Chapter Twenty-Five: Little Treasure Learns to Ride a Horse

"I make two thousand strings of cash a year—more than a first-rank official—and I thought I was wealthy. Only here did I realize how poor I truly am!" Feng Xiaobao lamented with genuine resentment.

Before him stood an animal with large chestnut eyes, stamping its hooves in defiant pride. Its strength, speed, and elegance utterly captivated Feng Xiaobao.

It was a snow-white horse, not a single speck of another color on its coat. When it ran, it was as swift as the wind, easily covering a thousand miles a day—the supercar of its era!

Its price was three thousand strings of cash.

What did that price mean? If a Tang cavalryman enlisted, the state would grant him twenty-five thousand coins—twenty-five strings—to buy a horse at the market. For that sum, one could procure a serviceable steed, and after some training, it would be ready for battle.

But three thousand strings for a single horse—that was the price of the finest steeds.

Feng Xiaobao coveted it, but could only watch helplessly as it was claimed by a wealthy youth from Hedong, flamboyantly dressed like a peacock. Inwardly, he cursed, "What a waste! Such a pity!"

He longed to ride it into battle, but those young aristocrats would only parade it to impress or court women. The White Dragon Horse was doomed to live out its days in mediocrity.

At the "Divine Might" Martial Hall, he had learned to ride. In his previous life, he’d had some experience with horses at various clubs, but never found them especially interesting—their uses were limited, after all. You could drive a supercar anywhere, but a horse could never trot down a commercial boulevard.

In this life, however, horses were everyone's means of transportation, and the finest breeds were the supercars. So it was imperative to master horsemanship!

At the outset, the martial hall provided docile horses for practice. Students would rehearse mounting and dismounting, then begin riding at a walk, progressing to a trot, then a gallop, short distances first, then longer, from smooth paths to more challenging terrain. Each lesson built on the last.

There were essentially six basic riding postures. One had to be mindful of their own position in each, and mastering the control of the horse’s power was the central focus. Each posture required different techniques. The riding master explained,

"The first rule of riding is not to be afraid. If you’re frightened, your horse will be even more so. It doesn’t know where the fool on its back might take it!"

The class erupted in laughter at that.

"Get to know each horse's rhythm. Every horse has its quirks—some bolt off, some are fast but lack endurance, some need to start slow and accelerate. Learn their patterns, move with their motion. How do you figure out their rhythm? By riding more!"

"Isn’t that just common sense?" the students grumbled.

"Always place the stirrup at the ball of your foot, not the heel. If you fall, your foot can disengage quickly—you won’t get dragged."

"Remember, horses are bred to run, not to play. Don’t pass things back and forth or horse around in the saddle, especially not at speed. Some horses are highly sensitive; if someone they don’t know approaches with something, they might think it’s an attack. Spooked, they could suddenly bolt—and then you’re in trouble!"

"When riding, press down on the stirrups, lift your hips slightly, and let your body rise and fall with the horse’s motion. That way, you won’t chafe. The faster you go, the higher you stand, so your hips completely clear the saddle. But remember—"

"Horses can’t sustain a hard gallop for long without injury! Charging wildly looks heroic, but if your horse gets spooked, only the gods can help you—you never know what might happen next."

"The greatest danger in riding is a hole in the road—a single misstep and your horse could break a leg. Be vigilant. If your horse steps into one, three outcomes are possible: one, the horse breaks its leg; two, it miraculously leaps clear, about as likely as a horse climbing a tree; three, the rider helps avoid or clear the pit, which depends on the bond between horse and rider."

"How do you strengthen that bond? More riding, of course!" said the master, his face expressionless.

He spoke at length, guiding Feng Xiaobao through practical exercises. Even the basics—how to approach a horse, for instance—were crucial. Horses are sensitive creatures; approach too abruptly, and they’ll panic.

He learned to stroke the horse, to read its mood, to prepare carefully before mounting, to dismount safely, never to descend at a run, how to handle a spooked horse or one that stumbled into a pit—all essential knowledge.

Riding seemed glamorous, but mastering it took immense time and effort.

Truly, the old saying held: "Martial arts require wealth, literature can be pursued in poverty." Feng Xiaobao spent a full hundred strings of cash just to learn to ride.

Learning to ride at the martial hall was much like modern driving school: one instructor led several students, who took turns in the saddle, with the master always nearby to teach and, above all, ensure their safety.

For Feng Xiaobao, he was an "older student"—unlike the sons of nobility, who, from a tender age, received a foal not as a pet but as a companion. Raising the horse themselves, they grew familiar with its nature, and by adulthood, could handle any horse with ease.

To make up for lost time, Feng Xiaobao paid for one-on-one instruction with both a dedicated master and a horse—no waiting, maximum efficiency.

After some time in the saddle, he truly understood that a horse was like a car.

"Never let go of your reins!" his master admonished.

With the reins, one controlled the horse’s head. A trained horse could sense the rider’s intent—loosen the reins to speed up, tighten to slow down, pull left or right to change direction. These were trained horses; if you wanted to train your own, there was another fee.

