Chapter 1 — Sword God Appears

The morning mist covered the entire area of Tuyet Phong Coc white, creeping through every rock crevice, wrapping around the old pine trees standing still like statues guarding time. Here, behind the deserted mountains in the north of Lang Uyen, there are no trails leading, no temple bells ringing, only the murmuring stream and the wind passing through the ravine, creating deep sounds, sounding like the sighs of heaven and earth.

Vu Bach Trinh sat on a flat stone slab in front of the thatched porch, holding a cup of cold tea in his hand, looking at the horizon with the shape of the mountains still unclear. It's been eighteen years since he left everything that belonged to him to come to this place. Eighteen years is enough for a newborn child to grow up, enough for a young pine tree to become an ancient tree, but still not enough to erase a memory.

His cottage was nestled under a large cliff, with no flowers or birds growing around, only a small garden planted with a few vegetable beds and a pumpkin trellis that had climbed over a corner of the fence. Inside the house, on the wooden wall, there was an old sword wrapped in dark brown hemp cloth, tied with rough hemp rope, hanging quietly like an inanimate decoration. It's been a long time since he opened that layer of fabric. There were nights when he lay looking at that sword for hours without daring to touch it, as if just a light touch would be enough to awaken what he had tried to bury deep.

People in the area call him the old cloth-clad woodcutter, but few know his true origin. He lived alone, plowed his own crops, hunted himself, and treated himself whenever the weather changed. Occasionally, people from the village under the mountain, half a day's journey away, would come to see him and ask him to help him look at his wound or give him some medicine, because everyone knew that although the woodcutter was quiet, he had quite solid medical skills, learned during his years in the martial world, but no one dared to ask in detail.

This morning, as usual, he got up while it was still dark, went to the stream to draw water, built a fire to cook a pot of thin porridge, then sat on the porch and watched the dew gradually melt as the sun rose. It was a rhythm of life that had been repeated thousands of mornings, to the point that he himself no longer remembered clearly how yesterday was different from today, last month was different from next month. Time in Tuyet Phong Coc passed slowly as if this mountain itself wanted to hold him back, not allowing him to grow older, not allowing him to forget, nor allowing him to continue living to the fullest.

Bach Trinh was over forty, his sideburns showing a few gray strands, but his body was still sturdy, and his eyes still retained the coldness of a person who had gone through hundreds of life and death battles. It was rumored that, many years ago, there was a young swordsman from a famous sword sect called Tang Phong Mon, with excellent talent, who saved people all over the world, and was revered by people as the sword god. But that was the story of another person, a person who somehow died on that fateful day eighteen years ago, leaving only the soulless body of a cloth-clad woodcutter wandering among the mountains and forests.

He took a sip of porridge, looked at the sparrow perched on the bamboo fence, slightly tilting its head to look at him as if searching. The birds here were not afraid of people, because for many years no one had ever aimed a bow at them. Bach Trinh smiled faintly, reached out and scattered a few grains of rice on the ground for him. Perhaps this was the rare joy left in his life, the small moments that require nothing, remind nothing, were simply present.

But there were nights, when the wind blew through the door, bringing with it the cold air of the high mountains, he dreamed of a narrow canyon covered with fog, where a friend's scream echoed between the steep cliffs. He dreamed that he was running, running forever, his feet felt like they were buried in the mud, and that scream kept getting farther and farther away, until it stopped completely. Then he woke up in the middle of the night, cold sweat drenched the back of his shirt, and sat blankly looking out at the darkness outside the window until dawn.

That is the canyon called Vong Hon, where eighteen years ago, a man named Chuc Thanh Phong fell in an ambush, and to this day Bach Trinh still cannot fully explain the reason. That person was once his senior brother, his confidant, the only person who ever called him "little brother" with an affectionate voice mixed with a bit of teasing every time he practiced his sword to the point of exhaustion but still wasn't satisfied. That person died while Bach Trinh, for a reason that is still vague to this day, was one moment late, just one moment, enough for everything to become forever irreversible.

