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On the northern bank of the Yellow River, there was a crossing that was not an official ferry. This place could only be traversed during the autumn and winter seasons when the water level was low. As soon as spring arrived and the rains came, the river would swell abruptly. The steep cliffs on either shore, combined with the rushing currents, would submerge the already narrow shoals, making crossing impossible.
At present, a makeshift pontoon bridge had been constructed between the small shoals on both banks. Thick ropes lashed together over a dozen small boats, and wooden planks were laid atop them, forming a curved, temporary floating bridge.
A burly man knelt by the riverbank, carefully sharpening a ring-pommeled sword with a few small nicks in its blade. He worked cautiously—the sword had seen long use, and grinding it too aggressively would only damage the steel.
This blade had been a gift from his father. Back then, he had killed a wild wolf alone for the first time. Though it had been an old, solitary wolf, it was still fierce and cunning. His father had been overjoyed and presented him with the sword on the spot.
The craftsmanship of the Han Dynasty was exceptional, especially when it came to weapons. Military-grade ring-pommeled swords were sturdy and razor-sharp. The moment he first held it, he had fallen in love with it, even sleeping with the sheathed blade clutched in his arms.
But with time, even the finest sword would wear down and chip—just like his father.
His father, too, had been like a strong, unyielding ring-pommeled sword. Yet in the end, he had aged, rusted, and been slain.
Gritting his teeth, the man stood up. He squinted as he examined the blade's edge against the light, then swung the sword through the air—slowly at first, then faster and faster, until the final stroke flashed by in a blur.
How I wish I could cut down my father's murderer with a single stroke!
But he could not leave. He could not return.
By the heavens above! No matter what, I, Yufuluo, will personally offer my enemy's head as a sacrifice to my father's spirit. I will quench my grief with the blood from his heart!
"Chanyu," a younger man said, his features strikingly similar to Yufuluo's. "Do we truly have to obey that Han man's orders?"
Yufuluo slowly sheathed his sword. "What else can we do?" His voice was heavy with resignation.
Yufuluo was the son of the Southern Xiongnu's Chanyu, Qiangqu.
In the fourth year of the Zhongping era, the Southern Xiongnu had been summoned by the Han court to suppress the rebellion of Zhang Chun, who had audaciously declared himself the "King of Peace Under Heaven." Yufuluo had led his troops south to join the campaign. But the following year, tragedy struck—his father, the aging Chanyu Qiangqu, had been assassinated in a coup at the Southern Xiongnu court. The rebels had installed Xubu Guduohou as the new Chanyu.
Yufuluo, originally the Southern Xiongnu's Right Virtuous King, was furious upon receiving the news. His tribe had proclaimed him the "Zhishi Zhuhou Chanyu," and he had turned to the Han Dynasty for support.
Yet misfortune struck again—Emperor Ling of Han had fallen gravely ill, leaving state affairs unattended. The matter was delayed, and to this day, the Han court had given no formal response.
Though his several thousand tribesmen could subsist on milk and livestock, they still needed proper provisions. Moreover, Yufuluo needed the Han's legitimacy and military aid to reclaim the Southern Xiongnu throne. He could not afford to antagonize them, leaving him stuck in this awkward limbo.
Fortunately, remnants of the Yellow Turban rebels—the White Wave Bandits—still roamed the region. In times of desperate shortage, Yufuluo had disguised his men as White Wave soldiers to raid for supplies. All it took was shedding their sheepskin coats and wrapping yellow cloth around their heads…
But such activities could not remain hidden forever. The local officials in Hedong eventually caught on. Strangely, however, instead of condemning or mobilizing forces against him, they had merely sent an envoy at intervals with meager provisions—just enough to keep Yufuluo's people from starving, but never enough for him to march back to the Southern Xiongnu court. The envoy had also mentioned that they would call upon him when needed.
Now, that call had come. Yufuluo was to cross the river from this hidden ferry in Hedong Commandery, where someone would receive him.
"I will take a thousand men across the river," Yufuluo said to Huchuquan. "The tribe is in your hands now… Take care of our people."
Huchuquan was Yufuluo's younger brother. With Yufuluo ascending as the Zhishi Zhuhou Chanyu, the title of Right Virtuous King had naturally passed to Huchuquan.
The post of Hedong's Grand Administrator had originally been given to Dong Zhuo. Emperor Ling had intended this as a means to weaken Dong Zhuo's control over the Liangzhou troops. However, Dong Zhuo had refused to assume office, leaving the position vacant. Emperor Ling had hesitated to appoint another, but before he could devise a solution, he had succumbed to illness.
Then Dong Zhuo had seized the opportunity to enter Luoyang, declaring himself Chancellor. As a result, Hedong had remained without a proper Grand Administrator, its affairs managed solely by local officials.
Yufuluo knew the Han man sent to liaise with him was merely a minor underling—the true mastermind remained hidden. But that was all he could discern. He had tried multiple times to uncover the shadowy figure's identity, even sending men to tail the envoy, but all efforts had proven futile.
This mission was undoubtedly risky. Yet the Han envoy had promised substantial provisions—even weapons and armor—in return. For Yufuluo, who yearned to return to the Southern Xiongnu court and exact vengeance, the offer was irresistible.
Moreover, all spoils of war would belong to Yufuluo.
In exchange, he would once again play the role of a Yellow Turban rebel.
Huchuquan knelt, pressing his lips to Yufuluo's boot. "Chanyu, set your mind at ease! By the heavens above! I, Huchuquan, swear to safeguard our people and await your triumphant return!"
Yufuluo nodded. After a moment of silence, he began rhythmically tapping his scabbard, singing an ancient Xiongnu ballad. The melody was solemn and mournful, like the wind wailing across the vast grasslands.
Gradually, more and more Southern Xiongnu joined in the chorus. Tears glistened in many eyes—tears for the grasslands they dreamed of, the homeland they loved, where herds of cattle and sheep roamed freely, where their beloved maidens waited.
Now, they were but lost livestock, yearning for home yet unable to find their way back.
As he sang, Yufuluo removed his sheepskin coat and handed it to Huchuquan. He then tied a yellow scarf around his head, mounted his horse, and stepped onto the pontoon bridge. Behind him followed his tribesmen—his brothers, exiled from their homeland. He had led them out, and it was his duty to lead them back.
One by one, a thousand Southern Xiongnu warriors shed their sheepskin coats, entrusted them to loved ones, donned yellow scarves, and followed Yufuluo across the river, their voices rising in song.