With a tug of his reins, Chiến guided the horse through the throng of soldiers. He noted the glint of weapons under the sunlight of high noon—knives tucked into belts, single-edged curved sabers, pointed spears, studded mallets. Some men were armed with bows and arrows hanging down their backs while others carried shields and swords. All were clad in brigandine silver and red armor, the upper body protected with a coat of ridged iron scales, plates fitting together like the slates of a roof.
At his arrival, the men parted. Head held high, he rode past battle-scarred faces and war-worn eyes and the long hair under helmets, while his own shaved head gleamed defiantly. Chiến sneered. Unlike his soldiers, he had no use for foolish attachments and commandments of Confucian teachings. Filial piety—what a foolish pursuit! A man forged with iron and ash, a collection of hard lines and sharpened edges, his appearance reflected his calculating apathy. Chiến had cut his hair the same way he cut all ties with family. In battle, there was no room for love and loyalty.
Sharpened obsidian eyes swept over the crowd, a silent dare for anyone to challenge him. A tight-lipped, satisfied smile curled on his face when he knew no one would. Those in power created the rules. As the empress dowager's righthand man, her illustrious general, Chiến had the world at his fingertips. Peasants and nobles alike would bow to his commands lest they incite the wrath of the imperial crown.
He dismounted, heavy leather boots slamming against the dirt, and handed the reins to a servant. From there he ascended gleaming alabaster steps, ambling past grand gates and looming pillars, ignoring the salute of guards when he entered through a series of lavish gates and passages. One after another boasted ornate windows and intricately carved wooden doors with gleaming gold accents. Finally, Chiến entered the main hall.
Before him, the boy emperor Lê Kính Tông lounged atop the bệ rồng with a flat-faced pug perched loftily in his lap. The dragon throne, a great three-leaved affair, was framed by two great wings set against a high ornamental screen, a spectacle of white marble and jade. Coiling from the base were two sculpted dragons, rising upwards as though surfacing from an ocean. The blessed Son of Heaven himself donned a luxurious áo giao lĩnh of shining gold silk—a pure yellow reserved only for him—that was embroidered with intricate circular dragon patterns.
In an exhibition of reverence, Chiến knelt to the floor, his lowered head hiding the disdainful curl of his lips. A dragon fabric to complement a dragon throne. And yet a here was mere boy, frail and thin, crowned the great emperor of the entirety of Đại Việt. He gritted his teeth and pressed his knuckles against the iced floor. At last, the dowager empress flicked her hand upward in a motion for him to rise.
"You summoned me, Thái Hậu?" Chiến's gaze met her black phoenix eyes, the peacock tails sweeping up toward her temples.
With the swish of fabrics, she arose from the throne. Her phoenix crown, studded with precious gems, gleamed gold against the intricate weaving of black silken hair. Thị Anh's long crimson robes fluttered with each movement, wide silk sleeves billowing. Her long, red lacquered nails glided against his chin, the sharp tips lingering on his skin. A threat. A warning.
"Trịnh Kiểm has evaded me once again." Her hand settled on her chest while poison dripped from her honeyed words. "Truly, the fault is all mine. I was a fool to send such incompetents after a Trịnh lord."
"I presume your assassins failed?"
"If that scroll falls into his hands—" Her eyes flashed and her brow twitched. In a second, the flicker of anger vanished, replaced by a smooth porcelain mask. Hand lowering, the empress turned and once more perched on her throne. "You are to find him, kill him, and bring his head and the Blood Letter back to me."
Once more Chiến bowed low. Waiting, watching, bidding his time. "Your wish is my command."
"Ensure you succeed." Thị Anh's nails tapped against the throne's armrests, a sharp and steady click click click. Her black eyes sharpened, glinting like blades, and her mouth curled into a scarlet smile.
"If it is his head you want, then it is his head you shall have." With a curt nod, Chiến set a hand against the blade beside him. The black sword was an extension of his body, never far from his side, guarded like another arm.
