Thủ Lĩnh Lò Văn Xương stood on the highest watchpoint overlooking the valley below, the wind whipping his long, black hair across his face. The air here was thin, clean, carrying the scent of pine and damp rock, a sharp contrast to the foul breath of the plains below. His people, the Điểu tộc, had lived in these peaks of the Sơn Cước Liên Minh for generations, their lives as hard and enduring as the stone they built their homes from. They were warriors, hunters, bound by tradition and the unforgiving laws of the mountains.
From this vantage point, he could see the world of the lowlanders stretching out – a hazy, distant expanse where cities smoked and empires warred. And now, where the Grey Silence bloomed. Even from miles away, the sight of the unnatural mist, clinging to the foothills like a creeping grey mold, sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn't just a lowlander problem anymore. The mist was climbing.
The Điểu tộc had their own legends of things that dwelled in the deep places, in the forgotten caves and shadowed valleys – spirits of rock and storm, ancient beasts that tested the strength of warriors. But the Hư Vô felt different. It felt empty. Like a hunger that consumed everything it touched.
Word had reached them, carried by nervous runners from the lower villages, of the 'Grey Death' and the horrors it spawned. Now, they also brought tales of... refugees. Huddles of people from the lowlands, mostly farmers and villagers, fleeing the mist's advance, desperate and starving, appearing like lost ghosts at the foot of the mountain passes.
Lò Văn Xương's second-in-command, Cầm Văn Phúc, a man whose face was scarred from countless battles, approached him. "Thủ Lĩnh, the scouts report another group at the Chân Đá pass. More mouths to feed. More potential sickness."
Xương turned, his face unyielding. "How many?"
"Perhaps fifty. Sickly. They beg for entry. Say the mist took their village overnight."
A difficult decision, one that had plagued him for weeks. The laws of the mountains were clear: the tribe came first. Resources were scarce, especially now that hunting grounds near the foothills were becoming dangerous. Bringing lowlanders, weak and potentially carrying the Grey Blight, risked the health and survival of his own people. Yet, turning them away felt... wrong. Even for a mountain chief, there was a line.
"Have our shamans consulted the peak spirits on this Hư Vô?" Xương asked, shifting the subject slightly. The Điểu tộc didn't rely on dusty scrolls like the scholars in the capital, but on the whispers of the wind and the guidance of the spirits that inhabited the mountains, the rivers, and the ancient trees. (Mythic cultural practice).
Phúc grimaced. "Our shamans speak of unease, Thủ Lĩnh. The spirits are troubled. They say the land itself is crying. They see the Hư Vô not as an enemy, but as a... wound. A wound that is spreading because the balance is broken. They speak of ancient pacts forgotten, of respect denied." His words echoed faintly, unintentionally, Ánh Tuyết's findings miles away in the archives.
"A wound," Xương mused. Not a wall to be broken, but a sickness. That explained why the lowlanders' steel and fire seemed to do little against it.
"What of the Đại Việt Quốc soldiers?" Xương asked. The tribes held a deep-seated mistrust for the lowland kingdoms, whose officials often viewed them as little more than troublesome barbarians, demanding taxes and interfering in their ways. There were treaties, yes, but they were fragile, often ignored by both sides. (Political/Military inter-faction tension).
"We see patrols sometimes," Phúc said, spitting over the edge of the watchpoint. "Marching in their heavy armor, looking lost in our passes. They do not come near our strongholds. Good. Let them fight their war on the plains. It is not our war."
"It becomes our war when the mist climbs our peaks, Phúc," Xương said, his gaze fixed on the grey line below. And it became their burden when their passes were filled with the dying.
He returned his attention to the report of the refugees at Chân Đá pass. Fifty souls. Men, women, children. Displaced by something the lowlanders didn't understand, fighting a war they couldn't win.
He thought of his own people, safe behind their stone walls, their fires burning warm. He thought of the risk.
His decision was the one the mountains demanded. Hard. Pragmatic.
"Send a patrol," Lò Văn Xương commanded, his voice low and firm. "Meet them at the pass. Offer them a day's rest and a meager ration – enough to survive the journey back down into the plains. Point them towards the lands not yet touched by the mist. Do not bring them into our villages. And anyone showing signs of the Grey Blight... ensure they do not follow."
"Ensure they do not follow," Phúc repeated, understanding the unspoken, brutal command. A clean death was a mercy compared to the fate Hư Vô offered.
It was not a decision of compassion, but of calculated survival. Fifty lives were weighed against the hundreds in his tribe. The mountains were harsh, and their people had learned to be harsher.
As Phúc went to dispatch the patrol, Lò Văn Xương remained at the watchpoint. He looked at the grey mist below, then up at the ancient, unyielding peaks above him. The lowlanders fought with steel and politics. The scholars sought answers in dust. The priests spoke to troubled spirits. But here, in the Sơn Cước, they fought with stone, with courage, and with the brutal necessity of preserving their own. The war was coming to their doorstep, not with banners and trumpets, but with silent mist and the desperate cries of the dispossessed. And the mountains would demand a price for passage.