One must ask, how long has it been since the Dragon Veins of the lands of Lac Viet ceased to coil and rise?
How long has it been since the majestic beat of the bronze drums, which once shook the Nine Heavens, was reduced to nothing but silent patterns etched on cold metal?
Legend has it that there was once an era when this land was a place where Heaven and Earth harmonized, and spiritual qi was abundant. In that era, mortals were born carrying the aura of the Dragon and Fairy. Every step they took could make mountains bow, and every shout could force great rivers to change course. It was a glorious age, when the sacred spirits of the mountains and rivers did not hide in the mist, but manifested in every branch and blade of grass, in the eyes of every citizen of Great Viet.
But it seems that after endless wars and the vicissitudes of history, that flow of spiritual energy gradually dried up. The once-majestic Dragon Veins seem to have grown weary, coiling into a deep slumber within the embrace of mother earth. The sacred spirits of the mountains and rivers also retreated, hiding in deep valleys and secluded gorges, leaving the mortal realm to its mundane worries.
Glory became a legend. And legends, through the passage of time, gradually faded into fairy tales.
When dusk fell over Fallen Leaf Town, the entire sky seemed to be draped in a veil of melancholic purple velvet, darkly staining the dilapidated thatched roofs and evoking an unnamed, nostalgic sorrow. The small village, as silent as a secret forgotten by time, nestled at the foot of the majestic Endless Mountain Range. There, clouds and mist lingered year-round, obscuring the towering peaks like a velvet curtain hiding an ancient tale. Wisps of blue evening smoke drifted lazily from a few solitary kitchens, carrying the rich scent of cooking rice mixed with the smell of damp earth. Yet, it seemed unable to dispel the impoverished, suffocatingly quiet atmosphere that clung to this place.
Under the ancient banyan tree, its rough trunk like a witness to history, the children of the town gathered once more. They had no splendid toys; their greatest joy was listening to passing merchants tell legendary tales of a bygone golden age.
And among all those stories, none made the children's eyes light up more than the legend of the Four Great Artifacts of An Nam.
The old merchant, fanning himself with an areca-leaf fan, his voice hoarse from the wind and frost, recounted: "Once upon a time, our country possessed four nation-warding treasures, the very essence of Heaven and Earth."
He spoke of the Buddha Statue of Quynh Lam Temple, six zhang tall, forged from black bronze. The Buddhist aura radiating from the statue could deliver all sentient beings; the hungry would be fed, the sick would be healed. Then came the Bao Thien Pagoda, a tower standing tall in the center of the Thang Long imperial capital, reaching the blue clouds. At its peak stood a bronze immortal, hands raised to catch the sweet dew of the heavens. As long as the pagoda remained and the heavenly dew gathered, the country would forever enjoy favorable winds and rain. Next was the Quy Dien Bell, a colossal artifact. Strangely, the bell would not ring no matter how hard it was struck. But whenever foreign invaders attacked, the earth around the bell would tremble, and countless golden turtles would emerge from the fields and gather, like a summons from the mountains and rivers. Finally, the Pho Minh Cauldron, so massive its mouth could contain a small pond. It could boil on its own without fire, cooking enough buffalo meat to feed an entire army.
The children listened with mouths agape, their round, clear eyes reflecting a fantastical world of immortals. They eagerly pressed: "Then where are those treasures now, sir?"
The old merchant sighed, his gaze distant as he looked toward the Endless Mountain Range. "Gone. The Northern invaders swept through; they destroyed and plundered everything. Along with the Four Great Artifacts, it seems the very soul of the country was stolen away..." he spoke softly, his voice full of bitterness.
The atmosphere suddenly sank. The joy in the children's eyes shattered, replaced by a lingering sadness. For them, just as for the people of Fallen Leaf Town, these stories were merely the faint echoes of a golden past that would never return. Their reality consisted of long days "selling their faces to the earth, their backs to the mines," exchanging sweat for a few meager scraps of silver. The Cultivation world out there, with its mighty Sects and earth-shattering magical treasures, seemed to have long forgotten its Lac Viet roots.
But among the silent children sat a fifteen-year-old youth named Tran Kien. He had a scrawny build and sun-baked, dark skin. His parents had died early in a tragic mine collapse, leaving him only a dilapidated thatched hut and a will forged of iron.
And while the other eyes were tinged with disappointment, his eyes shone with an unnatural brightness. That gaze was not just listening to a fairy tale. It was looking at a path. Within those calm, mature eyes that belied his age, a small flame seemed to flicker—a spark ignited from the ashes of legends, quietly waiting for a strong wind to blaze.