Thị Anh's smile widened and she flicked her hand. "Dismissed."
Chiến stepped outside and descended the marble platform. His hands hummed with blood-thirst, an aching, a primal urge pulsing through his veins and to his fingers. In the silence, his body almost trembled with hunger beneath the heavy armor. As he mounted his steed, his head rolled languidly, his mouth curling into a serpentine smile. The general fancied himself an agent of destruction. He would be death's dealer, sending souls to greet their graves, satiating the afterlife's hunger for lives to preserve his own.
He needed no excuse to kill, but now Chiến had a command of the dragon throne. With an imperial order, no one could stop him. He looked upon the faces of soldiers on monstrous steeds, their apprehension palpable. His smile widened; they were right to fear him. Not even a world and already the men huddled in surrender. "Move out," Chiến barked and pushed his horse into a gallop.
When he turned his face up to the heavens, the sky dimmed and the ground cracked. Heavy clouds gathered in the air, black and churning in fury. It wouldn't rain—it never did in Đàng Ngoài, not anymore. As for the more tropical southern lands of Đàng Trong, he couldn't care less. Chiến, like the skies, didn't care to weep over the empire.
The last he heard, the Trịnh lord had been spotted in a small village south of the capital. A lowly, common hovel of mud and debris, one of the numerous that had withered away with dying rice fields when the droughts began. Chiến heard it all—the stirrings of revolution, the whispers that Thị Anh and her son had lost the Mandate of Heaven.
The general cared nothing of the will of the heavens. What was royal blood but the essence of a brat born to lucky parents?
The thần had never answered his prayers. No, he would serve whichever throne lined his pockets in gold. In a world where hopes and dreams fell on deaf ears, only the ruthless would thrive. Honor and success were irreconcilable. Those born without power learned to claw their way to the heavens, shredding down the night skies with clawing, desperate nails.
Chiến yanked the reins and his horse halted to a stop before a thick forest. The woods loomed before him, trees clustered like ants, branches hanging overhead like claws reaching down from the sky. It was a paltry excuse of a forest, on the bring of death, clinging to a thin thread of life. A breeze carried the scent of fresh earth and grass, and a browned leaf fluttered into his arm. With a sneer, he picked it off and cast nature's offending offering aside.
"Burn it all," he ordered.
One man gulped, his hands trembling. "But General..."
Spineless, blithering, cretinous fool. Chiến hissed and turned his burning eyes on the man, his black gaze the embodiment of war. "Burn the forest down," he repeated and jerked his head to survey the rest of his men. "If any of you want to disobey, I will personally see to it that your ripped-out hearts are sent back home to your pitiful families."
Cruelty and strength went hand in hand. When the soldiers lit the branches and the flames wept ashes, Chiến's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Curling red and orange fire climbed up the trunks, sending smoke billowing in the air and trees collapsing. An inferno to outshine the stars. Raw, pulsing energy that roared every bit as much as lions. There would be no phoenixes rising from the embers of violence.
When the fire ate away at enough trees to create a path, Chiến rode through the ashes in a blaze of crimson and gold, his skin alight with orange. The hooves of his horse mercilessly trampled twigs and leaves. He inhaled the pungent scent of burning wood and relished the incessant heat on his skin despite the beads of sweat that gathered on his forehead. The withering forest was a relic of the past and he was the future.
When all the Trịnh lords were apprehended, the empress dowager would have absolute control over Đại Việt. In the past, the power of the nation balanced on three main pillars: the Lê dynasty and Trịnh lords in the north, and the Nguyễn lords in the south. After the concubine Lady Nguyễn was deemed guilty of poisoning the previous emperor and crown prince, the entire family was sentenced to death. Those who survived the fire and execution eight years ago had gone into hiding, leaving Thị Anh with only one other opponent.
