TABLE OF CONTENTS90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFxTI3IGI5a
PART ONE: INTRODUCTION
- Preface
- Dedication
- Blurb
- Copyright Page
- About the Author
- Editor’s Note
PART TWO: MAIN CONTENT90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8z47rSv0KA
7. Chapter I 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhSEUBSl0lS
8. Chapter II90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwRkMnCj3ke
9. Chapter III 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9kP4F1WvJx
10. Chapter IV 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDbt19LhENT
11. Chapter V 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡr05RA3maA4
12. Chapter VI 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5dQSEhGbnU
13. Chapter VII90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvivRGZTqIB
14. Chapter VIII 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfiNycAAtoY
15. Chapter IX 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIrkt4CF8wm
16. Chapter X 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiHJrL81lZT
17. Chapter XI90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgPPWQ40TC2
18. Chapter XII 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPcIOPSmtQp
19. Chapter XIII 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJFG64y8Xoj
20. Chapter XIV 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ19tK8coUrr
21. Chapter XV 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡby51jYLOzN
22. Chapter XVI 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvY4JgKSsPb
23. Chapter XVII90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDoPG0bgJIZ
24. Chapter XVIII 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2YJb3vELjC
25. Chapter XIX 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxHG2bOFIqQ
26. Chapter XX
PART THREE: CLOSING90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMmw9fQ8uDU
27. Appendix 90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRs9xpaoU5K
28. Afterword
PREFACE
"Each of us needs a place to belong—even if that place exists only in memory."
There are questions humans carry for a lifetime but rarely dare to answer: Who am I? Where do I come from? Where do I truly belong?
For someone like An, those questions are more than philosophical—they are scars in the mind, a headwind running through her veins, a fractured contradiction between three bloodlines—French, Chinese, and Vietnamese—all stirring within a body no one wants to claim.
"The Rebel of the Wind" is not a heroic ballad, nor is it a tale glorifying the pride of one who rises above prejudice. It is a journey back to the self—a painful, torn, and relentless process that each person must endure when standing at the blurry crossroads of race, gender, nationhood, and dignity.
An doesn't need anyone to grant her an identity. She doesn't need the world’s approval. All she needs is a place to belong—a place where she doesn’t have to explain why she’s different, a place where she doesn’t have to strain to prove she deserves to exist.
And in that journey home—a home that may not be Vietnam, China, or France—An learns how to forgive the past, dissolve the biases, and embrace her own being.
This novel will not only make you reflect on national identity, but also invite you to look inward:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxuibRmAfyq
Which bloodline governs your thoughts each day?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYcrSqjDXJZ
Are the values you believe to be “true” truly yours—or simply what you were taught to believe?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBMqiZu0M6F
And most importantly, have you ever forgiven yourself?
In the end, everyone needs a place to return to. Whether that place is a nation, a memory, a loved one, or a gentle breeze threading through the shards of a broken heart.
“The Rebel of the Wind” is a novel for those who are lost at their own crossroads—and still believe that even when the wind blows backward, the lotus can bloom from the mud.
Pham Le Quy90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp7Tlv59blN
Saigon, June 2025
DEDICATION
To the hybrid souls,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm2Fu52FWUM
to those who stand at the edge of identity,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡq3Hcbg5AT2
to those who never chose where they were born,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNGMtT57U3V
but still bravely choose how to live.
To all the “Ans” of the world—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmc0IUauAB4
the flowers blooming in storms,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx2d87SXm1I
who, despite being doubted, compared, and misunderstood,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiSrzOSNWgw
still choose to hold on to dignity and a noble silence.
To you—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3EXbapHk20
if you’ve ever been torn between East and West,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHITAqHLCEN
between right and wrong, between reason and desire.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7qwfGOvwpK
May you find yourself somewhere in these pages.
And one day,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTHIKdfdvf3
you will know:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpw59G5Crzh
You belong.
BLURB
Three bloodlines. One body. One soul without a nation.
