The air outside the Grand Archives was crisper than the dust-laden stillness within, but no less heavy with the unspoken anxieties of Đại Việt Kinh. Học giả Phan Thị Ánh Tuyết walked swiftly through the Citadel grounds, the ancient words she had discovered from the Thái Cổ Biên Niên Ký burning in her mind: "...should the Balance be undone, not by the Hand of Wrath, but by the Slow Decay of Neglect, then shall the Outer Dark bleed inward. The Grey Devourer... does not conquer; it consumes. It does not kill; it unmakes."
Neglect. Slow Decay. It wasn't just an ancient myth; it felt like a chillingly accurate description of the kingdom she lived in. The Hư Vô wasn't an external invader but a consequence of internal rot, a spiritual and physical imbalance allowed to fester over centuries of human hubris and disregard for the ancient ways and the Spirit World.
The knowledge was a heavy burden, isolating her even in the crowded streets. How could she convey this? To the generals fighting a physical war? To the officials consumed by political maneuvering? To the Emperor himself, reportedly more interested in his concubines than the crumbling foundations of his realm?
Her immediate instinct was to seek counsel, to find someone who could understand the magnitude of her findings. Not just another scholar beholden to Ông Lý's caution or the court's whims, but someone with influence, or perhaps someone who dealt with the non-physical world directly.
She thought of contacting Master Lý Văn Cảnh, a respected retired Grand Tutor known for his integrity and quiet influence, who lived modestly in the outer districts. He was old-school, perhaps open to ideas about ancient balance and spiritual matters. It was a risk, but less dangerous than approaching anyone currently in power.
She sent a discreet message, requesting a private audience on a matter of historical significance. Two days later, a reply arrived, polite but non-committal, suggesting a meeting at a public tea house – a place where private conversations were often impossible, subtly hinting at caution or a lack of willingness to engage in anything potentially sensitive.
Meeting Master Lý Văn Cảnh at the bustling tea house was a study in veiled discomfort. He was frail but sharp-eyed, his face a roadmap of a life spent navigating both scholarship and court politics. He listened patiently as Ánh Tuyết, keeping her voice low, spoke of ancient texts, forgotten covenants, and the idea of the Hư Vô as a consequence of imbalance and neglect rather than invasion.
He nodded slowly when she finished, sipping his tea. "Fascinating historical perspective, Ánh Tuyết. The ancients had a different way of viewing the world, certainly. Less... pragmatic... than our current era."
"But Master," she pressed, a tremor of urgency in her voice. "What if their view was correct? What if the Hư Vô is not simply an enemy to be fought with steel, but a symptom of a deeper ailment, one rooted in our kingdom's... spiritual and perhaps even political decay?"
Master Cảnh set his cup down, his gaze steady. "Decay? A strong word, child. The kingdom faces challenges, yes. The mist is... troublesome. But 'decay' implies a fundamental flaw, perhaps even suggests blame lies within, not with the external threat."
His words were measured, but his eyes held a flicker of warning. Ánh Tuyết understood. Master Cảnh was warning her that her 'historical perspective' was politically dangerous. To suggest the Hư Vô was caused by the kingdom's own failings, its 'neglect' and 'decay,' was to directly challenge the legitimacy and competence of the current ruling class – the very people he had served, and whose allies, like Đại Quan Nguyễn Văn Luận, held immense power.
"Some truths, Ánh Tuyết," Master Cảnh continued softly, leaning closer, "however historically... accurate... they may seem, are like poison. They can do more harm than good if introduced into a body that is already weak. Especially when powerful physicians prefer a different diagnosis." He didn't name Luận, but the implication hung heavy in the air. (Political threat, coded language).
He then steered the conversation to safer, purely academic topics, effectively shutting down her line of inquiry. The audience was over. Ánh Tuyết left the tea house feeling a profound sense of isolation. Master Cảnh, for all his integrity, was too cautious, too aware of the political cost of inconvenient truths.
She returned to her modest chambers, the ancient texts spread out before her. She couldn't rely on the established channels, the cautious scholars, or the politically vulnerable few. Her knowledge was too dangerous for them.
But what about those who weren't part of the court's game? Those who dealt with the world beyond the Citadel walls, perhaps even the world beyond the physical?
She recalled fragmented reports reaching the archives – strange occurrences in rural areas, villagers speaking of restless spirits and failed rituals, rumors of priests and mystics struggling against unseen forces. These reports were usually dismissed by the officials, filed away under 'local superstitions' or 'public panic.'
Perhaps, Ánh Tuyết thought, the people who truly understood the nature of the 'wound' were not in the libraries or the court, but in the fading temples and remote villages. Those like the priests of the old faiths, who still tried to commune with a Spirit World that her texts said was now tainted by the Hư Vô. (Connecting to Dũng's potential path).
It was a desperate thought, a path fraught with its own dangers. Leaving the relative safety of the Citadel, seeking out marginalized spiritual figures, was not a standard practice for a reputable scholar. It could cost her position, her reputation, even her freedom if she attracted the wrong kind of attention – perhaps from someone like Đại Quan Luận, who would see her 'superstitious' investigations as further proof of instability to be suppressed.
Yet, the alternative was to do nothing, to let her knowledge turn to dust like the scrolls it came from, while the kingdom succumbed to the neglect and decay the texts had warned of. The Grey Devourer was unmaking her world, physical and spiritual. She couldn't fight it with steel or politics, but perhaps she could find allies among those who understood the language of the imbalance, among those who still listened to the dying whispers of the spirits.
The weight of her secret knowledge pressed down on her, no longer just a scholarly find, but a dangerous mandate. She had to find someone who would believe, someone who could act on a truth that existed beyond the reach of swords and political maneuvering. The path ahead was uncertain, but staying silent felt like a betrayal of the very history she had dedicated her life to preserving.