Stepping through Đoan Môn, the main gate connecting the Thăng Long Citadel to the Thăng Long Imperial Forbidden City, Ngô Tuấn, the Imperial Guard Commander, halted abruptly. Beside him, Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor collapsed.
Blood matted his silver hair, and his frail, aged body trembled like a lamp flickering in the wind. Ngô Tuấn, tempered by a hundred battles, calmly supported him. Forged not only in blood and fire but also by courage, ingenuity, and compassion, he could not leave Trần Thủ Độ wounded without aid.
The clattering of cartwheels on Bát Tràng bricks snapped him out of his thoughts. A covered carriage, pulled by a brown horse, rolled forward. Without looking, Ngô Tuấn knew it was Trần Thủ Độ's carriage, waiting ever since it brought him to court.
Thăng Long's Cítdel was divided into two parts: the Imperial Forbidden City, home to the emperor and royal family, and the Inner Citadel, where the housing of officials' residences, barracks, prisons, and commoners. No one was permitted to ride horses or carriages within the Imperial Forbidden City, except His Majesty or during significant events like today, when horses and elephants were allowed entry.
The coachman leapt down, bowing deeply, silent as a shadow. Recognizing him as Trần Thủ Độ's son, Ngô Tuấn gave a slight nod. The son's anxious eyes betrayed unease, like a flickering lamp before a storm. Ngô Tuấn was unsurprised. Trần Thủ Độ, a stoic minister, had honed his children as one sharpens a blade. He had transformed the Trần clan into a formidable force, second only to the emperor and royal family.
Yet now, news from Thái Hòa Palace spread like wildfire: Trần Thủ Độ due to a failed scheme, had been arrested. The mighty Trần clan faced a storm of absolute power. Ngô Tuấn understood that Trần Thủ Độ's strength lay not only in his courtly authority but also in his vast network of informants, stretching from Đại Việt's inner palace to the Song dynasty. Legendary tales of his spies—shadows slipping through alleys, catching every whisper—had once astonished him. For sure, the Trần clan knew this information had leaked from the Thái Hoà Palace.
Yet, with the elite warriors Imperial Guard, soldiers of citadel barracks, and the force of Citadel Royal Security protecting His Majesty, the Imperial Forbidden City, and the Thăng Long Citadel, Ngô Tuấn knew no one would dare seize Trần Thủ Độ from him at this moment. Trần Thủ Độ, the Trần clan's standard-bearer, now lay motionless in his arms, a temporary end. But Ngô Tuấn also knew the Trần, like smoldering embers, needed only a gust to blaze anew.
Ngô Tuấn signaled to the two approaching Imperial Guards. His voice was resolute:
"Escort the Chess Master ahead. I'll tend to Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor wounds and follow you then."
The two guards saluted sharply, spears upright, and marched off like machines.
Ngô Tuấn placed Trần Thủ Độ in the carriage. He reached for the coarse cloth pouch behind his heart-protecting armor plate. He called it a medicine bag, though it held no medicine—only a clean cloth, a sealed porcelain vial of twice-distilled rice wine for cleaning wounds, and two flint stones bought from a Nanyang merchant. With these simple tools, Ngô Tuấn had survived countless battlefields, from muddy plains to treacherous mountains.
A seasoned veteran had taught him to pour strong liquor on wounds. Ngô Tuấn knew a small scratch could kill a soldier if untreated in the right way. He had seen soldiers' wounds fester, leading to fever and death, all from a minor cut not washed with liquor. He tore the cloth, soaked it in liquor, and cleaned the gash on Trần Thủ Độ's forehead. The old man flinched from the sting, his eyelids fluttering before he sank into a deep sleep. Ngô Tuấn gazed at him, his heart heavy. A devoted minister, who had given his life to Đại Việt, had now fallen by his own stratagem. Trần Thủ Độ's son hovered nearby, silent, not daring to speak a word.
Ngô Tuấn felt a pang of sorrow. A man like Trần Thủ Độ, more powerful and devoted than he, and the mighty Trần clan, still could not escape fate's vortex. Was a warrior's duty, like his own, worth a lifetime's sacrifice? In that moment, his love for Princess Chiêu Hoàng flared fiercely. He longed to rush to her side, to flee the capital together and live freely, but as the thought sparked, duty, like a cold blade, reminded him of his responsibility to His Majesty and the Imperial Citadel.
He signaled to Trần Thủ Độ's son: "Young Master, to the prison of the Citadel Royal Security."
The carriage rolled slowly from Đoan Môn Gate, leaving the silent Imperial Forbidden City for the Inner Citadel. No clamor, no soldiers' footsteps broke the stillness. All Thăng Long Citadel seemed to hold its breath, every eye, ear, and mind fixed on Thái Hòa Palace, where Emperor Lý Thánh Tông faced Chế Củ in two chess matches and a tense Human Chess game, deciding the fate of Đại Việt and Champa.