An—a girl carrying the blood of France, China, and Vietnam—lives not only amidst the clashes of culture, history, and politics,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAS5s1yVQe9
but also torn apart by society’s prejudices on gender, identity, and dignity.
A memory-erasing drug has upended everything.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkJS1BFMJNB
But scarier than losing one’s memory—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzGLfTkZ8Nj
is no longer knowing who you are in this world.
As the shattered mirrors of the past begin to reflect,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoRdrgpzUWn
as family, love, and hatred intertwine into an inescapable maze,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ35hdh8WPk0
An must choose:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUHx3aqgAII
to become a pawn in the power game between East and West,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbEGfHJeMvH
or to rise and defend the rejected part of her own humanity.
In a world being assimilated and fractured,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSAbpOXWrCi
amid political schemes and battles for identity,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyPbbTkWAv9
The Rebel of the Wind is a journey against the current—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKLE02KqXwn
where one deemed “wrong” learns how to live “right” with herself.
A story of identity, forgiveness, and dignity.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡau0SihL9Fz
A sigh for those who were never chosen—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7lSFVeDJRW
but still chose to exist.
And a gentle reminder:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxOAQXygGFC
No matter how many bloodlines run through you,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFw2UXzeFHY
you can still bloom like a lotus in the mud.
Copyright Page
© 2025 Phạm Lê Quý90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ18yAWcliHV
Title: The Rebel of the Wind (Người Gió Nghịch)90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc7HfpqkmG0
Author: Phạm Lê Quý
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, photocopying, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is purely coincidental or used with literary intent.
First Edition – 202590Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH1tgJiDfb4
Published in Vietnam90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFju0VtQxS3
Copyright belongs to the author90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCjZA9enoet
ISBN: (To be filled in when available)90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡi5EzYFZNFS
Cover Design: Phạm Lê Quý90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsPoUAZ7UFI
Editing: Phạm Lê Quý90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxhsPKmdAUQ
Contact: [email protected]
About the Author
Phạm Lê Quý is a storyteller born of many winds—the winds of memory, of cultural intersections, and of unanswerable questions. More than just a writer, Quý is a seeker: someone who journeys through the blurred borders between identity and prejudice, between dignity and silent wounds.
The Rebel of the Wind is a literary milestone in Quý’s journey, but it is not the beginning. It is the culmination of silent years lived alongside the question “Who am I in this world?”—a question that is far from easy for those whose lives have been fragmented by blood, culture, gender, or belief.
With a writing style rich in symbolism, emotional depth, and inner conflict, Quý does not write to explain—but to illuminate—with truth, with tears, and with the courage of those who refuse to be silenced. These pages do not seek escape, but a place for the human spirit to belong—even if only in imagination.
“If I am a rebel wind, then let me blow inward—toward the place I have never belonged.”90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡco4hSIhs6N
— Phạm Lê Quý
Editor’s Note
Author: Phạm Lê Quý
I did not write The Rebel of the Wind to find answers,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWWC0qCcLyX
but to have the courage to face the questions life has silently and painfully asked me.
This is not a political novel, nor a manifesto on culture or gender.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN1ZI0SGoSG
It is the echo of a soul that once felt too “impure” to be loved,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKRYhcfAjQg
too “different” to be recognized.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXC1G3khUew
A soul that lived among clashing winds—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR2zTr4hnnX
torn by heritage, by prejudice, by love, and by unnamed silences.
At times during writing, I wanted to stop.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdBu3ptetKK
Because truth—even fictionalized—hurts.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhynkygzaaW
But then I realized:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuShV17nLlm
If I didn’t write, those like “An” would never have a voice.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡko2xBJtEoJ
And if even one reader, somewhere, sees themselves in these pages,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwQ3sNlpjPV
then every loneliness I’ve borne was worth it.
Some chapters in this book follow nontraditional structures.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP0NDPu8f8m
Some dialogues may carry metaphors or symbolism.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡB54FhxXjAb
Please read with your heart, not just your mind.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzR6zed061R
Because sometimes, the deepest meanings lie not in the words,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE52GKdMRTs
but in the silences between them.
