What is this?

Summon Xu Chu and ask him—he's been eyeing that person like a hawk, hasn't he? Yet, after a long pause, all Xu Chu could squeeze out was: "He seems to be just a woman!" leaving Wang Bo speechless.

At last, the answer revealed itself that night: Yu Du’s “younger brother” was none other than the “Saintess” Zhang Ning.

When Wang Bo heard Du Yuan utter this truth, he was instantly stunned. Wasn’t Zhang Ning in Qingzhou? Wasn’t she still a child? How could she have come to Xinghan City?

It wasn’t until Zhang Ning removed her cloak and a bright, vivid world unfurled before them that Wang Bo’s dazed eyes snapped to rapt attention. In the end, it was Yang Feng who, unable to bear the sight, strolled past Wang Bo and coughed deliberately, finally snapping him out of his stupor.

Once Wang Bo regained his senses, he pressed his nose awkwardly and coughed several times before glancing at Du Yuan. Du Yuan understood, and promptly recounted the entire story from beginning to end.

After Zhang Ning was escorted to Qingzhou, she took refuge under Guan Hai, a Yellow Turban general, hiding in the mountains—quite safe for a time. When the imperial army’s purge of the Yellow Turbans subsided, Guan Hai and his men, ever restless, began rallying the scattered remnants to plunder the countryside.

This coincided with Zhang Niujiao’s Black Mountain Army rampaging in Jizhou, while Guan Hai echoed their actions in Qingzhou. The local Han forces of Ji and Qing initially attempted to suppress them, but the more they fought, the more rebels appeared, until they were exhausted and on the defensive, leaving Qingzhou in ruins as they awaited reinforcements from the court.

But Zhang Ning, unlike her father, was well read from an early age and sympathized with the suffering common folk. Whenever she could, she advised her father and the generals to show restraint in war, deeply abhorring those who wantonly harmed the people. Thus, within the Yellow Turbans, she was venerated as the “Saintess.”

After the climax and decline of the Yellow Turban uprising, she realized such rebellion was doomed and betrayed the original intentions of the hundreds of thousands who had risen up. Unable to persuade Guan Hai and the others, she left Qingzhou and sought support from Zhang Yan of the Black Mountain Army. Yet Zhang Yan, though outwardly agreeable, secretly coveted her beauty and plotted to force her as his wife.

Fortunately, Yu Du, out of gratitude for Zhang Jiao’s kindness, loyally protected her. Upon learning Zhang Yan’s intentions, he helped Zhang Ning escape. With nowhere else to turn, they sought out Du Yuan, who persuaded them to lead their followers far away to Xinghan City. As for Zhang Ning’s disguise as a man, it was partly for safety on the northern journey, and partly to test Wang Bo—to observe the Xinghan Army in secret and see if it was as wonderful as Du Yuan claimed, and if it truly offered a new path for the Yellow Turban faithful.

With the great cloak removed and her true identity revealed, Zhang Ning brought a new liveliness to Wang Bo’s command tent.

Clad in a plain, blue-grey robe of coarse cloth, with not a trace of ornamentation—her humble attire could not hide her natural beauty. On the contrary, it accentuated her ethereal features and radiant smile, adding a refreshing, untainted air that made her seem all the more pure and untouchable.

With slender, lily-white fingers, Zhang Ning tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and, smiling sweetly, gazed at Wang Bo, who was just recovering from his shock.

“Like a lotus rising from clear water, pure and unadorned,” Wang Bo murmured involuntarily, a sudden, inexplicable panic rising within him.

“General Wang, your praise is too generous! I, Zhang Ning, a widow, pay my respects to you,” came the melodious voice, as if celestial music, momentarily dispelling Wang Bo’s agitation. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to steady his racing heart, and forced what he thought was his most charming smile. “Saintess, there is no need for formality. I lost my composure and made a fool of myself before you—please pardon me!”

“You jest, General. I am but a homeless wanderer—how dare I accept the title of ‘Saintess’? If you do not mind, just call me Ning’er,” Zhang Ning replied, her smile even lovelier.

“Heh, you’re too modest. Revered by tens of thousands of Yellow Turban followers—how could you lack a place in this world? If Saint—Ning’er does not mind our rough ways, you are most welcome to stay in Xinghan City. It would be an honor for all our people!” Wang Bo rubbed his nose, blushing slightly.

“Ning’er thanks you, General Wang! To reunite with my brothers and elders, and to live in peace here—that is comfort enough. I must thank you for granting a new life to the Yellow Turban faithful.” She bowed deeply.

