in a desperate rout.
Zifan and his cavalry pressed the pursuit all the way to a small stream, but by then the Chanyu had already crossed and regrouped his men. Now, with the two armies facing each other across the water, their eyes met and the air crackled with murderous intent.
After a brief respite, the Chanyu had managed to reform his ranks, the scattered soldiers once more assembled. In contrast, Zifan’s force had dwindled to barely over a hundred riders, all exhausted from the prolonged slaughter.
“Chanyu, the time has come! Strike back!” a Xiongnu general urged, slapping his warhorse. The Chanyu bared his teeth in rage, eyes bloodshot. “Counterattack! Counterattack! Kill them all—avenge our shame!”