Thank you—for being brave enough to read a story that goes against the current.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2olepq2a03
And thank you to the winds—because even when they’re lost,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTOrj0wrayl
they still find their way home.
— Phạm Lê Quý90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBPLjPQesX5
June 2025
Chapter I: The Blood of Three Worlds
An awoke in a stark white room—no windows, just the cold flicker of fluorescent light glinting off a crumbling ceiling. The scent of antiseptic mingled with the metallic tang of old blood, as if her past had never been washed from her body.
She didn’t remember who she was.
Not in the way that people forget things temporarily. It was a complete, rounded, absolute erasure. Even the name “An” was something others called her, not something she recognized as her own. Linh—the woman who claimed to be her friend—had told her it was over now, that the past was a burden best shed.
“You’ll thank me later,” Linh had said as she injected a clear liquid into An’s veins—a so-called memory-erasing drug, imported from China, “quick and clean, like the past never existed.”
But what Linh didn’t know—or refused to admit—was that erasing the past meant erasing identity, roots, and the very blood flowing in her veins.
At night, when shadows crept across the walls, An heard voices within her—soft, spectral echoes in different languages. Some nights, it was French, whispering like wind through the stone corridors of Versailles. Other nights, it was classical Chinese, solemn like ancestral prayers from cold tombs buried deep in Yunnan. But most often, it was the lullaby of a Vietnamese woman—faceless, yet with a voice like stitches across a wounded heart.
She didn’t understand the words, yet they felt familiar—like her blood was not one, but three rivers flowing into the same ocean—an ocean of isolation.
One morning, she walked out of what Linh had called a “mental wellness sanctuary.” The city greeted her with chaotic sounds and faded sunlight. People passed by as though she were invisible. No one looked her in the eye—except for an old bookseller at the mouth of an alley.
“You carry a strange wind,” he said. “Like someone born of three seasons caught in one contrary gust.”
“I’m Vietnamese,” she replied. But even as she spoke, her own voice unsettled her. It held the cadence of southern France, the lingering softness of the North, and a nasal tone both gentle and firm, characteristic of midland Vietnam.
“No,” the old man replied, “You are diluted. And that’s not bad. Just... dangerous in a world that worships purity.”
An left without saying goodbye, but his words clung to her like a shadowed sun behind her back. She began noticing—the glances of passersby. At first careless, then shifting to suspicion, as though they smelled something off in her—something unplaceable.
She sought refuge in an old temple hidden in an alley. There, the old monk asked her to sit and listen to the bell.
“When the bell rings, what do you hear in your heart?”
She closed her eyes. There wasn’t just one bell—but three:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFxwP1vPA8p
A long chime echoing from Indochina.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwdlEfsimjl
A short ring like a French legionnaire’s final farewell.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP37sX6HOc7
A strained, trembling hum like Chinese silk torn in half.
“Three spirits reside in one body,” the monk said. “You are a confluence—where memory is not erased but equally divided between three powers.”
“But I no longer know who I am,” An whispered, almost in tears. “Should I live as a Vietnamese? A Frenchwoman? Or as someone with Chinese chemicals running through her blood?”
“You are all of them,” he replied. “That is your burden—and your liberation. You belong to no one place—but you can be the bridge.”
Back in the white room, An was no longer the old An. But she didn’t yet know who the new An was. She began to write.
In Vietnamese—writing about a nameless sorrow.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6wPtfIuQRt
In French—writing about a love that was never acknowledged.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoppQe4ruGv
In Chinese—writing about a promise betrayed by the past.
Each line of text became a bloodstream.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4Thom9rFpj
Each page, a peeled layer of skin—searching for the soul that had once been wiped away.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwHrWxWHmQ8
And the more she wrote, the clearer she heard the breath, the sobs, the hopes—of three souls living inside her.
One night, Linh returned. She smiled as she saw An holding a pen, her eyes as clear as rain after a storm.
“You remember now?” Linh asked, worried.
“No. You erased it all,” An said calmly. “But I’m rewriting—crafting a new self. One that carries the blood of three cultures, but is not beholden to any name.”
