Đại Việt Kinh, the capital of Đại Việt Quốc, was a city draped in false prosperity. Behind its gleaming gates and bustling markets, a different kind of rot festered than the one at the front lines. Here, in the hallowed halls of the Imperial Citadel and the silk-lined salons of noble manors, the Hư Vô was not a terrifying mist but a political inconvenience, a useful crisis, or a distant problem to be managed – or ignored.
Đại Quan Nguyễn Văn Luận adjusted the sleeves of his embroidered robe, the fine silk cool against his skin. The scent of rare incense perfumed his private chamber, a stark contrast to the stench of mud and fear that clung to the reports he occasionally bothered to skim. He sat at a low table, sipping delicately from a cup of expensive tea, while his personal scribe summarized the latest dispatches from the Northern Front.
"...General Trần Đại Nghĩa reports increased activity of... manifestations... near Sector Gamma. Requests immediate resupply of heavy ordnance and medical provisions. Estimates casualty rates exceeding thirty percent in several companies." The scribe's voice was dry, monotonous.
Luận waved a dismissive hand. "Manifestations. Nonsense. Soldiers seeing ghosts. The General exaggerates, as always, to hoard resources. 'Heavy ordnance' – likely for some foolish offensive he intends to launch without proper authorization. Note it down. 'Request received. Pending review due to conflicting priorities.'"
Conflicting priorities, of course, meant Luận's own priorities. The Hư Vô was a problem, yes, but it was also an opportunity. It weakened potential rivals – landed nobles whose estates were being consumed, military commanders gaining too much popularity. It created chaos that could be shaped, power vacuums that could be filled. The true battle, Luận believed, was here, in the gilded cage of the capital, where influence was currency and loyalty was bought and sold.
His most pressing concern wasn't the Grey Silence advancing across the land, but the rising influence of Chamberlain Lý Công Bình, who was maneuvering to gain control of the Imperial Granaries – a vital power base, especially now, with trade routes disrupted.
"Have you received confirmation from the Southern Fleet regarding the grain shipment intended for the Northern Front?" Luận asked, setting his teacup down.
The scribe consulted a ledger. "Ambassador Trần báo cáo rằng tàu đã rời cảng hai ngày trước, Đại Quan." (Ambassador Trần reports the ships left port two days ago, Great Official.)
Luận smiled thinly. Ambassador Trần was his man. The shipment, ostensibly for General Nghĩa's starving troops, was actually bound for ports controlled by Luận's own network of merchants and hidden granaries. Let Nghĩa's soldiers eat mud; Luận's coffers would be filled, and his ability to supply loyal garrisons later would cement his power. (Political maneuver, directly harming military).
A knock at the door. A nervous young Nội Quan (Eunuch) entered, bowing low. "Đại Quan, Công Tôn Hồ Văn Cảnh requests an audience. Urgently."
Công Tôn Hồ Văn Cảnh. A minor noble whose lands were perilously close to the encroaching mist, and a vocal supporter of increasing aid to the front. Luận felt a familiar surge of irritation. These provincial lords always brought their messy, inconvenient realities to the capital's doorstep.
"Let him wait," Luận said smoothly. "Five minutes. I am... contemplating matters of state."
He used the time to compose himself, the mask of composed authority firmly in place. Công Tôn Cảnh would plead for troops, for supplies, paint grim pictures of the Hư Vô's advance. Luận would listen patiently, offer condolences, promise to "look into the matter personally," and do precisely nothing that would cost him resources or risk his political standing. Cảnh was a pawn to be sacrificed, his lands a buffer zone, his eventual ruin a cautionary tale for other dissenting nobles.
When Công Tôn Cảnh was finally admitted, his face was haggard, his fine robes stained with travel. He spoke of his people's suffering, of the unnatural horrors, of the desperate need for help that had never arrived. He spoke of the 'Grey Silence' not as a rumour, but as a living, malevolent force.
Luận listened, nodding sympathetically at appropriate moments. "A truly regrettable situation, Công Tôn. The Emperor grieves for your people. We are doing everything within our power."
"With respect, Đại Quan," Công Tôn Cảnh said, his voice cracking. "We hear reports of resources being diverted, of aid never reaching the front. The soldiers lack even basic supplies! While here, in the capital... we see such opulence!" His gaze swept accusingly around the luxurious chamber.
Luận's smile remained fixed, but a coldness entered his eyes. "Công Tôn Hồ Văn Cảnh, you speak of matters beyond your understanding. The complexities of managing a kingdom's resources during a crisis are vast. Accusations of... impropriety... are dangerous in times like these. They create dissent."
He stood, signifying the end of the audience. "Rest assured, your concerns have been noted. I will personally ensure they are... reviewed... at the appropriate time."
Công Tôn Cảnh stared at him, his face a mask of despair and dawning realization. He saw not a compassionate official, but a predator in silk robes, watching his world burn with detached calculation.
As the noble was ushered out, Luận turned back to his scribe. "Draft a reply to General Trần Đại Nghĩa. 'Resources scarce. Prioritize defensive postures. Further requests for non-standard ordnance or excessive provisions will be denied. Focus on maintaining order and preventing panic.'" He paused, considering. "Add a line about the Emperor's grave displeasure regarding exaggerated reports."
He sat back down, picking up his tea. The war effort was a necessary beast, but it needed to be starved just enough to keep it weak, dependent on the capital's favour, unable to produce a commander or a hero who might one day challenge the established order – his order. Let the provinces fall. Let the soldiers break. Let the mist creep closer. As long as the power structure in Đại Việt Kinh remained intact, controlled by men like him, the kingdom, in his eyes, would endure. It would be smaller, poorer, darker perhaps, but it would be theirs. The Hư Vô was merely a tool, a tide that would wash away the old and make way for the new... an order built on the solid foundation of ambition, cynicism, and the calculated betrayal of those too naive to survive.