Spring, the Year of Thuong Duong 1706.
A force of one hundred fifty thousand soldiers, under the Crimson Lotus banner of Emperor Thai Canh, surged southward like waves crashing upon a crumbling shore. Blood-red battle standards painted the sky, and atop long spears, the fluttering insignia of Dai Lien led the charge. Within the hearts of each soldier burned a silent command: "Punish the Minh traitors. Avenge Tran Uy."
Minh Garrison—once soaked with the blood of tens of thousands, where the hero Tran Uy had fallen to protect innocent lives—once again became a battlefield. A place destined to witness a fateful reckoning, echoing through the ages. Emperor Thai Canh, in person, commanded the campaign. Clad in radiant white-gold imperial armor, he sat atop the command chariot, a lone sovereign in the fire and smoke. Though the shimmer of his war attire shone brightly, it could not conceal the fatigue deeply etched into the corners of his eyes. A protracted war, lasting over half a year, had drained his forces—casualties mounting, strength waning. The enemy was cunning and well-entrenched. The fortress, guarded by an arcane barrier woven by the Minh's Grand Magi, demanded blood for every inch gained.
The Emperor knew: unless a breakthrough came within weeks, the army would collapse. Not even the might of the ten Hoang Lien Grand Cannons—ancient magical artillery capable of sustained arcane fire—could pierce the enchanted defenses encasing the fortress.
Summer arrived, and the searing heat bore down upon weary soldiers. The scent of blood and sweat clung thick to the air. Horns, drums, and clashing steel sounded without cease. Assault after assault, defense after defense—like the pounding heartbeats of the empire itself. Every step forward required a sacrifice; every foot of land was paved with the dead.
Then came autumn, sweeping over this deadly outpost with rust-colored leaves falling—a silent omen of a family's decline and destruction.
On a night of the full moon, Emperor Thai Canh, sleepless as ever, sat in the main war tent. Before him lay a secured map table, surrounded by confidential scrolls, urgent reports, and grim intelligence. Despite every stratagem, the critical key still eluded him. Loyal generals urged retreat or alliances with neighboring lords. But the Emperor shook his head:
"If vengeance for Tran Uy remains unfulfilled, retreat would only tarnish the honor of Dai Lien's imperial banner."
Suddenly, commotion erupted outside the tent. Two soldiers dragged in a man clad in black armor, with a white cloth wrapped around his arm. His face was bruised from the scuffle, and his hands were bound tightly by rope.
The Emperor took a moment before recognizing the familiar face. He frowned gravely.
The man was Minh Doan—third-generation descendant of the traitorous Minh clan, nephew to Minh Quy. His eyes were dark, resolute, and in his hands was an ancient map of the fortress, detailing a sealed underground passage lost to time.
"Why are you here, descendant of traitors?"
Minh Doan knelt, acknowledging his bloodline without denial. His voice was hoarse, filled with both remorse and resolve:
"Your Majesty, I am here to beg a single mercy."
"A mercy? After your clan bled this nation dry?"
"I am well aware of the treachery of my lineage, and that such disloyalty deserves no pardon."
"Yet our forces grow weaker by the day. The Liang opportunists only demand more tribute. The fortress will not hold much longer. If defeat is inevitable, must the innocent suffer for the sins of the few and the ambitions of the corrupt?"
The Emperor regarded him coldly—then, with a faint curiosity.
"Speak. What mercy do you seek?"
"I beg Your Majesty to spare the soldiers under my command, the innocent civilians, and my household staff." He paused, voice tightening.
"Please… spare Tieu Ha, my wife, and Minh Tuyet, my daughter. As for me, punish me as you see fit."
He bowed low, pressing his head into the dusty earth, arms raised high as he offered up the map.
"This passage may allow a strike from behind. I beg you to take it."
The Emperor fell into silence, studying the kneeling man before him—not as a traitor, but as a father and a man caught in desperate conviction.
At last, the sovereign sighed.
"The common folk, soldiers, and household members shall be spared. As for the officers, they shall be judged according to their crimes."
"Your wife and daughter will be protected."
"If this map proves accurate and leads to victory, you shall be spared execution. However, all titles and lands will be stripped, and you will be exiled to Bạch Tế Island—to atone through labor."
"Thank you, Your Majesty, for your imperial grace!"
Minh Doan bowed once more, the burden upon him visibly lifted.
In that quiet tent, two men smiled—one in relief, the other in silent contemplation. But their smiles carried vastly different meanings.
Four nights later, under the thunderous barrage of the Hoang Lien Cannons outside the walls—a ploy to distract the enemy—Emperor Thai Canh personally led 5,000 elite troops. Swordmasters, healing monks, and high-ranking magi slipped quietly into the forest on the western flank. Beneath the earth, the ancient tunnel led them straight into the heart of the fortress.
Not a word. Not a spark of light. Even breath felt frozen by the oppressive magical air.
"We've arrived," Minh Doan whispered beneath an arch of ancient glyphs—the central node of the fortress's energy matrix. Its destruction would collapse the entire magical barrier.
A mage robed in indigo stepped forward, placing a hand on the rune and chanting softly. In mere moments, the glyphs flared with green-blue fire—then went dark.
The fortress shuddered.