“How will you live?” Linh asked.
An whispered, “I’ll live like the wind—without a passport, without a past, without a form—but with a voice. And I believe that somewhere in this world, someone will hear my wind and realize they, too, are a child of history’s crossroads.”
Chapter II: The Third Person in a Purebred Society
On the streets of Saigon, An felt like a misaligned hue in a black-and-white palette. No one said anything outright, but glances never lied. A quick look was enough for her to understand she wasn’t welcome. A prolonged “hmm” from a vendor, a fleeting gaze followed by avoidance, a subconscious frown—all were ways people refused to acknowledge someone who didn’t belong to any “standard shade.”
The Vietnamese didn’t hate her. But they didn’t know how to love her either. Because she was… a third.
The number three—in local culture—is a bad omen. Something incomplete, awkward, neither round nor square. Neither beginning nor end. The third knock in ghost stories. The third child—the extra.
An carried three bloodlines—French, Chinese, and Vietnamese. But in others’ eyes, she carried none in particular. The French part was suspected to be a faded layer of lipstick. The Chinese lineage, a wrinkle on history’s brow. And Vietnam—the homeland she lived in—was the mirror that reflected most clearly her own out-of-placeness.
Once, on a rare date, a Vietnamese man—educated, polite, good-looking—looked at her through the steam of his coffee and asked:
“So... what are you?”
An replied, “I’m me.”
He chuckled softly. “I mean... what kind of mix?”
“French, Chinese, Vietnamese.”
The answer dropped like a stone into a still pond. He fell silent for a long time.
“Three bloodlines? Wow. That’s... something. But... I guess you’re not planning to marry a Vietnamese guy, are you?”
The question—half-joke, half-judgment—was clear. An simply nodded, as if confirming the obvious: this society didn’t need another species that couldn’t be named.
She had grown used to these silent divisions: Vietnamese men preferred Vietnamese women—pure, traditional, well-bred. They valued the “virtuous daughter,” prized “obedience, grace, speech, and morality.” And she, though never rebellious, never overstepped, was automatically seen as a “mixed girl”—a symbol of Westernization, a representative of “Western women”: flirtatious, wild, lacking restraint.
How absurd, An thought, that morality could be judged by blood type.
To Vietnamese men, she was unmarriageable. To Vietnamese women, she was not a friend to be trusted.
She was not despised for any wrongdoing—but for her lack of purity. In a society obsessed with “racial purity” yet constantly mimicking the West, her tri-blooded heritage became a paradox—a cultural virus.
Once, a group of Vietnamese girls whispered mockingly behind her in a bar:
“Is that a guy? Looks more like a gay dude. Three bloodlines and not a drop of masculinity.”
An heard them. But she wasn’t angry—because they weren’t wrong. She didn’t conform to what they wanted, didn’t fit their mold. She was soft in thought, gentle in action, and at times, even questioned her own gender—not because she was lost, but because society had made her constantly ask, “Am I man enough to be a man?”
And even when she looked Westward—toward the land of her French blood—she didn’t feel welcomed there either. White men looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and pity.
“Sorry, but you look more Asian than European.”
A sentence as light as wind, but sharp enough to cut skin.
To them, she wasn’t a gentle French-Vietnamese lady—but an Asian woman whose Western blood wasn’t “concentrated” enough to be considered one of them. Her choice—to live in Vietnam, to embrace her two-thirds Eastern heritage—was seen as a form of self-degradation, a betrayal of “superior” culture.
So the West dismissed her as second-class. Vietnam disdained her for “impure blood.” China remained silent—as history often does with nameless children.
She remembered that night. The night Linh and Nguyên—two people she thought were friends—injected her with that drug meant to erase everything.
“To let you start over,” Linh had said.
But no one can start over if their roots have been stolen.
An tried to find a reason. She asked herself a hundred times, “Why me? Why three bloodlines? Why not just one or two—like people are used to?” But eventually she realized: no answer would ever be reasonable. Life is just a game of chance, and she had drawn the losing card—the number 3.