Needless to say, Chiến would reap the benefits of the imperial crown. A monarch's power depended on the armies and generals. Without a formidable military, the throne was worth less than the dirt that stained his shoes. Dirt to be scraped off and never looked at again. Thị Anh might control the dragon throne, pulling the strings on her puppet son, but it was Chiến who held the true sovereign power. With all her pretty lies and poison-laced threats, Thị Anh couldn't risk alienating his support.
The further he moved from the capital, the greater the Trịnh family's influence. Although Đại Việt was the size of a Chinese province with more narrow cultural gaps, sovereignty diminished with distance from Đông Kinh. In the bamboo-hedged peasant towns, the emperor's authority stopped at the village gate. Unless, of course, an army was sent to the villagers' doorstep. People tended to listen when swords and spears were pointed at their throats.
The trip down to the village was dominated by Red River plains and rolling green hills. Chiến rode at the front, the head of the snake, and lead his men to a winding dirt path that opened to the main road. Gentle winds kissed his skin and carried the scent of bark and rich soil. Treetops stirred in the light breeze, their leaves and branches fluttering, beckoned to the soldiers like the fingers of a noblewoman. Chiến guided his steed up the final crest of a hill before descending to flattened land where the road curved along the withering plants into a village.
Ignoring passerby carrying poles of vegetables and pulling traveling carts, he galloped through the gates and into the main square. Cries rang out as people jerked aside to dodge being run over. A flimsy wooden cart half-filled with wilting knocked into the side of the horse. With a growl, Chiến yanked the reins, and the steed reared up before its hooves crashed down. Splinters burst into the air while trampled vegetables tumbled into the streets.
Through the gasps and horrified expressions came a wail of agony. "You pay for those, sir! There's no way I can feed my family now!"
Chiến's head snapped to attention and he dismounted. "Come now, no one wanted to buy your pitiful wares," he sneered. One cabbage rolled into his foot and he crushed it under his boot, pressing until all its moisture seeped into the dirt. Obsidian eyes darkening, he sauntered over to the man who dared speak out against him.
The offender was a pitiful creature with thin gray hair and a frail body that rested on a cane. His skin was paper-thin and a hideous gray despite the tan. Chiến's upper lip curled in disgust. In one swift motion, his hand swung and slammed into the farmer's face, knocking him back into the dirt with a heavy thud. A huge red welt blossomed on his face, and a bruise, deep purple and angry black, bled from its edges.
Chiến lifted his head to survey the crowd, hawk eyes glittering like jewels. "Days ago, a man came to this village clad in black armor. A criminal, a traitor to the dragon throne. Tell me where he is."
"He was attacked by assassins," murmured one villager.
"Didn't he head north?" questioned another.
"I thought he went south."
The general held up a hand and the whispers fell silent. "I ask again," he said slowly. A ferocious storm stirred within his gaze. "Where is he?"
"N-no one knows. He purchased food from me and disappeared."
"Two others accompanied him—a young man and woman."
"Clearly, this is useless." With an eye roll, Chiến whirled around and climbed back into his horse. He gestured a hand to half the soldiers. "Move to the south. I will lead the rest north."
He cracked his reins and launched his horse into a gallop, the men trailing like ants behind. In a storm of dust and rumbling of hooves against the ground, the army was gone. No one in the town dared speak, staring wide-eyed at each other.
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From the shadows, the monk lowered the hood over his eyes. He stayed silent, invisible. Out of sight, out of mind. Only when the imperial soldiers left did he slip away. He hiked back to the monastery, his gold tightening on the basket.
A man and woman. It couldn't be a coincidence, not when Minh and Ngọc had failed to return from their village outing.
The monk set the basket down on the stone steps and headed into the forest. It was no longer a forest, now that the soldiers had set it ablaze. It was nothing more than a mound of embers and smoking branches. Kneeling, he pressed a hand to the fallen bark and could feel the pulsing energy of the dying trees, their unheard cries. Bowing his head, the monk rose and entered the cracked gates of the Nguyễn household.