One-on-one lessons cost three hundred strings.

That included the best instructors, the safest, most teachable horses, plus courses in cross-country riding, horse training, horse care, and even polo!

Learning on the practice field was one thing; riding in the wild was another. Out in the open, even with Feng Xiaobao’s agility, he fell many times. The most harrowing incident was when his gentle horse was startled by wolves in the forest, went mad with fear, and he had to leap off—ending up battered and bruised but better off than had he crashed into a low-hanging branch.

He survived, but the horse dashed headlong into a tree, the impact caving in its skull. It died instantly.

Feng Xiaobao’s instructor was a Khitan man with the Han name He Changfeng, a genial soul with a dark, perpetually smiling face.

His skill made him seem one with his horse—a true unity of rider and steed.

Under his patient guidance, Feng Xiaobao mastered cross-country riding and horse training.

Riding in the wild was exhilarating—sometimes galloping across grasslands, reins loose, feeling as if the earth itself lay beneath his feet; sometimes dashing through forests, listening to the wind in the trees, traversing mountains and valleys. At the lakeshore, the horse would splash through the water, and when swimming out, only the horse’s head and Feng Xiaobao’s upper half remained above the surface—he might as well have been riding a boat.

Camping by the lake, eating freshly caught fish and fried shrimp, watching the moon rise over the water—those were moments of pure delight.

Of course, that was the bright side; the other was frequent falls and constant danger.

Training one’s own horse was essential. Horses trained by others would never share a true bond with their rider.

"To turn a wild horse into your own good horse requires both gentleness and strength," said He Changfeng.

"Gentleness when it submits—stroke it, speak softly, let it feel your presence."

"But when you mount and it resists, you must never back down. The more you retreat, the more dangerous it becomes. Only by being stronger can you tame it!"

At the training field, He Changfeng chose for him a powerful black stallion named Blackie, costing Feng Xiaobao a hundred and fifty strings—a fine horse indeed. Compared to the twenty-five-string mounts of ordinary Tang cavalry, this was a superb animal—so spirited that at the very sight of Feng Xiaobao, its ears flattened and it stamped nervously. When he first mounted, it bucked violently.

Within three minutes, Feng Xiaobao was thrown, gritting his teeth, his expression frozen.

Before the crowd, he could not lose face—he could only endure.

Again and again, he was thrown, bouncing on and off like a cowboy in a Western film.

He Changfeng stayed close, watching closely and offering tips on how to handle each situation.

Gradually, Feng Xiaobao managed to stay in the saddle longer each time. Finally, when the black horse was utterly exhausted and could no longer throw him off, it surrendered.

Under He Changfeng’s guidance, he then learned how to soothe the horse, feed it, bathe it—all tedious work, but essential, and richly rewarding.

As the setting sun bathed the land, Feng Xiaobao charged across the fields, his blood surging, his spirit soaring, reveling in the exuberance of youth in the saddle!

Of all the programs included in his three-hundred-string tuition, polo was by far the most entertaining.

Polo, as the name suggests, was played on horseback, using a mallet to strike a ball through a goal—also called "chü," it originated in the Han dynasty and was all the rage in the Tang.

The emperors of the Tang won their empire on horseback and knew the value of horses. In times of war, horses served in battle; in times of peace, they could not be neglected. Horses were used for polo, and the emperors themselves were fanatics!

Of the nineteen Tang emperors, eleven loved polo. It became the favorite sport of the royal family and nobility, with polo fields everywhere and the nation swept up in the craze.

The emperors loved to play, the nobles loved to play—even women found delight in the game!

In such a climate, if you couldn’t play polo, you were hopelessly out of fashion—don’t even think about joining high society!

He Changfeng also taught Feng Xiaobao polo. His own skills weren’t extraordinary, but he was steady and, above all, safe.

"First, pay attention to safety—both for yourself and your horse."

"Choose your mount carefully. This black stallion of yours is not suited for the field," He Changfeng advised.

"Why not?" Feng Xiaobao asked.

"For polo, the horse’s temperament is most important. On the field, with all the chaos, a hot-tempered horse spooks easily, or becomes overly excited. You’d have to focus as much on controlling it as on playing—you can’t do both!"

Feng Xiaobao understood and had to change horses.

Mallet in hand, he rode up and down the field, swinging left and right, driving the ball toward the goal!

He spent many hours on horseback—so what about the promised lessons in mounted combat and archery?

The truth was, Feng Xiaobao was out of money. The "Divine Might" Martial Hall charged five hundred strings for one-on-one instruction in those lethal arts.

You might as well go rob someone!

The hall advertised: "Guaranteed to master, or keep learning for free!"

The slogan felt oddly familiar and endearing.

But he really was broke. The pharmacy’s start-up funds had been borrowed from Boss Huang, who expected repayment—though he’d accept shares as collateral. Feng Xiaobao wasn’t in a hurry; he had a vast amount of knowledge to absorb and little time, barely managing as it was, with no energy to open new fronts.

See? Horsemanship alone was a complex art. Training a competent cavalryman was no simple matter!