The desolate forest returned to its inherent silence, but this time, the air was no longer fresh; it was thick with the pungent stench of blood. The slaughter commenced and concluded as swiftly as a gust of wind. The more than thirty elite deathsworn of Marquis Vinh An—men accustomed to operating in the shadows—could never have anticipated falling into a trap far more intricate than their own.
The Blood Fiend Guards, commanded by Thiet Phu, resembled famished wolves that had sharpened their fangs and claws. They did not fight haphazardly. They coordinated in small squads of three or five, employing simple yet incredibly effective joint-attack tactics taught by Tran Kien. They transformed the enemy's encirclement into their very grave. Not a single soul survived, save for one.
The leader of the assassins, a cultivator at the mid-stage of the Foundation Establishment Realm, was currently hoisted into the air by his throat, dangling from Thiet Phu's single hand. He no longer possessed his ferocious demeanor; his eyes held only terror and despair.
Tran Kien, under the guise of Ve Nhan, slowly stepped forward. He remained completely unaffected by the stench of blood. He merely stared silently into the assassin's eyes.
"Speak," he uttered but a single word, yet it carried the weight of a thousand mountains. "Aside from assassinating me, what other schemes does Marquis Vinh An have at the border?"
"I... I don't know..."
"Is that so?" Tran Kien let out a faint, cold laugh. He did not resort to torture. He merely raised his hand, channeling a thread of Primordial Chaos Qi laced with lightning, and lightly tapped the man's Dantian.
"AAAAAAHH!!!"
The assassin let out a bloodcurdling scream, like a pig being slaughtered. He felt as though ten thousand fire ants were gnawing at his spiritual energy—an agony far more excruciating than death itself.
"I'll speak! I'll tell you everything!" he frantically howled. "The Marquis... the Marquis sent envoys to contact the 'Black Wind Tribe,' one of the most powerful barbarian tribes in the north. He promised to supply them with weapons and provisions; in exchange, they are to coordinate with him, sowing chaos at the borders to weaken the forces of the Tran Bac Army!"
Tran Kien's heart sank slightly. Colluding with foreign tribes to sow chaos within the nation! That traitor Marquis Vinh An, his crimes warrant ten thousand deaths!
He had obtained the information he needed. He said nothing more, merely giving a slight nod to Thiet Phu.
Crack. The crisp sound of snapping bone echoed. The assassin was finally "liberated."
"Clean the battlefield," Tran Kien commanded. "Erase every trace. Afterward, you do not need to follow me. Scatter. Assume new identities and enter the northern cities. I need you to weave an intelligence web here before my return."
"Yes, Exalted Lord!"
Once everything was arranged, Tran Kien, once again riding a lone horse, resumed his journey. But this time, his mood was exceedingly heavy. He knew that the chessboard at this border would be far more complex and brutal than anything he had experienced in the City of Chaos or the imperial capital. This was no longer a struggle of the martial world or the imperial court. This was a war of nations.
Ten days later.
After traversing plains that had begun to run dry and sparse forests, a majestic citadel, standing tall amidst the boundless steppes, finally appeared in the distance.
It was unlike the bustling prosperity of Thanh Province or the ancient solemnity of Thang Long. This citadel was constructed entirely of massive black boulders. Its walls were towering and thick, scarred densely by the marks of blades, swords, and the fires of war. The north wind howled past, carrying a biting chill and the scent of sand and dust, causing the Dai Viet banner planted atop the city gates to flutter violently, exuding an aura of tragic heroism and resilience.
This was Tran Bac City (Northern Guard City), the most paramount military fortress at the northern border. It had borne witness to countless blood-soaked wars between Dai Viet and the barbarian tribes.
When Tran Kien, maintaining the guise of a frail scholar, presented the imperial edict and the command medallion of the Strategist Army Inspector, the gate guards looked at him with an incredibly bizarre gaze. There was curiosity, there was suspicion, but above all, there was an undisguised contempt.
He was led into the city. The atmosphere here was entirely different. Everywhere he looked, there were soldiers clad in armor, their faces like iron and stone, hurrying about. The shouts of military drills and the ringing of hammers forging weapons echoed endlessly. The air was permeated with the scent of iron, sweat, and war.
He was brought to the central military tent. Inside, a martial general stood before a military sandbox. He had a physique as massive as an iron tower, a tiger's beard, and swallow-like eyes. He wore a set of black battle armor, a roaring tiger engraved upon the shoulder. The aura of the peak Foundation Establishment Realm radiated from him, overbearing and mighty. He was none other than the General of Tran Bac, Mong Phong.
Beside him stood two vice generals, their auras also at the mid-stage of the Foundation Establishment Realm.
When Tran Kien entered, the three men merely spared him a single glance before resuming their military discussion, treating him as though he were invisible air.
"R-reporting to the Great General," the guiding soldier stammered nervously. "The Strategist Army Inspector, Ve Nhan, has arrived."
Only then did Mong Phong turn around. He looked Tran Kien up and down; within his tiger-like eyes, there was not a shred of goodwill. "You are Ve Nhan? The one dispatched by the capital?"
"Reporting to the Great General, it is this humble one."
"Hmph," Mong Phong let out a cold snort. "The capital truly has too much idle time. The battlefield is a place where blades and swords do the talking, yet they send a greenhorn scholar still reeking of his mother's milk. What do you know of military strategy? Have you ever even killed a man?"
This was a humiliation, a blatant display of dominance (Hạ mã uy) without the slightest courtesy.
Tran Kien was not the least bit angered. He knew this was normal. In a place that worshipped martial prowess such as this, a scholar lacking background and military merit would never earn respect. He needed to use his own strength to prove himself.
"Reporting to the Great General," he clasped his hands, his voice remaining placid. "This humble one has indeed never led troops into battle. But this humble one knows that a war, at times, cannot rely solely on brute strength. Stratagems, at times, can be far sharper than any blade or sword."
"Stratagems?" Mong Phong burst into laughter, the two vice generals beside him joining in. "In this godforsaken place where dogs eat rocks and chickens eat gravel, facing barbarians who know only brute strength, what use are your stratagems? Can you use your stratagems to stop them from coming to pillage?"
"I can," Tran Kien replied decisively.
The laughter abruptly ceased. The three generals stared at him in utter astonishment.
Tran Kien said nothing more. He simply walked quietly to the side of the military sandbox.
"Reporting to the Great General," he spoke, his voice shedding its previous humility, replaced by the absolute confidence of a true Grandmaster of strategy. "If you grant this humble one three days. This humble one can, without expending a single soldier, force the Black Wind Tribe—the tribe currently causing the greatest disturbance—to personally bring offerings and bow their heads to beg for peace."
The entire grand tent was plunged into a deathly silence.