Tran Kien's daily job was smashing ore. But he did not work mechanically. He observed. His eyes darted across each piece of rough ore, not to estimate its size, but to find the stone veins and the smallest fissures. He knew that by striking exactly the right spot, one swing of the hammer would be as effective as three or four random blows. A crisp, decisive "Clang!" would ring out. He conserved his strength, and more importantly, he honed his sharp observation and analytical skills.
At dusk, after handing over his final basket of ore to the fat-faced overseer and receiving a few pitiful copper coins, Tran Kien did not go straight home. He hurried toward the ruined temple at the edge of town, where the destitute and homeless often gathered. He used his meager wages to buy two steaming hot steamed buns—one for himself, and one for an emaciated old beggar whom he often saw sitting motionless beneath the crumbling eaves. This old beggar was very strange; he never asked for alms. He merely sat there in silence, his cloudy eyes occasionally flashing with a sharp light, gazing toward the distant mountains as if lost in nostalgia.
Tran Kien quietly placed the steamed bun beside the old man. He didn't do this out of pity, but because he saw in the old man a silent resilience akin to his own.
Today, the old beggar was in no hurry to take the bun. He coughed violently, his chest heaving like a broken bellows. A streak of dark red blood oozed from his cracked lips. He knew his time was running out. He raised his nearly sightless eyes to look at Tran Kien, the only youth in this town who treated him like a human being.
"It's you again..." the old man wheezed, his voice coarse. "I... have nothing left to give you."
"I don't need anything, sir," Tran Kien replied, his voice as calm as an autumn lake. "I just feel it's the right thing to do."
The old beggar seemed to smile, a weak yet sincere smile. Trembling, he reached a hand as thin as a dry twig into his tattered clothes and carefully pulled out a small object. It was a stone elephant statue, only the size of a palm, bearing the grayish-blue color of mountain rock. However, it had a long crack running down its body and looked incredibly ancient. With just one glance, Tran Kien realized it perfectly matched the merchants' descriptions of a Mortal Artifact known as the Do Ban Stone Elephant.
"Take it, boy," the old man handed the statue to Tran Kien. "The world only knows it as a mediocre Mortal Artifact, but little do they know... it is a key. My ancestors were once members of the illustrious 'Thiet Dot' Army during the Le Dynasty. That army, with bodies as hard as steel, could deploy the Thiet Dot Fortress-Breaking Formation, besieging cities and shattering ramparts, unstoppable by anything. Their secret... lies entirely within this. I have observed you for a long time. You are patient, wise, and possess a righteous heart. Passing this relic... to you is the most fitting. Remember, the path to reviving our ancestors' legacy... will be arduous, but never abandon your roots."
Having spoken, the old man's hand dropped. The last light in his eyes extinguished.
Tran Kien stood in stunned silence. He carefully straightened the old beggar's body, then quietly dug a simple grave right behind the ruined temple. He didn't know the old man's name, nor his past. He only knew that the old man had given him a priceless gift, a debt of gratitude he would engrave in his heart forever.
That night, in the chill of his thatched hut, Tran Kien placed the stone elephant statue on his only wooden table. Under the flickering light of the oil lamp, the statue emanated an imposing, steadfast aura. He looked closely at the crack on the elephant's body and suddenly realized it wasn't a natural fissure, but rather microscopic ancient runes, carved with unbelievable intricacy. He couldn't read the script, but at the statue's base were detailed illustrations depicting bizarre power-channeling postures, breathing methods, and pathways guiding the flow of spiritual qi through the body.
"Is this... the Body-Refining Mnemonic of the Thiet Dot Army?" Tran Kien's heart pounded.
He did not hesitate for a moment. He sat down on the cold dirt floor, mimicking the first posture depicted on the statue: the horse stance. He slowly pushed his hands forward, took a deep breath, compressed it into his Dantian, and slowly exhaled.
Crack!
Instantly, a tearing, agonizing pain spread from every muscle fiber and every joint. His entire body trembled violently; cold sweat poured down like rain. This was not the familiar exhaustion of smashing ore, but a fierce, deep-seated agony from within, as if all his bones were being shattered to be reforged.
Yet, in that extreme pain, Tran Kien's eyes only grew brighter. He was not afraid. He gritted his teeth, the old beggar's words echoing in his mind: "You must be firm from the earth." He felt a stream of hot qi, a life force quietly birthing from within his body—though weak and fragile, it was incredibly unyielding.
Outside the window, the gentle silver moonlight slipped through the thatched roof, shining upon the scrawny yet resolute figure of the youth. The path to reclaiming the lost glory of the Lac Viet people, the path to reviving the legendary formations and divine artifacts, had officially begun with this first agonizing yet hopeful step. He did not yet know that the Do Ban Stone Elephant in his hands contained not only a body-refining mnemonic, but was also one of countless fragments of a grand legacy, waiting for him to find and piece together.