The southwest wind carried the moisture of the rivers and the scent of fertile earth, blowing across rice fields currently in their heading stage. But for the Thang Long Imperial Capital at this moment, that wind brought no peace; it carried only the stench of smoke and blood.
Over fifty miles west of Thang Long's base, a cavalry unit of nearly fifty men, clad in black armor without insignia, moved through the night like phantoms. The thunder of their hooves was not frantic; their hooves were wrapped in cloth, treading upon the wet grass almost without a sound. They moved at a terrifying speed, yet their formation was impeccably neat—iron discipline visible in every movement. This was no ordinary army. It was a fusion of the most ruthless Blood Fiend Guards and the most elite Sea Dragon Guards—the sharpest blade in Tran Kien's hand.
After two days and two nights of non-stop forced marching, they finally reached a high ridge. From here, they could oversee the entirety of the capital's western side.
The sight before them caused even a veteran of blood and fire like Thiet Phu to draw in a breath of cold air. The vast plains at the foot of the city had been transformed into a colossal military encampment. Tens of thousands, millions of torches flickered like fallen stars, stretching to the horizon, forming a gargantuan python that was constricting the ancient citadel. Upon the fluttering banners were the insignia of the Marquis of Vinh An's Estate, the skull banners of the Black Dragon Stronghold remnants, and countless other demonic sects. Shouts and the beating of war drums occasionally rang out, carrying a sense of madness and bloodlust.
Looking toward the walls of Thang Long, the scars of fierce combat were clearly visible. The walls had collapsed in many places, stained pitch-black by smoke and dried blood. The banner of Duke Dinh Quoc's Estate, though tattered, still flew resiliently in the wind—a symbol of the final will to resist.
"Exalted Lord," Thiet Phu approached, his voice solemn. "The situation is worse than we imagined. The enemy must number at least a hundred thousand. Their main force is concentrated on breaking the Southern Gate. I fear the Duke's Estate... cannot hold out for much longer."
Tran Kien, in his ordinary attire, showed no signs of panic. He observed in silence, his profound eyes calculating the entire chessboard. "A motley crew," he finally spoke after a long silence, his voice placid. "At first glance, their momentum is ferocious, but in reality, they are merely a paper tiger. They were gathered for profit; they possess no trust, and their discipline is loose. A single strike to their vital point will cause this paper tiger to collapse on its own."
"Where is their vital point?"
Tran Kien did not answer directly. He unfurled a military map of the capital. His finger did not point to the gates being assaulted, nor to the central command tent of the Marquis. His finger landed on a small valley, seemingly unextraordinary, located about ten miles behind the main camp.
"Here," he said. "The grain storehouse. For a grand army of a hundred thousand, the amount of provisions consumed daily is a staggering figure. Though Vinh An has prepared, he certainly cannot sustain supplies indefinitely. If we burn this storehouse, their morale will instantly descend into absolute chaos. We won't even need to strike; they will disintegrate on their own."
"But that place is surely guarded with the utmost security," Thiet Phu noted.
"Precisely," Tran Kien sneered. "Which is exactly why we must attack it." He stood up, his gaze as sharp as a blade. "In this game, we shall not play defense. We shall launch a proactive assault. The stratagem is called: Burning the Linked Camps!"
"Thiet Phu!"
"This subordinate is here!"
"Take forty brothers and circle to the West. Create the largest commotion possible. You do not need to attack; simply harass them, burn a few peripheral tents, and seize their attention. Act your part well—make them believe our main force is in that direction."
"As for me," he looked toward the valley. "I shall go alone with a single saber to deliver a grand gift to the Marquis of Vinh An."
"Absolutely not, Exalted Lord!" Thiet Phu cried out in horror. "Going alone is too perilous!"
"This is an order," Tran Kien said, his voice brooking no dissent. "You merely need to fulfill your mission well. Trust me."
Having spoken, without waiting for Thiet Phu's reply, his frame became a phantom, merging into the night and vanishing without a trace. He left Thiet Phu and the forty warriors behind, their hearts filled with both anxiety and a skyrocketing sense of veneration.
Tran Kien glided through the night, the Primordial Chaos Qi within his body restrained to the absolute minimum. He did not head straight for the valley. He took a wide detour, approaching from the rear mountain slope—the most treacherous and least-noticed route. As he drew near, he could see the colossal grain storehouse was indeed guarded with extreme vigilance. Hundreds of elite soldiers patrolled incessantly, and there were even two Foundation Establishment experts meditating on either side.
But in Tran Kien's eyes, this defense was riddled with flaws. He did not act in haste. He lay motionless upon a crag, as patient as a hunting panther stalking its prey. He was waiting.
At that exact moment, from the West of the camp, shouts and the glow of flames suddenly erupted. Thiet Phu had begun his move.
"Enemy attack in the West! Quickly, reinforce them!"
The entire camp's attention was instantly drawn in that direction. One of the two Foundation Establishment experts immediately took flight.
The opportunity had arrived.
Tran Kien offered a faint smile. His frame, like a falling leaf, descended silently from the crag, gliding past the confused sentries.
The spark had been delivered to the source. Now, he required only an East Wind.