And in the end, the only one who understood her... was herself.
No one saw her fear when stepping into a crowd. No one heard her heart breaking, piece by piece, from being rejected not for her mistakes—but for her genetic structure. No one read the invisible label on her forehead—one society had etched: “Belongs to no one.”
But amidst it all, An began to learn how to look in the mirror without hating herself.
She didn’t choose her blood. But she could choose how to live.
If society labeled her as mixed—she would be the most beautiful, the strongest of them all, redefining what it meant to be “pure.” If people called her “abnormal” for being different—she would become a symbol for those who had once been labeled so, and still lived with dignity, with love, with humanity.
On the rooftop, under the Saigon night, An looked at the golden lights glowing from the buildings. She closed her eyes. And in that moment, she felt three heartbeats—three bloodlines pulsing at once.
France – freedom.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfSptf1Jp9b
China – depth.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ96isPqFIks
Vietnam – resilience.
She didn’t need to choose. Because she was all of them. She was herself.
And that was the one thing no one could ever take away.
Chapter III: The Identity of a Renunciation
An was no longer young, yet not old enough to surrender all her desires. She stood at a life’s crossroads—where most people are forced to choose a path. But for someone with three bloodlines like her, the crossroads weren’t just about picking a direction; it was about dissecting herself, piece by piece, to decide which part to keep and which part to destroy.
She lived like someone awakening from a long slumber. But that sleep had been no dream. It was tangled, murky, filled with questions that defied answers.
Should I love?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH0JrIAcMmH
Who am I among these three bloodlines?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6HSgervCxg
Do I have the right to choose love for myself, or must I live as a function of a community, of a nation?
At first, she thought these were fleeting clouds. But as time passed, they thickened, dense and unrelenting, pouring down on her like a summer rain—long and chilling.
Inside her, there remained a small space longing to be loved. A flickering flame, feebly reaching out for the warmth of someone—man or woman, Western or Eastern. But beside that flame stood a wall—solid, unyielding—built from honor, pride, history lessons, and traditional warnings. And it was that very wall that stopped everything.
“Love is a bargain,” she told herself. “No matter who I love—I’ll have to pay.”
If she loved a man, she would have to suppress the softness in her soul—to become straight, strong, and hard as the “real man” this society demanded.
If she loved a woman, she would have to endure the stigma of an Eastern society—where the third gender was still seen more as a curse than an identity.
If she loved someone Western, she would face the alienation of her community, her family, and those who still saw the West as a symbol of decadence, promiscuity, and “selling oneself to foreigners.”
Whomever she chose, she would lose.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡE6cRC9kuJv
Whichever path she took, she would be lost.
So An chose to stand still.
She stopped loving anyone. Stopped waiting. Stopped hoping for connections that could drain her and mold her into someone else's ideal version.
She began living with herself—with fear, with loneliness, with the incomplete identity of someone carrying three bloodlines. But strangely, in not choosing anyone, she found something like liberation. A quiet, smoldering light. It didn’t blaze like love, but it didn’t die out like despair. It was… peace.
She began piecing herself back together—like a potter picking up shards after an earthquake.
French blood—she placed at the bottom.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCuyjNGLSht
Not because she hated France. But because that blood came from a foreign woman whose legacy left her “impure,” distrusted, and rejected in Vietnamese society. To her, French blood symbolized displacement, cold nights, and a luxury she could never touch.
Chinese blood—she placed in the middle.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2B0MzdlNy0
It was the blood of power, of logic, of discipline and control. But also the blood of Nguyên—the one who manipulated her, who conspired with Linh to inject her with a drug that stole her memories. It was both powerful and dangerous. Both near and far.
Vietnamese blood—she placed at the top.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6uvbaMGni9
Because it was the blood of endurance. Of rice fields. Of her mother. Of lullabies. Though bruised by history, poor, and outdated—Vietnamese blood was the only one that made her feel like someone. It was where she belonged. It was her beginning and her end.
She sat before a mirror. Looked deep into her own eyes.
