One month remained before the day of Entrance exam
In the heart of young Tran Si, anticipation swirled with unease—like a still lake stirred by the gentlest breeze. The longing to step foot into the halls of Dai Lien Imperial Academy—a place where countless scholars dreamed to tread—interwove with a vague, silent anxiety over the trials yet to come.
Yet Si was not one to be swayed by fleeting emotions. He reminded himself:
"To fret changes nothing; better to hone what lies within my grasp."
Thus, from the first days of the seventh moon, he imposed upon himself a regimen of strict self-cultivation. Each dawn, as dewdrops clung to the curved roof tiles of the Tran estate, he set forth to run along the eastern wall of the city. The rhythm of his footsteps merged with the morning chirps of swallows and the fading fragrance of late-season lotus wafting from the rear pond, forming a cadence as steady as the beat of ceremonial drums. At midday, beneath the thatched eaves, he reviewed the rudimentary incantations from the Compendium of Ancient Tongues and Chants, shaping each mudra with precision, reciting softly as though uttering sacred sutras. By dusk, the courtyard rang with the clash of steel as he practiced sword forms alongside Van—the slender handmaiden whose grace belied her deftness. At night, the oil-lamp in his study cast a gentle glow upon his focused gaze, as he poured over texts such as Foundations of Governance, Essentials of Warfare, and hand-copied chronicles of dynasties that once revitalized the realm of Dai Lien.
His mind sharpened through study; his weapon, too, was readied. His cousin, Tran Nhuoc—a famed blacksmith known across the Trường Van province—had forged for him a blade named Nguyet Tram, the Moon-Cleaver. Its edge was smithed from Ezyl, a rare ore found only in the Bai Thach Mountains, possessing a purity of seventy-nine percent. Under sunlight, the blade shimmered with the hue of bloodstone; when infused with mana, it exhaled a faint mist like autumn fog upon a tranquil lake. The hilt bore the crest of the Tran clan—a salmon leaping the dragon gate—symbol of tenacity against fate, the spirit of "ascending the gate to become a dragon."
Beside him was Van, his attendant. Though a servant by name, she accompanied him as a scholarly companion-in-service, a privilege granted to scions of noble houses. Her form was willowy as a willow branch swaying in autumn breeze, her chestnut hair cut just to the shoulders, her skin pale as lotus petals in early summer. Eyes clear and gentle like still water. Despite her modest attire—usually a pale, wide-sleeved robe that barely brushed the knees—an air of serene grace surrounded her, making it difficult for any onlooker to look away.
Dai Lien Imperial Academy—the realm's most prestigious royal institute. Here gathered the heirs of every prominent bloodline across the land; it was the crucible from which ministers, magi, and generals emerged. Though His Majesty, Emperor Thai Canh, once proclaimed: "Within these halls, merit is the sole measure," Tran Si knew too well—hierarchy, though veiled, was ever-present. The academy was divided into five tiers: Plum, Bamboo, Chrysanthemum, Pine, and Lotus—each tier spanned two years of study. Within each tier, nine classes existed, from First to Ninth. One's class was determined not only by aptitude but by lineage and influence.
As the maternal nephew of the Emperor—son of Lady Lien Nguyet, sister to His Majesty—Tran Si was placed directly into the First Class, a station of both honor and burden. For within those gilded ranks, dwelled the shrewd, the powerful, and the ambitious. A single misstep could become fodder for mockery across the entire academy.
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The Eighth Moon, Year 1710 of the Thượng Dượng Era.
Day of the Departure for Entrance Examination.
The heavens remained dim. Threads of golden light crept through the eaves of ancient roof tiles, illuminating the damp red-brick courtyard. Within the Tran residence, silence lingered, broken only by the first crow of a rooster—its cry like a call to arms.
Tran Si had long since risen. Today, he did not run. Instead, he walked to the old well at the center of the courtyard, splashing his face with cold, clear water. The icy chill seemed to awaken every nerve, bracing him for the day ahead.
Behind him, a voice as soft as drifting mist called out:
"Good morning, young master."
Turning, Si found Van standing there—rubbing her eyes, hair tousled, her loose pale-pink robe slightly translucent. Her face still bore the haze of sleep. When she caught his gaze, she quickly covered her cheeks, which flushed with embarrassment.
"F-forgive me, I did not mean to appear before you in such disarray..."
Si laughed gently.
"It's early morning—no one looks their best. Wash up quickly, we've breakfast awaiting."
Van murmured an embarrassed "yes," dipping her hands into the well water, her awkwardness somehow endearing in its sincerity. In that fleeting moment, the distance of master and servant melted—leaving only two children, growing up under the same roof, sharing the same path.
They made their way to the kitchen. The household staff had prepared their meals: for Si, steamed buns filled with minced meat and mushrooms, alongside a golden-boiled quail egg that gleamed like autumn sunlight. Van received a bowl of sticky rice porridge, topped with pickled greens and slices of steamed blood pudding.
In the main dining hall, Lady Lien Nguyet sat poised beside the carved rosewood table. Draped in white silk embroidered with lotus flowers, her slender figure and neatly coiled hair exuded elegance. Though she had grown thinner with time, her eyes remained clear and composed, like the still surface of a sacred pond.
"Good morning, Mother. I wish you a peaceful day," Tran Si greeted with a bow.
"And to you both," she replied softly. "Once breakfast is done, set out without delay."
"Yes, Mother. Thank you."
As she sipped lotus tea, her tone gentle, she offered words of counsel:
"Keep your mind at ease. Examinations are but a formality. I have faith in you."
Si's smile bore quiet gratitude.
"Understood, Mother."
Then she turned to Van:
"And you, little one, take good care of him. If he causes any trouble, you know where to report it."
"Mother…" Si flushed.
Van giggled softly, bowing respectfully.
"Yes, my lady. I shall."
After the meal, the third crow of the rooster echoed. Si and Van returned to change into the academy uniform—a robe of pale yellow, the color of early plum blossoms, its collar and cuffs trimmed in crimson thread. Upon their chests was the emblem of Dai Lien: a budding pink lotus and the words "For Dai Lien, we give."
At the estate's gate, Lady Lien Nguyet embraced her son. Though her hands trembled, her gaze remained resolute.
"Go safely, my child. Write home often, eat well, and do not exhaust yourself."
"Yes… I promise."
To Van, her elder sister from the household advised:
"Watch over your young master. Don't let anyone push you around, alright?"
"I will, sister."
As they boarded the carriage, Si glanced back at the dragon-carved gates of the Tran estate. A breeze swept past, ruffling his robes. He rested his hand on the hilt of Nguyet Tram, his eyes gleaming like a freshly drawn blade.
Turning to Van, he spoke:
"Let us go, Van."
"Yes, young master."
The carriage rolled forth along the moss-laced stone path, its wheels humming softly—bound for Dai Lien Imperial Academy, where dreams, trials, and glory awaited beyond the rising sun.