Chapter 50: Chagatai Rides a Donkey, While Brother Rides a Horse

For a five-year-old child, overthrowing Balatin’s rule was a task meant for when he grew older.

The Taskar tribe needed to develop, but not everyone was like him—able to tame a wild horse like White Scar at such a young age.

Countless tribes around the Navel of Heaven were still embroiled in conflicts. He had to first solve the nomads’ food shortage, then unite the people, and only afterward face the mighty empire.

If they didn’t have enough to eat, the tribes on the steppe would prey upon each other.

Chagatai had a gut feeling that if this problem went unresolved, Taskar might become a target of raids.

His foster father, Angokhan, dreamed of uniting all the steppe tribes but lacked the capability.

Like someone who collected food and furs to ensure everyone was fed and clothed, yet objectively had to prioritize his own tribe first, earning envy and resentment.

Chagatai personally patrolled the edges of the Navel of Heaven to help his foster father.

Since taming the fierce beast White Scar, Angokhan finally allowed young Chagatai free passage within the tribe.

This Khan trusted handing over power to his gods-bestowed foster son, granting him enough authority once the goal was clear.

Angokhan believed that one day the gods would come to take Chagatai away, hoping his upbringing would not disgrace the boy’s destiny.

“Chagatai, are you feeling tired? I saw you yawn several times. You haven’t rested for six days,” said Toertare, Angokhan’s guard, showing concern for the future tribal leader.

This journey promised great gains—enough to last through three winters, meaning at least two years to manage and unite the tribes near Taskar into an unbreakable alliance.

As long as no one stirred up trouble.

Chagatai exhaled and touched his face. “I once walked on foot for fourteen days in pursuit of White Scar; six days without rest is nothing. But did you really see me yawn?”

That was a dangerous sign. Since childhood, Chagatai knew his body was strong; how could there be physical reactions he wasn’t even aware of?

And this was in safety. What if he suddenly lost control in battle?

Toertare urged his horse forward, his braided hair fluttering in the wind.

“Chagatai, you will become the strongest warrior on the steppe—ah, no, no!” His voice shrieked as he jerked his horse sideways too fast and fell off.

“Chagatai, your horse!”

Only then did Chagatai realize that White Scar beneath him had grown inexplicably weak, even shrinking in size.

Seconds later, his feet touched the ground, and he watched as the once magnificent White Scar transformed into a donkey marked with lightning-shaped scars.

The donkey trotted forward, sniffed at the pale, uneaten grass, its appetite suddenly peaking. It reached the boundary and stretched out its neck to chew.

The taste wasn’t bad, though Marum always remembered to moisten it first—this was too dry.

Chagatai’s eyes flared with rage. “My horse!”

“How did it turn into a donkey?”

Old Wu heard the roar behind him, turned calmly in the unfamiliar surroundings, and upon seeing Chagatai’s imposing figure, thought perhaps this was a more suitable servant than Marum.

The donkey swallowed its food, proudly approached Chagatai, and licked the strong calf muscle of his leg.

Then it arched its back, inviting, “Come, run a lap with me!”

Chagatai raised his hand to block, closed his eyes, and shook his youthful face with childish reluctance.

“Toertare, have we fallen victim to some sorcerer’s trick?”

“My White Scar must still be before me; it’s just an illusion clouding our sight!”

He cautiously reached out, still eyes shut, trying to find his steed.

Sure enough, a rein was handed to him—

Strangely, it came from below.

Amid the horrified gazes of those around, the donkey, from some unknown place, enthusiastically bit its rein and offered it to Chagatai.

Just as a rider longs for a noble horse, a fine steed yearns for a worthy rider.

This donkey was expressing to Chagatai: “You are worthy to be my companion.”

Chagatai carefully opened his eyes and, seeing that hopeful, approving gaze, his face fell into despair. He sank to his knees, powerless.

It was the first time Toertare had seen the seemingly invincible Chagatai so utterly despondent.

Indeed, he was just a five-year-old child; after such a blow, how could he recover?

As he prepared to comfort the favored child, reminding him that many strong wild horses in the tribe could suit him, Chagatai fell asleep, his head resting on the donkey’s back as a pillow.

For now, they could only camp where they were and avoid rash actions.

Thirty thousand years ago, Egypt, Yunu, the chariot arena.

Before the afternoon’s four-horse chariot race began, it was time for the single-horse riders to showcase their skills.

If eight riders agreed to compete, they could place bets.

Spectators would wager according to their god’s favor—not out of disrespect to other deities, but as offerings to all gods.

Most people, however, preferred the main event, so Jordin still had to find riders outside to complete the eight.

The first seven were members of excellent chariot teams, each introducing their faith.

As the last curtain was about to rise, the announcer called out loudly:

“The final rider, master of wind, rain, and thunder, son of Bastet, lord of darkness!”

“To the war horse of Mahes!”

Cheering erupted from the stands, a show of reverence to the gods.

Boom—

Behind the curtain came a thunderous roar, as if the heavens themselves shook. Those who had come early suddenly stood in awe.

All eyes turned toward the tunnel exit.

Thud! Thud! Thud!—

The relentless pounding of hooves, like iron hammers striking the earth, echoed through the tunnel’s structure, amplifying the sound.

It was as if the thunder of the skies was crashing down, striking every soul.

The sudden noise spooked the horses of the seven riders, who only stayed put through their masters’ efforts to calm them.

Even so, their legs trembled, and the sharp scent of horse urine filled the air.

Finally, the curtain at the tunnel’s mouth was lifted by trembling slaves, revealing a colossal grey-white war horse, its fur bristling like a lion’s mane.

It bore a fragile-looking youth with closed eyes.

The horse’s white lightning scar on its neck was striking, intimidating all present.

Everyone wondered what kind of rider and skill could tame such a beast.

Yet, despairingly, the youth’s hands weakly held the reins, legs unable to fully grip the horse’s sides.

Still, this seemingly unrestrained hold was enough to command the formidable steed to walk straight forward!

Gods above, it must be the heavens! The high god Mahes has descended!

The horse, embodying the spirit of a lion, showed such majestic might.

Some sharp minds already speculated that perhaps previous defeats by Mahes’s chariot teams had compelled the god to enter the arena personally.