Dawn upon the northern borders arrived late, carrying a biting chill. The feeble morning sunlight filtering down upon Tran Bac City was insufficient to dispel the pungent stench of blood and the sorrow enveloping the ancient citadel.
The battle had ended. But for the thirty thousand soldiers of the Tran Bac Army, its echoes lingered. They quietly cleared the battlefield, gathering the corpses of their comrades and enemies alike. There were no cheers of victory, only a heavy silence. Every soldier understood that this triumph had been bought with the lives of nearly two thousand of their brothers.
Tran Kien was not in the central command tent. He stood alone atop the highest point of the city walls, looking down at the mass grave below. The north wind howled, tossing his black hair wildly, but his frame remained as steadfast as a primordial boulder. He was not looking at the corpses. He was gazing south, toward the distant imperial capital, toward those who used the lives of tens of thousands as mere chess pieces in their game of power.
"Are you not joyful?"
The deep voice of Mong Phong sounded from behind. The veteran general had changed into clean battle armor, but the stench of blood clinging to him could not be washed away.
"Seventeen thousand lives of the Blood Wolf Tribe, nearly two thousand soldiers of the Tran Bac Army," Tran Kien said, his voice devoid of emotion. "All for the ambition of a single man. Great General, tell me, is there anything to be joyful about?"
Mong Phong fell silent. He was a martial general, long accustomed to life and death. Yet Tran Kien's words struck like a sledgehammer against his iron heart. He looked at the youth before him and saw within those eyes not just strategy, but a profound sorrow—a benevolent heart for all sentient beings.
"This old man was wrong," Mong Phong sighed. "I saw only victory, forgetting the price paid. Ve Nhan—no, Brother Tran—from this day forth, you are the sworn brother of Mong Phong. This Tran Bac Army is also yours."
Tran Kien turned to look at the veteran general. He knew he had truly gained the absolute trust of this fierce tiger.
"Great General," he said, his expression turning solemn. "The game at the border has ended. But the true game has only just begun."
He recounted everything he had heard within the secret chamber of Marquis Vinh An's Estate—the eerie emerald flame, the "Master," and the words "Sacred Dynasty."
As he listened, Mong Phong's complexion turned increasingly unsightly. He was a martial general, not well-versed in ancient lore. Yet the words "Sacred Dynasty" evoked an indescribable sense of unease within him.
"Sacred Dynasty?" he frowned. "Our Dai Viet, from the founding era of the Hung Kings through countless dynasties, has never heard of such a name. Could it be... a foreign power?"
"It is not foreign," Tran Kien shook his head. He had spent the entire night sorting through all the knowledge in his mind. "If I am not mistaken, this is a faction far more ancient and terrifying than Marquis Vinh An."
He gazed into the void.
"Within the 'Biographies of the Extraordinary Individuals of the Southern Seas' that I read in the Myriad Tomes Pavilion, a very minor detail was recorded. Legend has it that at the end of the Ly Dynasty, when the imperial court was in chaos, a group of Imperial Preceptors and Grand Magi possessing immense divine abilities, dissatisfied with the times, secretly abandoned the court. Taking a portion of the national treasures and supreme cultivation manuals, they established a 'Sacred Dynasty' in the shadows. Their goal was to use an alternative, mystical method to ensure the 'eternal survival' of the dynasty's bloodline."
"You mean to say..." Mong Phong was horrified. "Marquis Vinh An... is merely their puppet?"
"Highly likely," Tran Kien nodded. "His conspiracy is not merely usurpation. He intends to borrow the Dragon Veins of the current dynasty as a sacrifice to resurrect this so-called 'Sacred Dynasty'!"
An earth-shattering conspiracy spanning a millennium!
Mong Phong felt his entire body run cold. Only now did he truly understand that the enemy they faced was not just a powerful official, but a phantom of history.
"Then... what must we do?" he asked, a trace of panic creeping into his voice.
Tran Kien showed no panic. On the contrary, within his eyes, an even fiercer battle-lust ignited. The harder the game, the more exhilarated he felt.
"The art of war states: 'The enemy is in the dark while we are in the light'—this is a disadvantageous position," he said. "Therefore, we shall also retreat into the shadows."
He looked at Mong Phong. "Great General, I must trouble you to continue our play. Submit a memorial of victory to the court, stating that the Tran Bac Army achieved a grand triumph but suffered heavy losses and requires a long time to recover. Act incredibly arrogant, incredibly negligent. We must make that old fox, Marquis Vinh An, believe the northern border is no longer a threat."
"As for me," he said, "I will not remain here. I must return."
"Return to the capital?"
"No," Tran Kien shook his head. "The capital is an inescapable net right now. I will not return there. I will go elsewhere. A place that can help me uncover more clues about the 'Sacred Dynasty,' and a place that can help me grow stronger."
He unfurled a map of Dai Viet, his finger pointing to a treacherous mountainous region in the southwest, where Dai Viet bordered neighboring nations.
"That place is the Seven Mountains (Thất Sơn). Legend has it that it is the secluded sanctuary of countless extraordinary individuals and strange hermits who care not for worldly affairs. If the 'Sacred Dynasty' truly exists, there will definitely be traces of it there."
"Furthermore," he gripped his sable-black saber tightly, "I must also find my comrades. The Vô Sect (Vô Môn) and Flood Dragon Island—it is time they merge into one, becoming a true blade hidden in the shadows, awaiting the day of the decisive battle."
Mong Phong looked at the resolve in Tran Kien's eyes. He knew he could not stop this dragon.
"Very well," he nodded. "Go with peace of mind. This Tran Bac Army shall be your most stalwart rear guard."
That night, after all arrangements were made, a black silhouette silently departed from Tran Bac City. It did not head south; it headed southwest.
The north wind continued to howl. But it no longer carried the stench of blood. It carried the seeds of an even greater storm, blowing toward a distant horizon. The game at the border had ended, but an even grander game, concerning the destiny of an entire nation, had only just truly begun.