Captain Trần Đình Khoa's command post was little more than a reinforced dug-out beneath the skeletal remains of a banyan tree. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, stale cigarette smoke, and nervous sweat. Maps covered a rickety table, marked with grease-pencil lines representing troop positions – positions that felt less like formations and more like scattered fragments against a rising tide.
Lê Thị Mai stood rigidly before the Captain, mud caked on her uniform, eyes still wide with the recent terror. She recounted the encounter – the sudden appearance, the unnatural resilience, the broken rifle, Toàn's injured wrist. Her voice was steady, trained to report facts, but the subtle tremor in her hands gave away the lingering horror.
Captain Khoa, a man whose face seemed permanently etched with the burdens of command, listened without interruption. He was younger than Mai had expected for a Captain, perhaps in his early thirties, but his hair was already thinning at the temples, and his eyes held the distant, haunted look common among officers who had seen too much.
When she finished, he leaned back in his makeshift chair, fingers steepled, staring not at her, but at the map. "Grey figures... closing wounds... humming." He murmured, summarizing her report more to himself than to her. He'd heard similar accounts in fragmented reports from other sectors, filtered through layers of command – stories often dismissed as stress-induced hallucinations or soldier's exaggerations. But Mai was known for her clear head. And Toàn's broken rifle was tangible evidence.
"So, the Hư Vô isn't just a static front anymore," Captain Khoa said, finally looking at her. His voice was low, devoid of overt emotion, yet heavy with understanding. "It's sending probes. Things that can cross the threshold."
"Yes, sir. It felt... deliberate."
He nodded slowly. "Get some rest, Private Mai. And see the medic about your exposure to the mist. Report filed." Dismissal. Efficient. Cold. But as Mai turned to leave, she saw the captain run a weary hand over his face. He pulled a bottle of cheap liquor from his desk and took a long swallow.
He didn't just command soldiers; he commanded this small section of a crumbling front. He knew the dwindling supply lines, the patchy communication, the impossible orders from generals who demanded advances where simply holding ground felt like a miracle. His position was precarious – fail, and his men died and the Hư Vô advanced; succeed for a moment, and he'd just be ordered to do it again with fewer resources.
A runner burst into the dug-out, mud spraying from his boots. "Captain! Dispatch from Forward Command!"
Khoa snatched the rolled parchment. He broke the seal and scanned the cramped script. His jaw tightened. "Reinforcements diverted... new objective: secure the Twin Peaks overlook... intelligence suggests Hư Vô activity intensifying in Sector Gamma... push back and establish observation post."
He crumpled the dispatch slightly in his fist. Push back? With what? Half his company was down with the Grey Blight – a sickness caught from prolonged exposure to the mist that caused fever, coughing up grey phlegm, and eventually, they said, a form of living petrification. Ammunition was low. Morale was lower. And now, they wanted him to send his remaining men into an area reporting 'intensifying activity' based on 'intelligence' that was likely days, if not weeks, old. (Military/Grimdark reality).
This wasn't military strategy; this was sacrificing pawns on a board controlled by unseen, uncaring hands. Hands that were probably guided by political necessity back in the capital, Đại Việt Kinh. (Political hint).
Meanwhile, miles behind the immediate front lines...
The headquarters of the Northern Front was in a fortified manor house far from the mist's edge, yet the chill of the Hư Vô seemed to penetrate even these stone walls. Tướng Quân Trần Đại Nghĩa, Commander of the Northern Armies, stood before a massive map of the Lạc Hồng continent, his hands clasped behind his back. He was an imposing figure, his face lined like ancient wood, his eyes sharp and tired.
Across the room, his advisors – a mix of experienced officers, ambitious younger staff, and a few civilian attachés – argued in hushed but intense tones.
"...the Lord of the West refuses to commit more cavalry unless we guarantee protection for his borderlands," one aide, Đại Úy Hoàng Minh, reported, frustration in his voice. "He claims our strategy leaves his estates vulnerable."
"His estates, or his silver mines?" The General's voice was a low rumble. "Lord Bách Cảnh thinks of coin while the world turns grey." (Political detail).
Another officer spoke up. "General, reports from Captain Khoa's sector near Bến Đoạn indicate new enemy capabilities. Manifestations are emerging from the mist. Non-conventional engagement."
Trần Đại Nghĩa turned from the map, his gaze piercing. "Khoa. Yes, a solid officer. The report is... concerning. Are these isolated incidents, or a new phase?"
"Unclear, General. Similar reports are coming in from scattered points along the line. Difficult to confirm with communication so unreliable."
"Unreliable because the Grand Censor, Nguyễn Văn Luận, insists on filtering all dispatches for 'potential panic,' slowing everything to a crawl!" snapped another advisor, Colonel Phạm Tuấn. "He cares more about controlling the narrative in the capital than letting us fight this damned war!" (Political conflict, introduces Nguyễn Văn Luận).
Trần Đại Nghĩa held up a hand, silencing the brewing argument. He was all too aware of Đại Quan Nguyễn Văn Luận's influence and the tangled web of alliances and rivalries that paralyzed the court back in Đại Việt Kinh. The Emperor was weak, surrounded by sycophants and schemers who saw the Hư Vô not as an existential threat, but as an opportunity to consolidate power, eliminate rivals, and line their own pockets. Resources meant for the front were being diverted, hoarded, or simply vanishing. (Political core).
He looked back at the map. The Grey Silence was marked as a solid, advancing line, but he knew it was more complex, more insidious. He thought of the stories of the Hư Vô's touch – not just death, but corruption, twisting nature and form. It felt less like an invading army and more like a disease, a fundamental unraveling of reality rooted in something ancient and wrong. (Mythic reflection).
"Colonel Phạm Tuấn," the General said, his voice regaining its command tone. "Send a priority dispatch to all sector commanders. Confirm reports of hostile manifestations emerging from the mist. Authorize limited tactical retreats if positions are untenable. Prioritize the safety of your men over holding ground if facing overwhelming unnatural forces. We cannot afford needless losses."
He knew such an order contradicted the Emperor's decree of "unwavering defense," filtered by Luận. But Trần Đại Nghĩa wasn't fighting for the Emperor or the court; he was fighting for the land, for the people. And he knew, with a chilling certainty that settled deep in his bones, that the real enemy wasn't just the grey mist on the map, or the twisted things within it. It was also the rot at the heart of his own kingdom. He was fighting a war on two fronts – one against the Hư Vô, and one against the fools and traitors who ruled. And both were slowly, inexorably, consuming everything he was sworn to protect.