In his terror, Mo Tu looked toward the horse archers.
Huyantuo's forty thousand horse archers had already lost all formation.
The cavalrymen at the front fell in swathes like wheat beneath a scythe. Enemy arrows flew from the charging ranks—straight, dense, unstoppable.
A single arrow could pierce through the chests of three or four men.
Those were not arrows. They were more like iron spears.
No—even iron spears did not fly that fast, reach that far, or land with such precision.
Mo Tu's fingers were trembling.
Not from fear, but because he could not understand what he was seeing.
He had fought battles all his life and seen countless kinds of cavalry.
The grassland's Light Cavalry, the Qin Army's heavy cavalry, Donghu's horse archers, the Western Regions' camel cavalry.
Every kind of cavalry had weaknesses. Every kind could be countered.
But this army before him—he could not understand it at all!
He could not understand their horsemanship. Thirty thousand men, holding formation as though they were one person even while charging, able to change direction without slowing in the slightest.
Even Xiongnu's most elite Black-Armored Guard could not accomplish such horsemanship.
They would not even dare imagine it.
And their warhorses.
That explosive power, that endurance, that terrifying physical strength which allowed them to accelerate a second time in the midst of a high-speed charge—every one of them was a peerless steed chosen from a thousand.
Their armor—arrows struck it with clangs and were all deflected, while curved blades left not even a pale mark.
What kind of iron was that?
What the hell was that iron!?
And that horrifying archery was even more incomprehensible.
Huyantuo's forty thousand horse archers were the strongest mounted archery force in all of Xiongnu.
They had grown up on horseback. Archery was an innate