“An,” she said. “You are Vietnamese.”
The echo rang back—not with doubt, but with clarity.
From that day on, she no longer dreamed of Western men. No longer felt her heart flutter before the strength, freedom, and confidence of Western women. She didn’t hate them—but she no longer wished to be a part of them.
She learned to speak softly. Learned to walk slowly. Learned to be silent when needed. Learned to lower her eyes when others stared directly. Not because she was weak—but because she had chosen to return to her roots—to embrace the Eastern part of herself, the gentle part, the wise part.
She limited her contact with Westerners, avoided old friends who once tempted her to “escape.” She returned to Vietnamese food, to the ao dai, to fish sauce and lullabies.
She could no longer remember the smile of a woman named Elise—the first Frenchwoman to hold her during a sunset. Nor did she long for the gaze of a man named Luc—the one who once told her, “You don’t need to choose sides. You are beautiful because you are three.”
No. She no longer wanted to be three.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgT0YjlVafa
She only wanted to be one.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFHpLVUkeBy
To be An—Vietnamese.
She sent Linh a message:
“You don’t need to apologize anymore. I understand.”
The message went unanswered. But An wasn’t waiting.
Then one day, walking down a narrow street, she passed by a wedding. She watched the bride in a white ao dai, walking beside her Vietnamese groom. They smiled—simple smiles, unconflicted, without choice.
An smiled gently.
She, too, was on a journey of union—not with anyone else, but with herself. A marriage to the self she once abandoned. A marriage to dignity. A marriage to silence.
Because sometimes, renunciation isn’t surrender—it’s the final awakening of one who has passed through the storm.
Chapter IV: The Sister Not of Blood
That afternoon, Saigon was painted with the amber-orange hue of a June sunset. On the rooftop of a small café, An sat across from Linh after many months apart—or perhaps after many lifetimes lost and found.
The small table between them was no longer a border. And the steaming cup of coffee before them was no longer a veil that clouded the truth.
An looked into Linh’s eyes, then saw herself reflected within them.
And she suddenly realized—Linh was no longer the Linh of the past. No longer the woman she had once branded a traitor, the one who had injected memory-erasing drugs into her veins, the symbol of control.
Linh now was—someone with her own fractures. A woman who had become a hybrid between East and West. And more importantly: Linh was someone who had also stepped out of the darkness, as An once did.
There was a time An saw Linh as a faded shadow behind her. Not bright enough to illuminate, not bold enough to leave a mark. Just someone walking beside—not to accompany, but to witness.
But An had been wrong.
It was Linh who never left. The only one who stayed when everyone else had turned away.
An remembered collapsing on hospital beds, trembling in drug-induced dreams. She remembered the quiet hand-holding, the bowls of lukewarm porridge Linh cooked in the night, the silent glances.
“I didn’t know if what I did was right or wrong,” Linh had once said. “I just knew you needed someone—even if that someone had once hurt you.”
Now An understood.
Not everyone dares to step into another’s pain. Not everyone dares to stand on the edge between guilt and redemption—knowing they may be mistaken for the villain. But Linh had done just that.
And because of it, she was no longer a shadow—she was a piece of An’s shattered mirror.
“I once had a twin sister in the West,” An said, voice soft as silk. “But she wasn’t there when I needed her most. You were.”
Linh smiled. A smile laced with sadness and warmth.
“Because I once had a younger sister too… but never truly understood her.”
The two women sat side by side, saying no more. But their silence was not awkward—it was like a symphony composed of acceptance and forgiveness.
The broken mirrors in An’s heart—the mirror of memory, of the past, of pride—began to mend. Not with glue, not with technique, but with the presence of someone who could listen, remain silent, and take responsibility without justification.
An began to see herself again—but not as the lonely, lost, shame-ridden self she once was.
She saw a version of An who could mention Nguyên without trembling. An who could speak of her parents without flinching. An who could walk among crowds without feeling like an outcast.
And Linh—the woman who had once injected her with the drug of forgetting—was now the one helping her remember. Selectively. Remembering not to reopen pain, but to move forward.