Wang Bo hurriedly rose to return the gesture from afar. “Ning’er, you flatter me! Our brothers all come from poverty, men of loyalty and righteousness. All we wish is a place free from corrupt officials and tyrants, where our descendants need not worry about food and clothing. For me to join them is only natural—how could I accept your thanks?”

“It is you who deserve praise, Ning’er. So young, not yet of age, yet faced with chaos and the loss of all dear kin, you have kept your heart pure and met adversity with calm. Few men could match such fortitude! I greatly admire you,” Wang Bo exclaimed.

“Brother Wang, you overpraise me! You are not much older than I, yet already possess the bearing of a great leader—a heaven-sent savior to the Yellow Turban faithful. If my father could see you from the afterlife, his spirit would surely be comforted!” Zhang Ning replied with a gentle smile, though a trace of sorrow flickered in the depths of her gaze, which Wang Bo, watching closely, did not miss.

Seeing the forced smile and pitiful expression that slipped from Zhang Ning in an unguarded moment, Wang Bo’s heart, which had just calmed, was suddenly pierced with a fierce pang, and an urge to protect her rose within him.

Sincere words escaped his lips without thought: “Ning’er, I feel your sorrow all too well, but the dead are gone. The highest filial duty is to live well. Why not let me accompany you tomorrow to see the sights of Xinghan City? You can witness the happiness of our people and reunite with brothers you haven’t seen in ages—perhaps it will ease your heart. What do you think?”

“Thank you for your kind invitation, Brother Wang! I have long wished for this—it’s too much trouble for you!” Zhang Ning replied quickly, the joy in her voice unmistakable.

That night, Wang Bo hosted a banquet with Du Yuan, Yang Feng, and Yu Du to welcome Zhang Ning. She was already accustomed to life in the army, and after sipping a small cup of the fruit wine Wang Bo poured for her, her eyes shone even brighter and her bold spirit was on full display. After a few drinks, her cheeks were flushed, making her all the more enchanting. Wang Bo had to feign being unable to hold his liquor and flee the scene to avoid embarrassing himself further.

The next morning, after his run, Wang Bo changed into civilian clothes, washed and ate early, then paced restlessly in his tent until Zhang Ning arrived.

Mounting the fine steed Xu Chu had prepared, Zhang Ning was at first intrigued by the stirrups. After Wang Bo explained their use, she loudly praised him for his ingenuity, then teased: “Brother Wang, what on earth is in that brain of yours? You invented this wine, you redesigned the tables and chairs, now the stirrups too—what haven’t you thought of?”

Her charming laughter and teasing made Wang Bo dazed again. Thankfully, the stirrups he’d made kept him secure; otherwise, the jolting horse would have surely sent him flying, much to Xu Chu’s amusement in the rear.

Seeing Wang Bo’s silly, blank look, Zhang Ning blushed, squeezed her legs to the horse’s belly, and shot ahead. She dashed down the broad, smooth stone road toward Yunu Pass, leaving only the sound of her silvery laughter echoing across the open fields and resonating in Wang Bo’s heart.

After months of labor by young men and captured soldiers, Yunu Pass had been raised another twenty feet. To prevent enemies from using siege weapons, a massive stone base had been added outside the wall. The battlements, riddled with shooting ports that grew denser higher up, bore no trace of the blood-drenched scenes from the last great battle, save for the blackish clots on the stone and the chilling mounds of skulls that silently testified to the horror and inhumanity of the field.

In front of the pass, the moat had been widened and deepened, the murky water more than ten feet below the rim, unfathomably deep and menacing as a beast ready to devour all—Wang Bo, for one, would never go near it.

Leading Zhang Ning up to the top of the pass, Wang Bo recounted the fierce battle with the Xianbei. At this time, after centuries of Han unification and the Han dynasty’s nationalistic teachings, the Han people’s sense of pride and xenophobia far exceeded that of modern times. So when Zhang Ning heard Wang Bo’s account, she felt not a trace of pity for the Xianbei casualties; instead, her admiration for Wang Bo only grew.

But when the gruesome mound of skulls appeared before her eyes, her face went pale, and though she said nothing, her beautiful eyes fixed on Wang Bo with a look that seemed to say, “Wasn’t this a bit too cruel?”

Seeing her thoughts, Wang Bo said quietly, “Those who are not of our kin are surely of a different heart. Of course I know this is harsh, but on the battlefield, mercy to the enemy is cruelty to oneself. These skull mounds are made from enemy corpses. As for the thousands of prisoners, I’ve put them to hard labor as punishment—that’s as merciful as can be. If our troops fell into the barbarians’ hands, they would have been slaughtered to the last. Besides, I believe nothing less would deter the Hu.”

