The Grand Archives of the Eternal River Citadel smelled of aged paper, dry dust, and the faint, lingering scent of incense used to ward off silverfish centuries ago. Scholar Phan Thị Ánh Tuyết breathed it in, a comforting scent that spoke of permanence in a world consumed by flux. Yet, even here, deep within the capital's most secure historical repository, the shadow of the Hư Vô loomed. News from the front lines, filtered and spun by the court, still whispered through the halls – tales of grey mist, disappearing villages, and horrors no soldier's training could prepare them for.
Ánh Tuyết ran a gloved finger over the faded script on a brittle scroll, its vellum thinner than skin. She was researching the Thái Cổ Biên Niên Ký – the Chronicles of the Primeval Era – a collection of fragmented texts and oral histories detailing the world of Lạc Hồng before the rise of the great human dynasties. Most scholars considered them fanciful myths, tales of dragon lords, spirit pacts, and cosmic balances. But Ánh Tuyết believed they held clues to the true nature of the encroaching blight. (Mythic core).
For months, she had poured over obscure passages, cross-referencing symbols and forgotten dialects. The Hư Vô, as the common folk and soldiers called it, was almost never named directly in these texts. Instead, there were oblique references to the "Grey Devourer," the "Unmaking," or the "Shadow That Hungers for Form." These were not described as invading armies, but as fundamental disruptions, illnesses of reality itself.
Her work was quiet, solitary, and often frustrating. Access to certain texts was restricted, requiring special permits often granted or denied based on political favour – a constant source of tension with the Archive's head, a cautious, politically-minded scholar named Ông Lý, who served as a gatekeeper for the court. Ông Lý saw her research as potentially seditious, questioning the approved narrative of history that glorified the current dynasty's founders and downplayed the older, more mystical origins of Lạc Hồng. (Political tension).
Today, she was examining a section dealing with the Đại Khế Ước – the Great Covenant – a legendary pact said to have been struck between the first humans and the ruling spirits/deities of Lạc Hồng to bring order to the primeval chaos. It spoke of balance, of give and take, of the boundaries between the World of Form and the World of Spirit (Thế Giới Linh Hồn).
Her eyes scanned a particularly dense passage, detailing the consequences should the Covenant be broken. Most of it was metaphorical – plagues, famines, the land weeping. But then she found something different. A symbol she had seen only once before, in a deeply forbidden text on pre-Covenant chaos-worship. It was a swirling vortex, not of creation, but of absorption.
Beside it, the text, written in a script so old it was barely recognizable, seemed to shudder with contained dread:
"...and 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, held at bay by the weave of Form and Spirit, shall find purchase. It does not conquer; it consumes. It does not kill; it unmakes. And the threads of the World shall unravel, not in fire, but in the Silence of the Void it brings."
Ánh Tuyết felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool stone of the archives. Neglect. The Slow Decay. It fit. It wasn't a foreign invasion from another dimension; it was something inherent to Lạc Hồng, a terrifying consequence of the world falling out of balance, of the Covenant being forgotten or ignored over millennia of human dominance and political strife. The Hư Vô wasn't attacking; it was a fundamental property of the world reasserting itself because the natural and spiritual order had been neglected and exploited. (Mythic revelation).
The text went on to describe subtle signs of the Devourer's approach – not just physical blight, but the weakening of spirits, the confusion of natural cycles, and... the twisting of form. The descriptions echoed the soldiers' reports – the unnatural shapes, the things that shouldn't be alive yet moved. The Grey Devourer didn't bring monsters; it brought unmaking, forcing existing things into horrific, distorted mockeries of life.
Her hands trembled as she carefully rolled the scroll. The court, the generals, the soldiers – they were fighting a war against a symptom, not the cause. How could you fight the unmaking of reality with swords and guns?
A voice startled her. "Still buried in these old fancies, Ánh Tuyết?"
It was Ông Lý, his expression a mixture of weariness and thinly veiled disapproval. "The world outside is burning, child. Generals fight for inches of ground, and you chase ghosts in dust?"
Ánh Tuyết looked at the symbol, the chilling words. "Ông Lý," she said, her voice low and urgent. "This isn't about ghosts. It's about the fire itself. And the generals... they are fighting the smoke, not the source."
He sighed, running a hand over the spines of the ancient books. "The source, the cause... that is for philosophers and priests, not soldiers or scholars. Our duty is to preserve what is, not chase after what was, especially if it upsets the established order."
The established order. The very thing the text suggested was built upon the neglect that allowed the Hư Vô to seep in. She looked at Ông Lý, at his ingrained caution, a product of serving the politically sensitive archives for decades. She knew she couldn't show him this passage, not if she wanted it to ever see the light of day. He would deem it too disruptive, too challenging to the court's narrative.
She smiled faintly, a gesture of concession. "Perhaps you are right, Ông Lý. Just... lost in thought." She carefully placed the scroll back, marking its location mentally.
But her mind raced. The Grey Devourer. The Slow Decay. The Neglect. This wasn't just a military problem. It was a spiritual, historical, existential crisis rooted in the very foundations of Lạc Hồng, and exacerbated by the political rot that infected the capital.
She possessed knowledge that could change everything – if anyone would listen. But sharing such a truth, especially one that indicted the present state of the world and its rulers, was more dangerous than facing a Hư Vô-Twisted soldier.
Leaving the dusty peace of the archives, stepping back into the hushed, tense halls of the Citadel, Ánh Tuyết felt the weight of a different kind of command than General Trần Đại Nghĩa's – the terrifying burden of a truth that could either save her world or destroy her for speaking it.