Mounted archery was an exceptionally demanding skill.
In the Eastern Han, cavalry lacked stirrups. To stay balanced on a galloping horse while drawing a bow and firing accurately required years of rigorous training.
Under normal circumstances, it was nearly impossible.
But Zhang Xin was no ordinary commander.
When he left Xiaquyang, he brought craftsmen with him. While building his cavalry force, he had them outfit the warhorses with double stirrups and high-bridged saddles.
These innovations were simple in concept and not difficult to produce—but their impact was profound.
With the added stability, and after twenty days of training under Yang Yi, the Yellow Turban cavalry could finally manage basic mounted archery.
Their aim wasn't perfect—but they could shoot.
And that was enough.
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The first volley of arrows fell.
Several Wuhuan riders were struck and tumbled from their horses.
Then came a second wave.
"Return fire! Return fire!" the Wuhuan leader shouted.
The Wuhuan cavalry drew their bows and shot back—but with little effect.
The Wuhuan lacked ironworking capabilities, and the Han strictly controlled iron. What little they obtained through smuggling was reserved for weapons.
Most of their arrowheads were made of bone.
Against iron armor, such arrows were useless.
Zhang Xin's cavalry, clad in iron, barely felt the impact—while their own arrows easily pierced the Wuhuan's leather armor.
The two sides chased each other for over ten li.
As their numbers dwindled, the Wuhuan realized that continued flight meant certain death.
Suddenly, they wheeled around.
Sabers drawn, they charged back with fierce cries.
"Good!" Zhang Xin shouted. "Drop the bows—take up spears!"
The cavalrymen cast aside their bows and seized the spears hanging from their saddles.
Thirty steps. Twenty steps.
Zhang Xin tightened his hold on the boy riding before him.
"Hold on," he said quietly—then roared, "Charge!"
The Yellow Turban cavalry surged forward at full speed.
The boy clutched the saddle, biting his lip as he stared at the enemy who had destroyed his home.
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The two forces collided.
A Wuhuan rider swung his saber at Zhang Xin—but his spear struck first.
An inch longer, an inch stronger.
The spear pierced clean through the man's body.
Zhang Xin twisted aside, dodging two incoming blades, then flung the corpse from his weapon.
In that single clash, most of the Wuhuan were cut down, while the Yellow Turbans lost only a handful of men.
The advantage of stirrups and saddles was undeniable.
"Turn! Charge again!"
Zhang Xin pulled the reins. His horse wheeled sharply and thundered forward once more.
This time, the Wuhuan broke.
They lashed their mounts and fled in panic.
"Yang Yi!" Zhang Xin called. "Take twenty men and tend to the wounded. The rest—follow me!"
"Yes!"
Yang Yi led a small group back.
Zhang Xin pressed the pursuit with the remaining riders, chasing for another ten li and cutting down several more enemies. The survivors scattered in terror, fleeing in all directions.
With no way to continue the chase, Zhang Xin finally turned back.
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The battle was a decisive victory.
More than forty Wuhuan were slain.
On Zhang Xin's side, only seven or eight were wounded—and two unfortunate men had died after falling from their horses.
A near-perfect triumph.
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"General."
Yang Yi brought a captive forward.
"This man claims to be a Wuhuan prince. I did not dare act without your command."
Zhang Xin glanced at him. "And the others?"
"They've all been dealt with."
Zhang Xin nodded, then turned his attention to the prisoner.
The man's attire was ornate, adorned with jewels—clearly no ordinary figure.
"Whose son are you?" Zhang Xin asked.
"I… I am the son of King Khanlu," the man stammered.
"Khanlu?" Zhang Xin narrowed his eyes. "Wu Yan's son?"
Among the Wuhuan of Youzhou, four major leaders held power: Nanlou of Shanggu, Qiuliju of Liaoxi, Supuyan of Liaodong, and Wu Yan of Youbeiping.
Each called himself king—though none were recognized by the Han court.
"Yes!" The prince quickly forced a smile. "Since you know my father, sir, please show mercy. Release me, and I will repay you generously!"
Zhang Xin's eyes lit up.
This was an unexpected gift.
Yuyang was surrounded by enemies: Nanlou to the west, Xianbei tribes to the north, Han-controlled Guangyang to the south, and Wu Yan's Wuhuan to the east.
Of these, Wu Yan's tribe was the weakest—small, scattered, and vulnerable.
The perfect target.
For days, Zhang Xin had struggled to find a justification to attack them. Without a righteous cause, his weary troops—already demoralized after long campaigns—would resist further fighting.
But now…
The answer stood before him.
The Wuhuan had already raided Han lands.
If he used this prince to provoke Wu Yan into retaliation, he would hold the moral high ground.
And with righteousness on their side, his soldiers would fight with renewed resolve.
In war, legitimacy was everything.
With it, armies fought harder. Without it, they collapsed.
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Seeing Zhang Xin's pleased expression, the prince assumed it was due to his father's reputation.
"My lord," he said eagerly, "these ropes are too tight. Perhaps you could loosen them—"
Zhang Xin let out a faint chuckle.
"Why worry about comfort… when you're already a dead man?"
He lifted the boy down from his horse and pointed at the bound prince.
"Child," he said calmly, "do you dare to kill?"