After a long conversation, Liên Nguyệt's face gradually paled. She closed her eyes softly, her breath growing weaker than before. Her body had long been frail, and now, after sitting and speaking for so long, her exhaustion was all too apparent.
The Emperor—Tu Anh—noticed this. A trace of worry flickered across his eyes as he slowly rose to his feet.
" Liên Nguyệt, you seem very tired. You should return to your chambers and rest. I must also return to court to tend to state affairs."
"Many thanks, Your Majesty…" she bowed, her movements gentle yet slow, heavy with fatigue. Her small, delicate figure seemed as fragile as a flower buffeted by the morning wind.
"Rest well," he said softly, brushing aside a loose strand of hair on her forehead. "I shall order the imperial physicians to send you fine medicine regularly, to nourish and restore your health. After all, you are my brother's blood—I cannot stand idly by."
"This humble one… is deeply grateful for Your Majesty's grace…" Her voice quivered, and her eyes glistened with tears, though she tried to maintain her composure.
Turning slightly, she whispered, voice faint as a drifting breeze,
"Nhi… help me back to my room…"
The maid named Nhi quickly stepped forward, gently supporting her mistress with such care one might fear breaking a withering flower.
The Emperor glanced at them, then gestured to one of the two guards nearby.
"You—go with them. Be careful not to let her fall."
"Yes, Your Majesty!" the guard replied, quickly moving to assist.
Their figures slowly disappeared behind a curtain embroidered with peonies, leaving the Emperor alone in the vast receiving hall, where the scent of incense still lingered.
Tu Anh stood quietly, brushing dust from the golden embroidery on his imperial robe. He walked out of the hall, his steps steady as he passed through the green-stone corridors. The residence was not unfamiliar to him—every tile, every window frame, he remembered from the time he had been a young prince.
He did not take the carriage back to the palace. Today, he sought solitude.
Along the mossy stone path, his footsteps echoed softly, blending into the still breath of the late morning. Sunlight slanted through the roof tiles, casting flickering beams among the bamboo groves and painting shifting shadows on the ground.
A gentle breeze stirred the garden leaves, bringing the sound of birdsong to his ears. As he passed the western study, he paused—the wooden door was slightly ajar, revealing a small figure within.
Stepping in quietly, the Emperor beheld a sight that made him smile.
His young nephew, Tran Si—only seven years old—sat cross-legged beneath a bookshelf, surrounded by open volumes of poetry, history, and military treatises. Morning light streamed through the window, illuminating the boy's soft red hair and his deeply focused face.
There was a quiet melancholy behind the boy's eyes, as if every word he read carried a piece of sorrowful memory.
Understandably so. His father, Tran Vu—once one of the Empire's most valiant generals—had perished on the frontier two years ago. His mother, stricken by grief, had succumbed to lingering illness. Now, the Tran household was little more than a shell, watched over by a few loyal handmaidens and this orphaned child.
Tu Anh gazed at the boy, emotions swirling in his heart. Then he spoke, voice warm and deep like the toll of a temple bell.
"Tran Si… my nephew. How have you been lately?"
Startled, the boy looked up. His eyes first showed surprise, but upon recognizing the figure before him, he quickly set the book aside and knelt in proper form.
"This humble servant greets the Imperial Uncle!"
Tu Anh chuckled and waved his hand.
"No need for formalities. What are you reading?"
"Your Majesty… I am studying the Three Discourses." His voice was soft but clear.
"The Three Texts, hm?" The Emperor nodded, impressed. "That is a profound work for someone your age. Then let me ask: what is the relationship between ruler and subject?"
Tran Si furrowed his brow in thought, then placed his hands together and answered slowly:
"A ruler is one chosen by the sages, blessed with divine grace, and entrusted with the lands as appointed by the Heavens."
"A subject is one of lesser station, endowed by the sages with talent to serve the ruler. The subject must be loyal, and the ruler must cherish his ministers as his own kin."
Tu Anh could not help but show his admiration.
"Well said! For one so young to grasp such principles, the Tran family has taught you well."
The boy bowed humbly, yet his eyes shone with resolve.
"…I have only read words in books. I lack real experience. But I remember what my father taught me: 'To become a true person, one must first learn propriety and understand moral principle.'"
Mentioning his father brought a flicker of sadness to his face.
Tu Anh slowly sat on a wooden bench beside the boy, his dragon-embroidered robe trailing across the stone floor. They continued talking—about ethics, history, even the rise and fall of ancient dynasties. The more they spoke, the more the Emperor could feel the boy's wisdom and depth, hidden within that small frame.
Then he remembered—three years from now, when Tran Si turned ten, he would undergo the Descent of the Spirits—one of the three sacred rites of the Great Lien Empire, reserved for noble-born children. During this ritual, a celestial spirit—perhaps a sage, a hero of old, or even one of the Nine Great Guardian Beasts—would descend into the child's consciousness and become a lifelong protector, bestowing supernatural gifts.
Depending on the child's lineage, temperament, virtue, and desire, different blessings would be granted—ranging from extraordinary memory, martial prowess, foresight, to mastery of arcane arts.
Tu Anh placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and asked:
"Tran Si, you know you are nearing the age of initiation, do you not?"
"Yes, Imperial Uncle. I am well aware," the boy replied, eyes bright with unusual maturity.
"Then… what is it you hope for most from the ritual?"
The child looked up, his gaze as clear as starlight:
"I wish to become a historian, Your Majesty."
The Emperor raised his brows—not entirely surprised, yet still intrigued.
"Why not a general, like your father?"
Tran Si hesitated, then spoke:
"My father was a hero—both wise and strong. I admire him deeply… but…"
He paused, his voice trembling slightly.
"…I do not wish to die on the battlefield as he did. I want to be the one who records—who writes of his deeds, of the world's tribulations. I wish to travel far and wide, to learn from all peoples, and to write it down—so that no memory is ever lost to the torrent of time."
Tu Anh fell silent. In the boy's eyes, he saw a pure light—a yearning for knowledge. Not tainted by bloodshed, not bound by thrones, untouched by the darkness of political schemes.
For so long, Tu Anh—Emperor of the Great Lien—had buried his own dreams. From birth, the cold weight of the throne had shackled him. He had never crossed the eastern border, never seen the vast seas, never heard the music of foreign lands. The world beyond was nothing but dry words in official reports, crude sketches on maps bought from passing merchants.
He bent down, gently lifting the boy's chin, and smiled.
"Then hold fast to that flame, Si. Let no storm snuff it out."
The boy nodded, his young eyes ablaze with determination.
The Emperor rose, turning to leave. Morning wind stirred the hem of his golden robe, and in his heart, something flickered to life—
—perhaps a small ray of hope for the future.