Deep in the Great Prairie, fierce winds whipped up waves of yellow sand.
Great Chieftain Alba stood atop a high slope, his bare upper body a bronze color, a wolf-fur war robe draped over his shoulders.
Before him stood three thousand elite cavalrymen. Every one of them held a bow, arrows nocked and ready, while the War Horses beneath them shifted restlessly. This was the latest batch of cavalry he had personally forged—the next sharp blade of the prairie's future.
"Look over there!" Alba suddenly raised his arm and pointed at a lone rock in the distance. "Fire!"
Buzz—
In an instant, arrows flew like a swarm of locusts, and the lone rock rang out with a clattering chorus.
"Front left—the dead tree!"
Another round of Salvo Fire followed, and the dead tree's trunk was instantly covered in arrows.
"Southeast...!"
The cavalry spurred their horses into a charge, their arrows striking the targets Great Chieftain Alba pointed out with pinpoint accuracy even as they rode.
The corners of Alba's mouth lifted slightly. This was the army he wanted—reactions like lightning, execution like instinct.
He slowly turned around, his gaze falling on his black horse with its dark mane. Its entire body was as black as ink, save for a single white star on its forehead. It had accompanied him in battle for ten years and taken part in thirty-seven campaigns. It was a prized steed envied by everyone on the prairie.
He raised his hand and let his voice carry clearly across the entire field.
"Shoot it."
The cavalrymen froze.
"Shoot my horse."
A brief, deathly silence followed.
Some lowered their gazes to their bows. Others looked toward their companions. More stood rigidly in place, their fingers trembling.
"I said—shoot!" Great Chieftain Alba roared.
In the next instant, another rain