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The Hu arrived inexplicably, like spring rain that comes without warning.
Spring always brings some rain, but the Hu were different. Like the wolves they revered, they came when hungry—or even when not, if they caught the scent of tempting prey.
But the Hu weren't blind, nose-dead dogs, aimlessly charging in hopes of stumbling upon a meal before collapsing.
The problem was, Fei Qian's camp at Beiqu was full of sturdy soldiers, with most of the grain still in Anyi, not yet transported in large quantities. At this moment, Beiqu camp was like a bone bristling with thorns, devoid of meat, not even worth cracking open for marrow. Why would they risk bleeding to gnaw on it?
This puzzled Fei Qian.
Unless there was something compelling the Hu to come—something more enticing than the thorny bone of Beiqu camp.
Outside the tent, soldiers bustled, preparing as much as possible before battle erupted.
Fei Qian summoned Huang Cheng and Ma Yan, sharing his thoughts.
Huang Cheng and Ma Yan considered Fei Qian's plan, finding it reasonable but risky.
Huang Cheng wanted to dissuade him, but Fei Qian stopped him.
Pointing to the "Commander of the Three Armies" banner behind him, Fei Qian said, "Most of our men are new recruits. Without this banner, do you think they'd stay steady?"
Huang Cheng fell silent.
The scouts reported three to four thousand Hu—only about a thousand more than Fei Qian's total force. But everyone knew the Hu were born cavalry, giving them a clear advantage.
Fei Qian's plan was risky but the only viable option for now.
Ma Yan bowed solemnly, clasped his hands, and left.
Huang Cheng said quietly, "Lord Fei, leaving a banner would suffice…"
Fei Qian smiled, understanding Huang Cheng's concern. "If this is a deception, who'll trust us next time? Trust is hard to build but easy to destroy. For now, let's prepare…"
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A light drizzle began to fall. Yufuluo looked up at the sky, confirming it wouldn't worsen. Though spring rain wasn't ideal and night was approaching, they were close to their destination. Still, he ordered the camp to be set up.
Night battles demanded too much, especially for horses. A fight could wait a day—sharpened blades cut better. His father, Qiangqu Chanyu, had taught him this as a child.
The Southern Xiongnu, also Hu, camped with less formality than the Han. Their setup was haphazard, like colorful mushrooms sprouting on the steppe—here one, there two. Forty or fifty Xiongnu men went to the nearby woods, felled a dozen trees, and built a crude fence to corral their cattle and sheep, completing the camp.
But they treated their horses with care. To the Hu, horses were not just legs or tools but comrades. They couldn't be treated like ordinary livestock.
Horses preferred dry places, disliking damp cold. Just as the Hu set up tents to stay dry, they ensured their horses did too. After cleaning mud from the horses, they led them into the tents.
Many thought horses only slept standing, but they could lie down in safe, comfortable settings or stand in unfamiliar or dangerous ones.
The Hu spread dry grass in a corner of the tent as a bed for both themselves and their horses.
Only by treating horses like family would horses see them as kin—a trust between man and beast, hard to break even amidst thorns or axes.
Yet trust between people was fragile, easily shattered by a word, a gesture, a bowl of water, or a cup of wine, melting like winter snow in spring, vanishing without a trace.
Huchuquan lifted the tent flap and entered, carrying some food.
Yufuluo took it, and they sat casually, eating.
The food was sparse, but Yufuluo ate slowly, carefully. Huchuquan, who had taken over as Right Wise King, devoured his share quickly, gulping water from a skin while Yufuluo was still eating.
Huchuquan set down the skin, chuckling. "Brother, you eat like a Han now."
Yufuluo ignored him, continuing at his own pace. Though Huchuquan had assumed his role, he hadn't grasped the responsibilities of a tribal leader. Yufuluo himself hadn't understood these when his father, Qiangqu Chanyu, was alive, so he didn't reprimand or explain to Huchuquan.
Eating slowly wasn't about mimicking Han elegance. This food, this grain, was bought with his tribesmen's blood and flesh. Eating it felt like consuming their lives, as if they were sacrificing themselves to sustain his own. How could he not eat with care, with reverence?
Yufuluo now understood why his father sometimes seemed sluggish, slow, even numb. Sometimes, one needed that numbness to bury instincts deep, making room for thought and wisdom.
Yufuluo finished every morsel, licking his fingers, then took the water skin from Huchuquan and drank.
Huchuquan asked, "What's the plan for tomorrow?"
Yufuluo paused, then said, "No plan yet. We'll see."
"Just look?" Huchuquan frowned. He preferred swinging his blade over observing. He didn't understand what Yufuluo meant by "look"—look at people, the place, or something else? Why come all this way just to look? Could looking conjure grain? Wouldn't they still need to fight?
"We're the sons of the plow, not the Han's dogs…" Yufuluo, sensing Huchuquan's thoughts, said, "And I don't trust the Han…"