The small, dilapidated tavern hidden in a corner of the Flood Dragon Seaport abruptly fell into a bizarre stillness. The drunken, boisterous sailors seemed to subconsciously sense an unusual aura, clamping their mouths shut and casting wary glances toward the dark corner where a one-eyed old man and a cloth-robed youth were whispering.
The one-eyed old man's initial shock had settled, replaced by an incredibly complex expression—a blend of deep nostalgia, profound sorrow, and a glimmer of hope just rekindled from cold ashes.
"Flame Mountain... The tomb of a Hung Prince?" Tran Kien repeated, a wave of shock surging in his heart. This chessboard seemed vastly larger and more ancient than he could have ever imagined. "Senior, what exactly are the heavenly secrets hidden within?"
The old man, who introduced himself as Old Kinh, gestured for Tran Kien to take a seat. He poured two cups of wine—not the cheap, murky swill favored by the sailors, but a premium aged vintage he had carefully hoarded. A rich, warming aroma instantly permeated the corner.
"It is a long tale," Old Kinh took a slow sip, his single eye gazing out the window toward the boundless, endless sea. "You know of the Hung King era, but perhaps you do not know that in the dynasty's twilight, as the realm faced foreign invasions and internal upheavals, there was a youngest prince blessed with peerless heavenly talent. Yet, he did not choose the path of fighting for the throne."
"That Prince gathered a fraction of the most precious ancient codices and national treasures of the Lac Viet people. Accompanied by his most absolutely loyal retainers, he secretly boarded a ship and set sail into the great sea. They were not fleeing. They were searching for a new path, a sanctuary to preserve the final seed of hope for our people."
"And they found that island," Old Kinh's voice grew distant. "An island situated in the heart of a misty sea, protected by both natural arrays and formations laid down by the Shamans themselves. The Prince remained there, constructed his tomb, concealed the entirety of the legacy, and left behind a dying edict: Only a descendant bearing the token of the Hung Kings could find the path inside."
"The token of the Hung Kings..." Tran Kien looked down at the green bronze Lac bird fragment in his hand. It turned out this was not merely a fragment of the Outer Layer: Unhindered Lac Feathers, but the very key to unlocking a forgotten page of history.
"Then... why does Senior know all of this? Could it be that you..."
"Me?" Old Kinh let out a bitter, desolate laugh. He pointed to his eyepatch. "I am a descendant of one of those loyal retainers who followed the Prince all those years ago. My ancestors swore a blood oath to remain here at the Flood Dragon Seaport for all generations, acting as watchers, waiting for the Chosen One to appear. This lost eye... is the price I paid in my youth, when I foolishly attempted to brave that misty sea alone without the token."
Tran Kien sat in stunned silence. A blood oath, and a vigil maintained for hundreds of years. Such absolute loyalty filled his heart with profound reverence.
"In that case, I must trouble Elder to lead the way," Tran Kien solemnly clasped his hands in a martial salute.
"There is no rush," Old Kinh shook his head. "That sea is not a place one can simply wander into on a whim. The mist there is unnatural; it bewilders the mind and renders compasses and all navigation methods entirely useless. Furthermore, the waters conceal countless ferocious sea monsters. We must make preparations."
"What must be prepared?"
"A truly excellent vessel," Old Kinh said. "It need not be massive, but it must be constructed from 'Ironwood' (Thiết Mộc)—a spiritual timber capable of resisting the corrosive mist. The hull must be engraved with basic Water-Repelling Arrays and Mind-Calming Arrays. Furthermore, we require sufficient dry rations and fresh water for a voyage of at least two months."
"And most importantly," he fixed his gaze on Tran Kien, "you must possess the absolute strength to protect yourself. I am merely a crippled old man who can act as a guide. When it comes to the perils of the deep sea, we must rely entirely on you."
Tran Kien nodded firmly. He knew this was no pleasure cruise. This was a true life-and-death expedition.
Over the next few days, the Flood Dragon Seaport witnessed a peculiar sight. A one-eyed old man and a cloth-robed youth scoured the shipyards and merchant stalls, procuring only the finest materials.
Tran Kien sold off a few low-grade magical artifacts he had seized from the Black Eagle Fort to amass a substantial sum of silver. Utilizing his knowledge of forging, he personally selected the highest-quality Ironwood logs, inspecting every single profound-iron nail and every strand of magical beast-hide rope. He even drafted an improved blueprint for the ship, leaving veteran shipwrights staring in utter amazement.
Old Kinh, drawing upon a lifetime of maritime experience, prepared the sea charts, calculated the tides, and procured the specific medicinal herbs necessary to combat the oceanic miasma.
After ten grueling days of preparation, a small but incredibly sturdy and agile sailboat was born. Its hull bore the glossy black sheen of Ironwood, and across its deck and flanks, Tran Kien had personally carved ancient array patterns. It was not a magnificent galleon, but a lone sea wolf—forged and ready to face the most terrifying storms the ocean had to offer.
On an early morning, when thick fog still blanketed the seaport.
A small sailboat, bearing no flag or insignia, silently weighed anchor and departed the Flood Dragon Seaport. Aboard were only two figures: one old, one young.
They spoke no words. There was only a shared, resolute gaze fixed upon the distant horizon, where the boundless sea and the heavenly secrets of ancient antiquity awaited.
The new journey—a true expedition into the heart of the great sea—had officially begun.