Time within the Myriad Tomes Pavilion seemed to flow to a completely different rhythm compared to the clamorous world outside. As the cacophonous sounds of Thanh Chau City heralded a new day, inside the ebony pavilion, there was only a solemn silence and the scent of passing ages. The morning sunlight filtered through the rice-paper window slats, casting shafts of silver light that illuminated billions of dust motes dancing lazily in the air, like sprites of time.
Tran Kien was completely immersed in this world. He sat cross-legged upon the cool wooden floor, his back resting against a bookshelf. His hands cradled a scroll of bamboo slips; his eyes were not merely reading, but "living" alongside the words.
He did not begin in a rush. Instead, he spent the entire first day simply organizing all the books on the first floor by era and genre. Unofficial histories, legends, poetry, folktales... He did this not because he was asked to, but because he firmly believed that to find an anomaly, one must first thoroughly understand the laws of normalcy.
This action did not escape the eyes of Elder Wei. The old man remained seated in his ancient armchair, but occasionally, the corner of his eye would drift toward the youth, a gleam of satisfaction flashing within his profound gaze. Intelligent, meticulous, and unhurried. A fine seedling.
In the days that followed, Tran Kien forgot about time, forgot even about hunger and thirst. Using the pouch of coins Van Tam Thong had given him, he purchased a small amount of dry rations and water, partaking in only the simplest of meals to maintain his physical stamina. His entire mind and spirit fused as one with the tales of his ancestors.
He read the Strange Tales from Linh Nam, and it was as if he stood atop the peak of Nghia Linh, watching Dragon Lord Lac and Fairy Au Co divide their children—half following their father to the sea, half following their mother to the mountains, thereby opening up a realm of brocade mountains and rivers. He felt the agony of their separation, yet even more intensely, he felt the surging pride of the Dragon and Fairy bloodline.
He read the Collection of the Departed Spirits of the Viet Realm, walking in the footsteps of heroic figures and renowned generals. In life, they protected the nation and brought peace to the people; in death, they manifested as spirits to offer their divine aid. He witnessed an indomitable spirit, an unyielding will—preferring to be a ghost of the Southern Nation than a king of the Northern Lands.
He turned each page of the Treasury of Viet Folktales, smiling at the brilliance of Scholar Quynh, moved by the steadfast love in the Legend of the Betel and Areca, and filled with righteous indignation at the injustice in Tam and Cam. Every story, whether of immortals or ordinary mortals, contained a lesson, a distinctive cultural trait of the Lac Viet people: valuing loyalty and righteousness, elevating wisdom, and possessing an unshakeable faith in justice.
The more he read, the more Tran Kien could feel what Elder Wei referred to as the "Soul" of the nation. He realized that the Iron Stampede Mnemonic he cultivated was not merely a body-tempering method. Its perseverance and endurance were the very embodiment of the indomitable will of a people who had weathered thousands of years of natural disasters and foreign invasions. He also faintly sensed that the core principles of the Lac Viet Heavenly Cycle Array—"Heaven - Myriad Manifestations, One Heart" and "Earth - A Hundred Clans, One Will"—were the distillation of his ancestors' life philosophy: harmony with nature and the absolute power of unity.
Time flew by; twenty days had already passed. Tran Kien had read through thousands of tomes. He appeared somewhat haggard, yet his eyes shone brighter and sharper than ever. He did not simply read; he memorized, analyzed, and cross-referenced.
One afternoon, while examining a hand-copied scroll of unofficial history titled Records of the Bizarre in Thanh Chau, which documented strange tales of this very region, Tran Kien suddenly paused. He was reading a story called "The Blood Essence Stone," which told of a blood-red gemstone found deep within the ore mines of the Fallen Leaf region. By day, this stone appeared ordinary, but at night, beneath the moonlight, it could absorb the Essence of the Sun and Moon, transforming into a precious Spirit Stone.
The tale was written in an archaic prose style, its plot bizarre yet logically sound. But Tran Kien furrowed his brows tightly. Fallen Leaf Town. His hometown. He had lived there for fifteen years and had never heard of, nor ever seen, any type of stone resembling the Blood Essence Stone.
Perhaps it is simply because I did not know, he told himself. Or perhaps it is far too rare.
Yet, another detail in the story made it impossible for him to ignore. The tale described miners using a type of "pickaxe" with an iron shaft, its head forged as sharp as a bird's beak, to delve deep into the hardest seams of rock.
Tran Kien froze. He recalled another book regarding the history of forging tools that he had read the previous week; it contained very clear records. That type of "pickaxe," requiring advanced steel-forging techniques, had only appeared in Thanh Chau roughly a hundred years ago. Meanwhile, this story of the "Blood Essence Stone," according to the dating on the scroll, had been recorded at least three hundred years prior.
A chronological discrepancy. A minutely small anomaly, one that would easily be overlooked without a transcendent memory and the ability to cross-reference information across thousands of different tomes.
Tran Kien took a deep breath. He looked toward Elder Wei, who was resting with his eyes closed. He knew it. He had found it.