The prison of the Citadel Royal Security, a sturdy structure half-above ground near the western gate, loomed in heavy silence. The carriage met the Chess Master and the two guards at the gate. The prison commander led Ngô Tuấn to place Trần Thủ Độ on a straw-lined bed in a prepared cell.
Ngô Tuấn was unsurprised. He knew information had arrived before him.
Đại Việt's communication system during the Lý Dynasty was an intricate machine, operating ceaselessly. From Thái Hòa Palace, the heart of power, the emperor issued brief edicts—no more than three sentences—memorized by eunuchs and relayed orally to Tống Tín, the messengers at the gates of the Imperial Forbidden City. The recipient must repeat the edict, confirming by saying: "Clear!" before departing. This process continued until the final recipient.
Even the emperor, the dynasty's supreme authority, adhered to the "three-sentence" rule for edicts to ensure accuracy. Longer edicts were written as imperial decrees, sealed, and handed by eunuchs to the Tống Tín for communication and execution.
Within the Imperial Forbidden City, to maintain solemnity, eunuchs walked or ran, depending on the edict's urgency, delivering orders to Tống Tín at the gates. From the Inner Citadel, Tống Tín, in light armor on swift horses, galloped to postal stations, barracks, royal representatives, local statemen, prisons, or even the borders.
For urgent, concise messages, pigeons, horns, drums, flags, smoke, and fire complemented the Tống Tín. In battle, smoke and flags signaled by day, fire by night, with watchtowers relaying enemy movements. Drums signaled battle or confined areas, pigeons carried distant intelligence, and horns were used in peacetime. Every order, whether an edict, decree, drumbeat, flag, smoke, or pigeon message from Thái Hòa Palace, carried equal weight. Defiance meant execution under military law. Intercepting the Tống Tín or harming pigeons met the same fate. Ngô Tuấn, as an Imperial Guard Commandant, understood every detail connection in this machine.
Stepping out of the prison, he saw the carriage still there, but Trần Thủ Độ's son had vanished. Ngô Tuấn guessed he was fleeing the Thăng Long Citadel, like many Trần clansmen, quietly changing their full names to evade disaster. The Trần's clan saddened him, but served as a warning. Even Trần Thủ Độ, with all his cunning and power, could not escape fate. Ngô Tuấn's heart leaned toward Chiêu Hoàng, waiting at the gate of the Imperial Forbidden City, where he could abandon everything to live for himself.
"If even the Grand Imperial Tutor - Supreme Commander of the Army cum Left Chancellor Tràn Thủ Độ falls," he thought, "is this duty worth sacrificing my love?"
Suddenly.
A series of explosions shattered the silence from the Thái Hòa Palace, where chess games, unknown to him, which game was in turn, unfolded. Bronze cannons and smaller firearms, secret weapons of the court that were under research, development, and experimentation by the Royal Army, roared in the Human Chess match, shaking the Thăng Long Citadel. A test on human lives. Ngô Tuấn shuddered.
Screams of panic and pursuit erupted, breaking the citadel's tension. Ngô Tuấn gripped his sword hilt. His battle-hardened ears strained to detect the anomaly. The explosions and cries persisted, both parts belonging to and beyond the slaughter in the Human Chess, signaling a greater threat within the Imperial Forbidden City.
Then, three urgent drumbeats thundered from Thái Hòa Palace, like lightning shaking the earth. Ngô Tuấn, attuned to every rhythm, instantly recognized them. To other normal people, they were merely three regular drumbeats:
Bang! Bang! Bang!
But Ngô Tuấn understood clearly what the command was behind the three drum beats. Court drums were lighter and slower, but the command drums were deeper and faster, like an SOS signal nowadays.
The beating drums were ordering him:
First beat - mobilizing troops. Second beat - emergency signal. Third beat - protecting the Emperor.
Yet it wasn't enough. Horns blared and orders were from inside to outside the watch towers of Imperial Forbidden City in turn, sharp as a blade:
"Imperial Guard, assemble! Protect Thái Hòa Palace! Safeguard His Majesty!"
All alarms by sound were always followed by the "three-sentence" rule.
Atop Đoan Môn's watchtower, a red flag spun in alarm as black smoke rose, spreading urgency across the Inner Citadel.
Duty roared in Ngô Tuấn's chest, urging him to Thái Hòa Palace to protect the Emperor Lý Thánh Tông and the Imperial Forbidden City. But Chiêu Hoàng's image—her shimmering eyes under stone dragon shadows—wrenched his heart. He yearned to run to her, to flee together. Love whispered like a breeze across a field, but duty held him tight.
Đại Việt's relentless communication machine shook Ngô Tuấn. Thoughts of Chiêu Hoàng vanished. Gunfire, flags, rallying cries, and rescue drums merged into the nation's call, pulling him back to duty. Love, though powerful, could not surpass a man's responsibility to his court, country, and king.
Ngô Tuấn leapt immediately onto the empty carriage, whipping the brown horse toward Thái Hòa Palace. In his mind, he murmured:
"Northern Gate."