From that day on, Bach Trinh was no longer the sword god of Tang Phong Mon. He refused to succeed the elder position that the sect intended to give, refused all invitations to participate in martial arts conferences, and also refused the love relationships that had blossomed in his youth. He packed everything, wrapped his sword in linen, went alone to Tuyet Phong Coc, built this thatched house, and told himself that he would live the rest of his life like a shadow, not bothering anyone, not letting anyone bother him.

This morning, after finishing his bowl of porridge, he took his ax to the back of the house to chop firewood. The sound of the ax hitting the log rang out steadily and harshly, like a familiar rhythm that helped him put aside idle thoughts. Sweat beaded on his forehead, he stopped, raised his head and looked up at the mountain top in the distance, where a dark cloud was rolling in, completely different from the usual clarity of mornings in this area.

Something made his heart suddenly stir, a vague premonition that people who had experienced many years of life and death always had. He stood still for a moment, still holding the ax handle tightly, eyes fixed on the dark clouds in the distance, then gently shook his head, telling himself that he was too suspicious. It's been eighteen years, and the martial world no longer remembered an old woodcutter in a cotton shirt in the middle of this deep mountain and valley.

But in the afternoon, when he went to the stream to wash his clothes, a black eagle suddenly circled in the sky of Tuyet Phong Coc, made a shrill cry and flew away to the south. Bach Trinh raised his head to look, his eyes suddenly darkened. That black eagle is not a bird commonly seen around these mountains. He had seen a similar bird a long time ago, during his days at the Tang Phong Mon, when the elders were discussing those who had the habit of using black falcons as secret signals among the assassins.

Maybe just a coincidence. He told himself so, carried a bucket of water back home, built a fire to cook dinner. But that night, the dream of Vong Hon canyon returned, clearer than ever. This time, in the dream, there was not only Chuc Thanh Phong's scream, but also a figure standing behind the mist, his face unclear, only cold eyes looking straight at him, as if waiting for something to happen.

Bach Trinh suddenly woke up and sat up in the middle of the night, his heart beating rapidly. He looked towards the wall where the cloth-wrapped sword hung. The moonlight filtering through the window shone on the dark hemp cloth, creating a dim streak of light. It's been a long time since I've had this feeling, the feeling like an invisible string is pulling me back to what I tried to forget.

He sat quietly until dawn, his hand gently placed on his chest, where his heart was still beating heavily like a person with too many unpaid debts. For eighteen years, he deceived himself that time could erase everything, that if he only lived in seclusion long enough, that torment would gradually cool like ashes. But tonight's dreams told him another truth: there are wounds that never heal, they just lie still, waiting for a wind strong enough to open again.

The next morning, when the sun just peeked behind the mountain peak, Bach Trinh stood in front of the porch, looking towards the rarely traveled trail leading down to the foot of the mountain. Nobody. There is only wind, only dew, only the sound of birds singing as usual. He sighed, reassured himself that it was probably just old obsessions resurfacing because of age, then went back into the house to prepare for a new day, like thousands of days past.

But deep inside, a part of the person who was once the sword god of Tang Phong Mon is still there, silently vigilant, silently waiting. Because people like you who have been on the line between life and death for many years clearly understand one thing: peace usually doesn't last forever, and when the storm really comes, it won't ask a word in advance.

That afternoon, while he was sharpening his ax blade on the porch, Bach Trinh suddenly heard strange footsteps coming from the path. He raised his head, his hands still in the same position, his sharp eyes swept towards the direction of the sound. Not the footsteps of familiar people in the area, nor the hasty footsteps of someone who has lost their way. It was the steady, rhythmic steps of someone who had been accustomed to practicing internal exercises for many years.

He put down the ax blade, stood up, looking straight towards the open forest where the figure was about to appear. In that moment, it seemed that even this quiet mountain was holding its breath, waiting, as if knowing that the story that had ended eighteen years ago was now about to open a completely new chapter, and this time, no one could escape anymore.