Horn blasts rang across the compound. The Minh had discovered the breach. A deadly battle ignited within their walls.
Emperor Thai Canh cast aside his cloak, drawing the Imperial Blade—its golden gleam radiant in the chaos. Every swing unleashed storms, splitting stone and shaking the earth. He charged with his soldiers, shoulder to shoulder with his men, never once retreating.
"Avenge Tran Uy! Glory to Dai Lien!"
His battle cry struck like thunder in every soldier's heart. Monks from the Temple of the Nine Koi swiftly raised protective barriers; mages hurled arcane flames that engulfed entire battalions. The sky darkened as a vortex of shadows poured down—the Minh's final magical defenses.
Yet from the heights of the wall, a bell rang clear—the signal.
Outside, the magical barrier had fallen.
Imperial forces surged in from all sides. Cannons roared, violet spellfire bathed the battlefield, cavalry thundered like divine wrath. The Minh army, struck from front and rear, was trapped like fish on the butcher's block.
Thai Canh pressed forward without hesitation. For him, this was no longer just a campaign. The rebellion would feel the wrath of an empire.
Flames engulfed the city. Trấn Phủ Fortress cracked under the blade of history.
On the eastern wall, General Cao Dat—the most loyal arm of Minh Quy—fell after three fearless charges. His body was impaled by three spears, but he died gripping his bloodied sword.
At the northern gate, General Minh Nhuoc Lan, Minh Quy's only daughter, fought to her last breath. When the lines broke, she ignited the gunpowder depot, immolating herself to halt the imperial advance. Her final words echoed in the inferno:
"Father, I have failed in filial duty."
And her silhouette burned bright until consumed by fire.
One by one, loyal commanders perished: Zheng Ung, obliterated by bombardment; Tri Hao, slain by arrows while rescuing the wounded; Pham Van, cut down while clearing a retreat path. Like crumbling pillars, the Minh's power fell with them.
Within the war chamber, Minh Quy knelt before a map of his ruined stronghold. Red lines marked the imperial army's advance—his decade of toil now ash and ink.
Dust-choked sunlight filtered through ruined windows. Outside, triumphant cheers rose from every street.
He sat quietly on a sandalwood chair. The rage was gone—only exhaustion remained. Upon the desk lay a box carved with the words: "Death's Final Token"—a potent poison held by every Minh patriarch for such moments.
The door creaked open. His younger brother, Minh Dat, stood outside.
Minh Quy chuckled dryly.
"Even at the end, at least I am not alone."
He swallowed the black pill, placed an old sword across his knees.
A single cup of tea later, blood foamed from his lips. His body slumped over the map. He trembled once—then went still.
The once-glorious Minh clan had crumbled to ash.
The war ended.
By dusk that day, Trấn Phủ Fortress fell completely under imperial control. The Emperor ordered a general amnesty for the civilians and soldiers, but detained the leaders for future trial.
As for Minh Doan, due to his vital contributions, his family was spared execution. All titles and lands were confiscated, and they were relocated to the remote Bạch Tế Island—a gesture of both mercy and confinement.
Curiously, when troops excavated an old mass grave scorched black from battles past, they found only ash and scattered armor.
But among the debris, they unearthed the hilt of Tran Uy's sword.
The words "Trần Clan, Protectors of the Realm" remained faintly etched upon it—still legible. The soldiers returned it to the Emperor.
He wavered upon seeing the hilt, but quickly masked his emotions. With silent reverence, he ordered it wrapped in red silk—to be returned to the Tran family in time.
That autumn, the leaves turned as red as blood.
Emperor Thai Canh stood atop the walls of Minh Castle, his gaze fixed on the monks who were erecting memorial stones, and on the vast field where the bodies of the fallen soldiers were being slowly interred. The cold autumn wind swept through, biting and sharp, as if reminding him of the heavy toll that glory demanded.
"Tran Uy has been avenged," he murmured quietly, "but this bloodshed... should not repeat itself."
Indeed,
Betrayal followed betrayal, sorrow followed sorrow. From Tran Uy to Minh Quy, from the loyal to the treacherous, none had escaped unscathed. History, like a dull blade, cut deeper with each passing day, blood slowly staining its edge.
Thai Canh remained silent. The wind stirred again.
The cold, mournful air, the sharp howling of the wind, felt like a sorrowful requiem for the brave souls who had fallen in battle.
He reflected on the fate of his nation, his dynasty. Would a single victory be enough to eradicate the threat that had been lurking, waiting to tear apart Dai Lien?
The questions haunted the Emperor's mind—why had Minh Quy betrayed him? What were the Southern Lương forces scheming? The questions gnawed at him, and countless sleepless nights brought no clarity, no satisfactory answers.
A true ruler desires only peace for his people, the security of his borders, and the preservation of his ancestors' legacy. Yet, was it so difficult to achieve these ideals?
His brow furrowed, a look of deep concern etched upon his face. He sighed heavily, burdened by the weight of leadership, knowing that the price of peace was often too high.
The peace of Dai Lien would stretch on, but it would be hard-won, perhaps for another decade or more.
The Emperor's thoughts were a labyrinth of uncertainty and resolve, torn between the past and the future, between honor and the brutal realities of war. The weight of his decisions would echo long after the wind had passed.