Chapter Seven: The Stirrup

Master, the Yellow Turban Army has set up camp fifteen kilometers outside Youzhou City. Dian Wei reported to Zifan at once.

Very well, assemble the troops immediately...

Master, my Tiger Guards are already fully prepared and ready to protect your safety at any moment. Please rest assured, said Dian Wei in agreement.

Train well and prepare for victory. Sweat more during drills, bleed less in battle. Go make ready—if you drag us back in the fight, I will not spare you.

Rest assured, Master. My skills are more than sufficient. As for the Yellow Turbans, no matter how many come, I’ll slay them all. After this battle, I hope you will reward me with a large barrel of wine, said Dian Wei, scratching his head and laughing.

Get out, Zifan feigned anger...

We’ll speak of it after we win...

Yes, Master, I’ll leave now. Remember my wine, said Dian Wei, grinning mischievously.

Zifan felt warmth in his heart and shook his head. Now that the Yellow Turban Army had arrived, the Black Riders and Tiger Guards would finally taste blood, and their blades could be unsheathed, sharpening their combat prowess.

The Black Riders were sharp blades, but something was always missing compared to before—ah, the stirrup.

The stirrup is not only a “step” for mounting, but also a crucial point for riders to control their posture on horseback. It allows agility and speed to combine perfectly, significantly raising the fighting power of cavalry.

System

I need to purchase stirrups.

Certainly. Congratulations to the host for purchasing stirrups...

Afterward, Zifan immediately ordered the warriors to fit all the warhorses with stirrups. With these stirrups, the soldiers’ offensive power would be greatly enhanced; movements that were once difficult could now be easily executed. Truly, a formidable weapon.

The soldiers, learning the uses of the stirrups, were exhilarated. With this divine weapon, how could they not crush the Yellow Turban rebels?

Midnight...

Zifan and Ding Feng led a thousand Black Riders in a night raid against the Yellow Turban Army. The sound of hooves echoed across the land, the charge horn blared, and cries of battle erupted.

Enemy attack!

The patrolling Yellow Turban soldiers shouted loudly...

Kill! On the battlefield, the clash of blades, horses’ neighs, shouts of soldiers, thunderous hoofbeats, and the sound of weapons filled the air.

Zifan pulled his horse to a stop and looked around. On his left, a soldier had an arrow lodged in his right arm, yet he hacked desperately with his unpracticed left hand, his face twisted in pain. On his right, a soldier, eyes bloodshot, roared fiercely...

Zifan raised his spear, the blade piercing the sky—swift then slow, like a phantom—he stabbed seven Yellow Turban soldiers in succession, terrifying the enemy so much they dared not approach, pacing nervously about.

Retreat!

Zifan shouted, “Pull the horses back to camp.”

The army withdrew to Youzhou.

Weapons clashed, and another bloodless night ensued. Bodies littered the roadside, most belonging to the Yellow Turban rebels.

Master, in this attack we lost sixty Black Riders. Observing the battle, the Yellow Turbans must have lost several thousand, reported Ding Feng with a clenched fist.

Understood. Go now. Order the troops to rest and prepare for tomorrow’s desperate battle. Sigh—even in a surprise attack, sixty died. These are all elite soldiers! Zifan lamented.

Early next morning

The sun rose, the heavy fog had yet to dissipate, and the Tiger Guard Army, silent for days, mobilized.

A sharp, urgent horn sounded. The Youzhou army marched forth from their camp; a vast swath of black armor swept across the land like a pine forest. Three thousand Tiger Guards formed the center, five hundred cavalry on each flank, with three thousand Youzhou troops at the rear. Clad in black armor, their presence seemed to swallow mountains and rivers.

The Yellow Turban Army formed ranks, twenty thousand strong spread across the hills and fields. The cry of “Kill! Kill! Kill!” echoed in their commands.

Zifan stood in the central ranks...

“Whoosh!” The clear whistle of swords sliced through the air.

Generals, follow me in battle!

Suddenly, the drums and horns of Youzhou thundered, banners snapping in the wind. Cavalry on both wings charged first; the central infantry advanced in tight formation, marching like a city wall. Every three steps, they shouted “Kill!”—advancing steadily, pressing forward like a rolling storm.

At the same time, the Yellow Turban horns bleated mournfully through the valley. Cavalry on both wings roared to meet them, while the infantry marched arrogantly, unstoppable, like a black tide sweeping across the plain.

This was a clash of two steel armies, warriors facing death with courage. Iron men colliding, refusing to retreat, faces fierce and grim, bloodied blades, deep howls, smoke and dust swirling, the entire valley enveloped and consumed by the savage atmosphere of primal combat...