The rooster's crow echoed far and wide around Thăng Long Citadel. The dawn's light glimmered faintly over the tiled roofs of Forbidden City. Atop the roof's peak, a pair of mythical creatures—dragon-headed, fish-bodied—clutched fiery pearls in their mouths, their bodies coiled in a yin-yang spiral as if guarding the heavens and earth before the dragon throne of Đại Việt.
It was not until over five hundred years later, near the end of the Lê dynasty, that creature was called Si Vẫn—the fire-preventing dragons stayed on the roof of royal buildings—one of the nine types of dragons adorning imperial architecture. The people assumed that these dragons were influenced by China's Ming dynasty. However, nine sons of dragon myths were common already during the Lý dynasty of Đại Việt, five hundred years before.
Emperor Lý Thánh Tông's library was located within the inner sanctum of the Forbidden City, nestled beneath deep green tiled roofs. Surrounding the courtyard were corridors paved with terracotta bricks, silent and serene like a sealed temple amid the weight of national affairs.
The morning breeze slipped through the quiet brick corridor, carrying the scent of newly bloomed sưa flowers from the banks of Xác Cáo Wetland—an old name for a corner of West Lake—mingled with the faint trace of agarwood incense curling from a three-legged bronze burner in the corner of the library. The burner, aged with the patina of time, was embossed with another dragon, its mouth gripping a pearl, its body twisting in a cloud-and-fire pattern—a Kim Nghê, the incense-loving dragon, though it would not bear this name for another five hundred years.
Light from a dragon-etched bronze lamp—Minh Long, the other dragon of light—cast shimmering beams onto the marble floor, like the glint of dragon scales, gradually fading as the morning sun poured through the front veranda, about to flood the library. The luxury room was as tranquil as a meditation chamber, yet it exuded the solemn dignity of a grand dynasty.
Before the desk of polished black rosewood, a low platform held a woven painting showing the scene of "dragons playing with the moon." On the wall hung a horizontal plaque with bold calligraphy: "A just heart brings justice to the realm"—the vermilion ink looked fresh, the strokes vigorous in the Phi Bạch calligraphy style.
The Phi Bạch was a very common calligraphical handwriting script of the Lý dynasty. It does not focus too much on precision and meticulousness like other calligraphy styles but focuses on the naturalness, freedom, and spirit of the writer. It had dry and white streaks, creating a unique and different beauty of this calligraphy style.
Above, a map of Đại Việt, painted on buffalo's leather, seemed to glow from the head of a small dragon - the present shape of Việt Nam. Library's interior decoration reflected the deep influence of Confucianism and Buddhism on the Lý court's politics, lifestyle and architecture.
Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor Trần Thủ Độ sat cross-legged behind the desk. His worn ceremonial robe draped loosely over his shoulders. His head was slightly bowed, his face serene, almost otherworldly. His eyes were contemplative. In his hand, a brush dipped in red ink traced precise lines on a design before him. The drawing labeled "Quốc Tử Giám" - the temple of Confucius and the first university of Đại Việt since the Lý dynasty, almost one thousand years until present.
Outside, the soft footsteps of the Chief Eunuch, the overseer of the inner palace, echoed lightly. He slowly opened the "thượng song hạ bản" doors—a type of door with wooden lattice above, and solid panels below—connecting the brick corridor to the library. Morning light streamed through the wooden slats, casting slanted rays across Trần Thủ Độ's face, like boundaries between statecraft, moral governance, and human virtue in his mind.
The Chief Eunuch paused, his voice soft as the breeze stirring the bamboo chime hanging in front of the corridor's door:
"Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor, are you still working? His Majesty will soon hold court. Please return to your private resident hall to prepare for the royal meeting."
Trần Thủ Độ did not reply. He gently set the brush down on the inkstone. A moment of silence passed, and then he rose and stepped out of the library's shadows, where the morning light and the distant sound of temple bells seemed to call his name—Thủ Độ, meaning the guardian of virtue.
"Is it morning already? A day passes so quickly. I serve the Son of God. I dare not neglect the duties entrusted to me."
The Chief Eunuch bowed his upper body very low and whispered secretly to Trần Thủ Độ. "My lord, I saw Princess Chiêu Hoàng and the Imperial Guard Commandant Ngô Tuấn…"
Trần Thủ Độ waved his hand immediately. "Tell no one, please."
"The Chess Master is still waiting outside, my lord." The Chief Eunuch bowed lower and whispered more lower.
"Arrange a place for him to rest. When I summon him, bring him to Thái Hòa Hall, disguised as a eunuch, and have him hold this parasol to shade His Majesty during this afternoon's chess match." He pointed to a big imperial parasol at the corner of the library.
"My lord…?"
"I've asked to make a small slit carved on top of the parasol. At noon, when the sun is at its zenith, its rays will shine through the slit onto the chessboard. The Chess Master will adjust and turn the parasol, directing the sunlight onto the pieces to signal moves to His Majesty."
"Your strategy and scheme are flawless, my lord. I truly admire you. Truly I am. Chế Củ, the defeated king of Champa, will never win against His Majesty in the chess games."
Trần Thủ Độ stood still, unmoved by this bland flattery. Then, a faint, bitter smile crossed his lips—not the triumphant grin of a cunning strategist, nor the satisfied smile of a man witnessing Đại Việt's rise. It was a grimace, dry and pained as if drawn from an old scar—a crack surfacing on a stone that had seemed unfeeling for years.
"Hmph. If not for the sake of Đại Việt's rivers and mountains, I would not stoop to such a petty and dishonorable scheme and plan."
He muttered himself and glanced back at the imperial parasol. It stood motionless, unaware it had been transformed into a tool for political manipulation—a prop in a water puppet show where he was unsure if he was the director, the player, the puppet, or all of them. At the parasol's peak, the small slit he had ordered carved seemed like an invisible eye, piercing into the mind of its creator. He suddenly felt breathless, as if each imagined ray of light passing through that slit was not sunlight but a needle stabbing into his chest.
"I am truly ashamed of myself."
His voice caught, a whisper to himself. It was no longer the voice of the Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor, the man who had crushed rebellions and preserved the dynasty. It was merely the sigh of an old man who had wagered his youth on the tides of fate, now confronting the deepest shadows within his heart—a place he had long avoided.
He walked slowly toward the thượng song hạ bản door, where the morning light spilled through. His hand brushed the wooden lattice of the door, then tightened, as if grasping at something slipping away from his life.
Outside, the distant temple bells echoed. Their sound, resonant with cycles of rebirth and impermanence, seemed to ask him: "So, what have you lived for?"
A life-building and defending a nation. A life of bloodshed and quelling chaos. A life forged as unyielding as tempered steel. Yet now, standing before the pierced imperial parasol—a seemingly harmless symbol of supreme authority—he saw the deceit within himself. Through that tiny slit, it gazed back at him with his own eyes like every night he confronted himself.
He felt small, pathetic, powerless. He thought of the princess he had subdued last night. How noble she was. How true to herself. She dared to love, to hate, to sacrifice. How fortunate she was.
He saw more clearly than ever: every victory has its price. This time, the cost was his soul. But he could not speak of it. No one would know. No one would understand. Because he was Trần Thủ Độ. And because he was Trần Thủ Độ, he could not afford to be weak.
He turned back, his gaze steady on the Chief Eunuch. His voice regained its resolve:
"Go. Do as I command."
Then he silently returned to the desk, picking up the brush he had set down. His hand trembled slightly. A stroke of ink veered off the blueprint's line. But he did not correct it. Not every mark can be erased.