Zhang Ning nodded. “Ning’er feels the same. Your resolve is unmatched.”

Just then, several riders galloped toward the pass, their hoarse laughter carrying on the wind. As they drew near, it proved to be Zhou Cang and the Wolf Owl Guard returning from hunting in the clouds.

“Come! Ning’er, let us go down to welcome our brave warriors home!” Wang Bo laughed, hurrying down.

Clad in battle gear, Zhou Cang and his men entered the pass and were surprised to see Wang Bo waiting. Zhou Cang flung off his tattered cloak, leapt from his horse, and strode over. Up close, they were a sorry sight: faces black as if they’d crawled from the earth, only their eyes glinting coldly. Their clothes, except where covered by armor, were mostly torn—scratched by thorns or ripped by swords and arrows. The fine scale armor they’d received before heading out was now battered, many scales missing.

Judging by their bandaged bodies, they’d clearly taken many wounds. Pei Yuanshao was even nursing a limp arm—it was plain they had endured much hardship and fought for their lives. But the rewards were great too: in Wang Bo’s eyes, they now inspired fear not through savage looks or rough garb, but with an aura of bloodthirsty might.

“Ha! Brothers, well done! Are your injuries serious? What did you gain?” Wang Bo hastened up, laughing.

“My lord! We are unharmed, these wounds are nothing! As for spoils—” Pei Yuanshao, with his good hand, patted the bulging saddlebag, boasting proudly.

Meanwhile, Zhou Cang and Ping Han, still reeking of blood, fell to their knees before Zhang Ning, weeping. When Pei Yuanshao and the others learned the person before them was the Saintess, they too hurried over to pay their respects.

After the greetings, Pei Yuanshao grew solemn. “My lord! This trip to the clouds, we saw the Xianbei dogs mostly returning to their tribes. Our captives said their so-called Chanyu has ordered all able men gathered, picking warriors to march on Yunu Pass soon. My lord must prepare!” Zhou Cang and the others nodded gravely.

“Indeed! Let them come—if soldiers come, we’ll fight; if water comes, we’ll dam it. Are we Xinghan soldiers made of straw? The Xianbei dogs dare attack again? They’ll never leave alive! Brothers, go to the medics and be treated thoroughly—don’t neglect hidden injuries.”

“Thank you, my lord!” They bid farewell to Zhang Ning and returned to Xinghan City.

Watching them go, Zhang Ning asked worriedly, “It’s autumn, the very time when the northern nomads’ horses are at their strongest. How many Xianbei are there in the clouds? What are your odds, Brother Wang?”

“Haha, Ning’er, have no fear! You can watch right here and see how our Xinghan sons break the enemy!” With a beauty before him, Wang Bo could not show the slightest timidity. He boasted loudly, then explained Xinghan’s military strength to her.

After months of effort, Xinghan City was utterly transformed. The population had multiplied several times over. Excluding the cavalry, there were over four thousand regular soldiers—not the old rabble of the Yellow Turbans, but well-trained, high-spirited men, capable of standing their ground against several times their number of Han troops.

Cavalry was now the largest unit, thanks to the horses captured last time and the new equipment Wang Bo had designed, which slashed the training time. Now there were over four thousand cavalrymen, with another two thousand in reserve. Under Wang Bo’s orders, the cavalry had split into specializations: mounted archers, lancers, and heavy cavalry.

There were also thousands in the Anti-Barbarian Corps, a thousand Han cavalry under Zhang Liao, and a great many auxiliary troops.

Finishing his account, Wang Bo animatedly told Zhang Ning he would take her to see the new, powerful weapons being made in the arsenal the next day.

The following day, Wang Bo brought Zhang Ning to the Xinghan arsenal—his pride and joy.

“What is this?” Zhang Ning, childlike in her curiosity, pointed at a strange contraption and pulled Wang Bo over.

“Heh, that’s a repeating crossbow!” Wang Bo grinned sheepishly, then began proudly explaining the craftsmen’s work.

After suffering heavy losses in the last battle when the archers tired, Wang Bo had spent days and nights in the arsenal, determined to invent a solution. After countless experiments with the old craftsmen, they finally produced what might be the world’s clumsiest repeating crossbow.

But once it was made, even Wang Bo was embarrassed: it could hardly be called a repeating crossbow, more like a Han-era hand-drawn bow with extra-long arms or stacked multiple limbs. Each bow was fitted with five or six strings and grooves to hold extra arrows, all to increase the rate of fire.