The tiny wooden boat drifted lazily down the vast, silt-heavy expanse of the Red River. Over a month had passed since the day Tran Kien left the Thang Long Imperial Capital. Throughout this month, he had lived an entirely different life.
He was no longer Strategist Ve Nhan of the Six Gates, nor was he the Faceless Lord of the City of Chaos. He was merely an ordinary boatman, spending his days rowing, ferrying passengers across the river, and quietly listening to the mundane tales of their everyday lives.
Yet, this was not a retreat into seclusion. This was a process of consolidation.
Amidst the boundless waters and the simplicity of a drifting life, Tran Kien's mental state grew increasingly profound and tranquil. He made no deliberate effort to cultivate, but his mid Foundation Establishment cultivation base automatically solidified, and the Primordial Chaos Qi within his meridians became ever more pristine. He was comprehending the Dao of Wuwei—inaction and natural harmony—a realm far transcending the bounds of mere bitter cultivation.
His saber intent had also undergone a metamorphosis. He no longer practiced forms with a blade; he used an oar in its stead. Every push of the oar, every sweep through the water, harbored the "Intent" of absolute control and harmony with the current. His Saber Intent - Hundredfold Tempered was no longer defined solely by destruction and forging; it had absorbed the soft, yielding grace of water. Hardness and softness had truly begun to fuse.
Finally, after more than a month of drifting, the sweet scent of the river was gradually replaced by the briny tang of the great sea. The river widened, and in the distance, a boundless, azure horizon revealed itself.
He had arrived at the estuary.
This place was the Flood Dragon Seaport—one of the largest and most bustling maritime hubs in all of Great Viet. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of vessels, ranging from the small skiffs of local fishermen to the colossal merchant galleons of great trade guilds, were moored shoulder-to-shoulder. Their masts pierced the sky like a dense, towering forest. The air was thick with the scent of sea salt, raw fish, and exotic goods hailing from distant, uncharted lands.
Tran Kien sold his small boat, donned the garb of a wandering rogue cultivator, and began the next leg of his journey on land. He was in no rush to set sail. He knew perfectly well that embarking onto the boundless sea without a map or a bearing was no different from courting death.
He spent an entire week loitering around taverns, docks, and the shadowy corners where veteran sailors congregated. He never asked directly about a volcanic island. He merely listened, trading jugs of wine for rumors and sea shanties.
He heard tales of gargantuan sea monsters capable of swallowing entire galleons in a single gulp. He heard legends of ghost islands eternally shrouded in fog, from which no traveler had ever returned. And he heard whispers of pirate treasures buried somewhere in the uncharted deep.
But no one ever spoke of an island with an extinct volcano. It was as if such a place simply did not exist.
Tran Kien was undeterred. He knew that the most profound secrets were never gossiped about in clamorous public squares. He needed to find someone who truly knew.
One afternoon, inside the most dilapidated, wretched tavern on the docks, he finally found his target.
It was an old man with hair and a beard as white as frost, his face heavily weathered and etched with the scars of wind and waves. He possessed only one eye; the other was concealed behind a pitch-black eyepatch. He drank no wine. He merely sat in silence, methodically polishing a rusted, ancient dagger. Whenever the other sailors in the tavern glanced his way, they would subconsciously keep their distance, a clear look of apprehension in their eyes.
Tran Kien approached, carrying the finest jug of wine the tavern had to offer. "Elder, might this junior offer you a drink?"
The one-eyed old man raised his head. His solitary eye, as sharp as a falcon's, swept over Tran Kien from head to toe. "Brat, what business do you have with me?"
"This junior wishes to set sail," Tran Kien replied, cutting straight to the chase. "I am looking for an experienced companion."
"Set sail?" The old man sneered, revealing a set of yellowed teeth. "The great sea is no place for a greenhorn like you. It will swallow you whole without spitting out the bones."
"Nevertheless, this junior wishes to try," Tran Kien said calmly. "I have heard that in the southern reaches of these waters lies a very unique island. Upon it rests an extinct volcano. I wonder if you have ever heard of such a place, Elder?"
The very instant Tran Kien uttered the words "extinct volcano," the old man's hand—which had been steadily wiping the dagger—imperceptibly hitched. It was a microscopic shift, but it could not escape Tran Kien's tempered observation.
"Never heard of it," the old man replied coldly, resuming his task. "You've found the wrong man."
Tran Kien said nothing more. He simply set the jug of wine upon the table in silence. Then, right beside it, he placed an object.
A green bronze fragment, shaped like a spreading Lac bird.
The moment the one-eyed old man laid eyes upon that fragment, his entire body violently shuddered. The dagger slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly against the wooden floorboards. He stared dumbfounded at the relic, then snapped his head up to look at Tran Kien, his solitary eye overflowing with disbelief and sheer agitation.
"You... who are you?!" he stammered, his voice trembling. "Why do you possess the token of the Hung Kings?!"
The Hung Kings? Tran Kien was internally shaken. Was this not a fragment of the Outer Layer: Unhindered Lac Feathers? How was it connected to the primordial Hung Kings?
The old man seemed to realize he had let too much slip. He hurriedly scanned their surroundings. Seeing that no one was paying them any mind, he forcefully dragged Tran Kien into the darkest corner of the tavern.
"Brat, tell me the truth. Where did you get this?" the old man ground out, his agitation still palpable.
"It is a relic left behind by my ancestors," Tran Kien replied, deciding to speak half-truths.
The old man stared at him for a long, quiet moment, then looked back down at the fragment. A profound sorrow and an ancient nostalgia flickered within his eye. "Centuries have passed... Finally, someone bearing the token has returned."
He took a deep breath, as if making a monumental decision that would alter the course of his life.
"Very well," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "If you wish to go to that island, I will take you. But that is no place with an extinct volcano. Later generations were ignorant and gave it the wrong name."
"Its true name," the old man said, a bizarre light flashing in his single eye, "is Flame Mountain. And it is no ordinary island."
"It is the grand tomb of the final Prince of the Hung Dynasty. The one who gathered the ultimate secrets of the Lac Viet people and fled into the boundless sea."