Within the central command tent of Tran Bac City, after a moment of deathly silence, a roar of laughter suddenly erupted.
"Ha ha ha ha!"
Mong Phong, the Great General at the peak of the Foundation Establishment Realm, laughed so hard his tiger-like beard quivered. The two vice generals beside him could not restrain themselves either, their gazes toward Tran Kien overflowing with disdain and mockery.
"Excellent! What an excellent Strategist from the capital!" Mong Phong slammed his palm onto the military sandbox, the sound resonating like a clap of thunder.
"Without a single soldier, you will force the Black Wind Tribe to bow their heads and sue for peace in three days? Do you take us for children to be told fairy tales?"
"Little brat," a dark-faced vice general sneered. "Do you even know who the Black Wind Tribe is? They are a pack of ravenous wolves who believe only in the power of the blade. Our ancestors fought them for centuries, rivers of blood were spilled, yet we have never truly forced them to bow. You, a scholar who couldn't even tie a chicken's leg, intend to use your mouth to scare them off?"
Their humiliation and contempt were laid bare. They viewed Tran Kien's words as the most ridiculous joke they had ever heard.
Yet, facing all of this, Tran Kien showed neither anger nor hesitation. He merely stood there, his profound eyes calm beyond measure.
"And if I succeed?" he asked in return.
"If you succeed?" Mong Phong sneered. "If you truly succeed, this old man will not only believe in your stratagems. I will personally offer up my 'Army-Breaker Saber,' and from this day forth, the entire Tran Bac Army—all thirty thousand men—shall obey your command!"
This was a gamble. A gamble that, in the eyes of everyone present, Tran Kien was destined to lose.
"Very well," Tran Kien nodded without a shred of hesitation. "A gentleman's word is a bond of iron."
"Then, I have a few minor requests," he said.
"Speak," Mong Phong waved his hand dismissively, as if granting a boon. "As long as it isn't soldiers, I will give you whatever you desire."
"I do not need soldiers," Tran Kien replied. "I only require a few skilled craftsmen, some do paper, bamboo, and a few animal hides. Furthermore, I must trouble the Great General to bring me a prisoner from the Black Wind Tribe—preferably one with a modicum of status."
These requests were bizarre in the extreme. The three generals were stunned, unable to fathom what kind of ghostly tricks he intended to play. However, compared to mobilizing troops, these items were worth nothing.
"Fine! I grant it!" Mong Phong commanded. "Let him do as he pleases. I wish to see what kind of play this Strategist from the capital can put on."
The First Day.
Tran Kien did not act with haste. He was assigned a private tent. He spent the entire morning solely interrogating the Black Wind prisoner, a minor chieftain captured during a raid.
He did not use torture, nor did he ask about military dispositions. He only asked about ordinary things. He inquired about their customs, the gods they worshipped, their legends, and their taboos.
Initially, the chieftain was stubborn. But beneath Tran Kien's gaze—which seemed capable of piercing through to the very soul—and his seemingly casual yet psychologically targeted questions, the man eventually opened his mouth.
Tran Kien obtained the information he required. The Black Wind Tribe, like many barbarian tribes, was incredibly superstitious. They did not worship Heaven or Earth; they worshipped the "Black Wind Mountain God." Legend had it that it was the soul of a colossal demonic eagle that had died in ancient times, protecting their tribe. What they feared most was not the army of Dai Viet, but the wrath of their Mountain God.
With this knowledge, Tran Kien immediately set to work. He had the craftsmen follow his blueprints to create dozens of large kites. These kites had no fixed shape; they looked bizarre and eerie, like the ghost-birds of legend. Upon each wing, he had a thin layer of phosphorus powder applied.
The Second Day.
Night. The north wind howled. Atop the peak of Black Wind Mountain, the lair of the tribe, campfires blazed as men drank and shouted. They had just raided a small merchant caravan and were celebrating their victory.
They were unaware that in a wind-sheltered valley not far away, a grand performance was being prepared.
Tran Kien, along with several Blood Fiend Guards who had long since infiltrated the area, was quietly launching the bizarre kites into the sky. Under the pitch-black night, the kites coated in phosphorus emitted an eerie, emerald-green glow, hovering in the heavens like the eyes of demons.
But that was not all.
Tran Kien took out the animal hides and stretched them over the mouth of a cave with a unique geological structure. He used his Primordial Chaos Qi to create small currents of wind, funneling them into the cave. As the wind whistled through the stone crevices and struck the hides, it produced a deep, uncanny "U... u... u..." sound that echoed through the mountains—sounding exactly like the low growl of a colossal beast.
This was the stratagem of "Creating something out of nothing," manifesting an illusory momentum to sow panic in the enemy.
Atop Black Wind Mountain, the revelry died instantly. Every bandit stared in horror at the sky.
"What... what is that?"
"It's... it's demon eyes!" "And that growl... Could it be... has the Mountain God become enraged?"
Superstition and terror began to spread like a plague.
The Third Day.
After a night of panic, the entire Black Wind Tribe fell into a state of extreme unease. Their chieftain, a burly man with a Foundation Establishment cultivation base, tried to reassure his men, but his own heart was equally shaken.
Just then, a figure ascended from the base of the mountain. It was not a soldier. It was an old man in grey robes, his hair disheveled, holding a wooden staff—looking exactly like a wandering shaman.
That old man was one of the Blood Fiend Guards, a master of disguise.
He said nothing. He merely planted his staff into the ground before the camp gates and placed a wooden board atop it. Upon the board, a line of text was engraved.
It was not the Han characters of the Dai Viet people. It was an ancient script, resembling Shamanic Runes.
The message was simple: "The Mountain God is enraged. Hand over the outlander from the south and three thousand sheep, or calamity shall fall."
When the Black Wind Chieftain saw the ancient script of his ancestors, his entire body trembled. He no longer harbored a shred of doubt.
The outlander from the south? Was that not the messenger of Marquis Vinh An, who had brought weapons and grain to incite them?
In his mind, a choice was made. Between the wrath of a god and the promises of a stranger, he knew which side to take.
At Tran Bac City.
Mong Phong and his vice generals had stood upon the city walls for three days. They had not seen a single one of Tran Kien's soldiers leave the city. They only saw him spending his days on "useless" things like making kites and questioning prisoners. The disdain in their eyes grew even thicker.
"The three days are almost up," the dark-faced vice general sneered. "I want to see how that scholar explains himself."
But just then, a sentry rushed over, panting.
"R-reporting to the Great General! From... from the direction of Black Wind Mountain, a... a group is descending! They... they carry no weapons! They carry white banners and livestock!"
"WHAT?!"
The three generals were stunned, hurriedly looking into the distance. Sure enough, a long line of people was slowly descending the mountain. Leading them was the Black Wind Chieftain, followed by hundreds of subordinates escorting a man in brocade robes (the messenger of Marquis Vinh An) and a massive flock of sheep.
They... were actually coming to surrender!
Mong Phong and his vice generals stood there, mouths agape, unable to believe their eyes.
Within the command tent, Tran Kien remained seated, quietly sipping tea as if none of this had anything to do with him.
He knew that in this game, he had already won.