The estate had been a gift to the family, closer to the capital, where relatives could stay on visits to Lady Nguyễn. A heaven on earth, it had been a shimmering precinct of red walls and glazed yellow roof tiles and stone courtyards. Offsetting the severity of stern lines and sharp angles were lush, vibrant gardens and ponds full of brilliant golden koi. The main building stood about thirty feet high with a vaulted ceiling supported by nine pillars. Guarding the doors stood two grand dragon statues with raised heads and forked horns—commissioned by the emperor himself. Fierce and imposing, their large, forceful eyes stared down at all who entered.
Now all that remained were ruins: carved stones, charred building foundations, column bases. The monk crossed a courtyard of rocks and walked over to the crumbled dragon statues. A great emptiness settled in the monk's chest, overwhelmed by a suffocating still silence. Even now the acrid smell of smoke and ash lingered in the air.
He lowered his eyes to the base of a statue and brushed away the marble dust. It dissipated in the wind and the sweeping strokes of a single character glared at him from the stone. Injustice. It only confirmed what he already knew all those years ago. When Ngọc Vinh stood at the monastery steps asking for sanctuary, the monk had accepted the two children despite the ash and blood that stained their clothes. Despite the fact that he too would be risking his life.
When he returned home to the monastery, he walked to the altar, which was situated close to the central buildings. Chrysanthemums and lanterns hung over a wide incense bowl and a series of flower vases, candles, water bowls, and food offerings. The monk lit the incense, and the burning red tips gleamed against the darkening evening. Folding his hands over the thin sticks, he bowed his head and uttered a silent prayer to the tứ bất tử, requesting safe passage and success for Ngọc and Minh.
The tứ bất tử were the chief quartet of thần worshiped in Đại Việt: Sơn Tinh, the mountain god, Thánh Gióng, the giant who defeated northern invaders, Chử Đông Tử, a saint, and Princess Liễu Hạnh, a mother goddess. According to tradition, when resistance leader Quang Phục raised an altar in the marsh and prayed to the thần; Chử Đông Tử descended from heaven atop a golden dragon. If the heavens above truly listened to prayers, then there existed a chance—however slim—that Ngọc and Minh would return safely to him.
The incense's woodsy, earthy scent lingered in the air. For a moment, the monk stood still and watched the wisps of smoke curl up like winding dragons. He bowed his head one last time and entered the building. He entered the bedroom of stone walls and floors. Bellow a small window laid a simple straw pallet, and on the desk rested a small cage containing an oriole. The bird's feathers gleamed a burning orange in the dimness.
Lighting a lamp, the monk pulled out a sheet of parchment and smoothed it out on his desk. Uncovering the ink container, he dipped in a bamboo brush into the pool of black and in sweeping strokes, penned a quick warning letter to Ngọc and Minh. He pressed his lips into a firm line, recalling the ironclad general.
Until now, the man had been nothing more than a whispered fear, the equivalent of a nightmare that would never come to life. Only today he had descended upon the village like hellfire, his army carrying blazing torches with fury in his eyes. He yielded to nothing but the imperial crown, not even the sacred filial piety of his parents. The general's head had been shaved completely bald—unheard of for anyone who wasn't a monk. Wielding a black blade sharper than sin and a burning gaze of death, the general's ruthlessness spread across Đại Việt like an ancient myth. People's worst fears had all come true, and he was every bit as cruel as the rumors claimed.
The monk fanned his hand over the printed characters, willing the ink to dry faster. When the black shininess finally dulled into a solid matte, he rolled up the scroll and opened the birdcage. The oriole chirped and landed upon his outstretched hand. "I have a mission for you, my friend," he said while he tied the parchment around its leg with a ribbon. "Find Ngọc and Minh. Warn them that the dowager empress has sent her general after them."
After gently stroking its head, he stepped back and allowed the bird to flutter out the window. The sun, like a wide disk, slipped beneath the horizon, and in the last gleam of gold before the darkness, he saw the oriole soar through the sky.