Angda's hand clutching the reins unconsciously tightened.
Once, as a support soldier, he had witnessed countless times the Yan Army cavalry charging after their three rallying cries, after which the Barbarians before them would be crushed into pulp. The confidence of the Yan people, their power, their sheer dominance on the battlefield—all of it had been deeply etched into his heart back then.
He subconsciously glanced at Que Mu beside him and then at the other fearless faces around. Confidence surged through him once more.
Years ago, when drunk, the King had asked him if he was willing to give up everything to be a cavalryman in the Northern Garrison Army. Then, the King had asked, "Or, one day, could our Sacred Tribe also field an army of three hundred thousand armored soldiers?"
Angda raised his saber.
"May the stars above protect our Sacred Tribe!"
Across the snowy plains, two torrents of cavalry thundered closer and closer, the very ground seeming to boil beneath them.
