At dawn the next day, the fog over the Dai Ha basin still refused to lift, winding around the cliffs like ribbons of gray silk. Hoi Minh had gone down to the riverbank very early, yet his mind remained troubled and restless, haunted by the white realm from the dream he had the night before.
The violent tide had nearly receded, leaving blotches of mud spread across the long stretch of sand, crimson as blood. The battered fishing boats lay tilted and broken like weary soldiers after a long night battling a natural disaster, their silence strangely profound. He stood rooted at the water's edge for a long time, the figure in white and that indistinct turn of the head still appearing with vivid clarity in his mind.
An ordinary dream of the mortal world should have faded when the sunlight appeared. Yet that dream clung to him, like a divine handprint etched deep upon the face of the universe, forever impossible to erase.
Riverbank — The Call of the Celestial Mandate
A shadow stretched across the sand. The old man who had guarded the ancient shrine appeared quietly once more, as desolate as a ghost of fate. No one knew where the old man had come from, nor when he had begun standing behind Hoi Minh.
“You still refuse to leave?” The old man's voice was as light as wind passing through reeds, yet it concealed an invisible pressure as heavy as Mount Tai.
Hoi Minh spun around in surprise and clasped his hands in salute.
“Elder.”
The old man gazed solemnly at the river churning red.
“Yesterday's floodwaters have already flowed into the great sea. But the crueler undercurrents of mortal fate have only just begun to run beneath your feet.”
Hoi Minh stood speechless, listening reverently to the old man's words, heavy with hidden celestial truths.
The old man suddenly turned toward him. Though blind, his eyes seemed to pierce straight through the young man's heart.
“Have you ever set foot beyond the borders of this village?”
Hoi Minh slowly shook his head and answered honestly, “From the time I was young until now, I've never gone even half a step away. My father died when I was ten. I had only myself, so I carried our clan's old martial arts manual and climbed the sacred mountain behind the village. For eighteen years, I've had only the moon and wind for company, tempering my body and bones on my own.”
The old man nodded. A smile flickered at the corner of his lips, as if every matter in the world lay within his grasp.
“You comprehended the Way alone and tempered your own bones. Without the shelter of those who came before you, your ability has become pure and steadfast before the storms of the universe. Then your moment has arrived.”
Hoi Minh's chest tightened as an uneasy yet thrilling premonition surged within him.
“Leave... leave this place?”
The old man did not answer at once. He bent down, picked up a pitch-black pebble, and hurled it into the river's bottomless depths. The surface split apart, rippling into concentric circles before swiftly dissolving into nothingness, like a warning about the impermanence of a human lifetime.
“There are roads one must walk alone,” the old man said slowly, his voice carrying an extraordinary, resonant power. “They reveal themselves only when your feet dare to step onto lands wholly unfamiliar.”
Hoi Minh stared fixedly at the patch of water that had just closed again. A wind out of season swept over the burial mound, carrying the scents of dust and blood, along with the familiar fragrance of snow lotus from his dream. He understood that if he chose to remain in this fishing village today, he would forever lose the most important fragment of his soul.
“Where should I go?” Hoi Minh asked softly.
The old man turned, leaning on his bamboo staff, his figure fading into the mist.
“You needn't hurry into the heart of the Central Plains. Just walk west for a while. When you reach the sacred mountains, turn south.”
“And there... what will be waiting for me?” Curiosity and resolve gleamed in Hoi Minh's eyes.
The old man's voice drifted back through the mist, distant yet startlingly clear.
“Someone there is using their entire life to find you.”
Hoi Minh started forward to question him, but when the thin mist finally dispersed, the old shrine keeper had vanished completely, as if he had never existed. In the place where he had stood, only the old bamboo staff remained, driven deep into the scorching sand, steady as a marker of fate.
At Home — The Decision to Leave His Homeland
Hoi Minh stood motionless in the deserted river port. After a long while, he approached and pulled the bamboo staff free with all his strength. Strangely, the staff was as light as silk, yet the moment he held it, he felt the weight of a thousand armies—the burden of a mission beginning to unfold.
He carried the staff home. Inside the simple thatched house, his gentle mother was bent over, mending the worn shoulder of his shirt, sorrow weighing on her eyes. When she saw her son standing silently in the doorway, she raised her head.
“Minh, what is it?”
Hoi Minh pressed his lips together. After hesitating for a long time, he dropped to his knees before her.
“Mother... I want to leave the village and travel far away for a while.”
She fell silent, her eyes tracing the grown face of her own son. For generations, the people of Dai Ha Village had been born and died beside this stretch of river, their lives passing in quiet peace. Yet she uttered not a single complaint. She only smiled with deep understanding and nodded.
“Go, my son.”
Hoi Minh looked up in astonishment.
“Mother, I thought you'd try to make me stay...”
She gently stroked his hair, her voice choked with emotion yet firm with resolve.
“No one in the mortal world can hold back a flood, and a mother cannot keep a son with great ambitions trapped in a remote village. You were born on the night the wind turned. Your destiny belongs to the world beyond.”
She rose and went to the corner of the old wooden cabinet, taking out a carefully wrapped rough-cloth pouch. Inside were a few silver coins she had saved over a lifetime, a handful of dry fried rice, and a little dried food for the road.
“Take this to protect yourself. The road of life stretches ten thousand miles and is filled with danger. Remember to hold on to your true heart. Don't let worldly dust cloud your eyes.”
Hoi Minh accepted the cloth pouch, and a wave of warmth from his mother's love spread through his veins. He bowed three times to thank her for giving him life and raising him. His voice trembled, but it held the iron will of his resolve.
“Mother, take care of yourself. Your son Minh is leaving!”
He rose decisively, turned his back, and walked out through the bamboo door, gripping the bamboo staff of fate as he strode straight toward western Linh Son. Hoi Minh's epic road of blood and tears officially began here.
Canto IV
With bamboo staff in hand, his ambitions soar, He looks back at his homeland's river, veiled in haze. Mist shrouds the western realm beneath unfathomable clouds; Life awaits in the southern lands, where wild winds blaze.
Waves beat the sandbar, mourning his mother's shade, Wind sweeps the mountain slopes, calling him far away. A fated bond spanning ten thousand miles bears the Celestial Mandate; One song of worldly dust now closes, fading into gray.