“Do you think you’ve changed too?” An asked.
Linh nodded.
“Since being with you.”
“I used to think you were Western,” An said.
“And I used to think you were a Westerner lost in Asia.”
They laughed. Not loudly, but the sound spread into the air like the subtle fragrance of a rare flower—one that only blooms when the season in the heart has changed.
That night, An returned home, opened her laptop, and began to write. For the first time, not to explain, to defend, or justify—but to preserve. She wrote about Linh, about a soul-sister not of her blood. A woman who had replaced the image of her biological sister with honest, patient presence.
She wrote:
“I used to think I was all alone. But in accepting forgiveness, I discovered I was never truly by myself. There are those who aren’t there when we need them—but there are also those who make no promises… and still stay. And they are the family we choose.”
When she finished writing, An felt a weight lift from her heart.
No longer was it scarred by the question: Who am I among three bloodlines?
That question no longer mattered.
Because now, she had found someone who could walk with her—not to fix the past, but to help build the present.
Linh was no longer “the one who hurt.” No longer just “the one from before.” She had become the one who showed An this truth: forgiveness is not weakness—it is the strength to open another door, where the wind no longer blows against you, and where the heart is no longer trapped inside the mirror.
Because sometimes, the one who heals us is not the one who resembles us—but the one who once wounded us and chose to stay when everyone else walked away.
Chapter V: Two Graves and the One Who Forgives
An dreamed of a forest burning to ash.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPPYfoAvQHE
In the dream, she walked among shattered tree trunks, with cinders and ashen leaves falling from the sky like black snow. Amid the ruins, she saw a blonde woman sitting beside a grave, hugging her knees. The woman's pale blue eyes were clouded like winter water—no longer reflecting light, only exhaling fatigue. In her hands was a photograph—old, torn, barely holding together the image of an Asian man whose gaze was as hard as steel.
“He destroyed me to resurrect himself,” the woman said, voice hoarse like smoke.
“Who was he?” An asked.
“Nguyên’s father,” she replied. “The first man to carry the illusion of revenge in the name of justice. But those like him… often lose themselves before they reclaim anything.”
An woke at three in the morning, her back damp with cold sweat. Her heart beat in a frenzied rhythm—not from fear, but because she understood. For the first time, she truly understood:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh4tC6LERf7
Nguyên was her enemy—but he was also a victim.
She arranged to meet him.
Not at a café. Not in public. But at a cemetery.
The cemetery was hidden beyond a slope, a resting place for the unclaimed—names no one remembered, faces no one mourned.
Nguyên arrived dressed in black. His gaze was the same—as hot iron, as coal, as if ready to burn anyone who met it. But this time, there was no hatred. Only emptiness.
“Do you still believe in redemption?” An asked.
Nguyên said nothing.
“You once injected me with a drug so I’d forget who I was. You used me like a pawn. But now… I no longer hate you.”
Nguyên’s eyes trembled—for the first time in years.
“I don’t need your forgiveness,” he said, voice low and rough. “I chose that path. I believed that if I erased the past of someone like you—a mixed-blood—I could create something new. A ‘pure’ being. But I was wrong.”
An looked at the two symbolic graves before them. One bore the word Memory. The other, Revenge.
“I dug two graves,” she said. “One for me. One for you. Because as our Eastern ancestors once said: before you begin a journey of vengeance, dig two graves.”
Nguyên let out a laugh—silent, dry, like cracked lips breaking apart.
“Who do you think I am?”
“Someone who once believed he could reclaim honor for his bloodline,” An replied. “But in the end, you found a truth: no one truly wins when trying to erase an entire kind.”
She stepped closer. Close enough to hear the uneven rhythm of his heart beneath his dark coat.
“You know,” she continued, “even Linh—the one you trusted most, the one who stood by you—eventually chose to become fully Western. And when she did, you finally realized: Westerners can never truly become Eastern. And Easterners can never fully be Western.”
Nguyên clenched his fists. His eyes turned red—not from anger, but from acceptance.
“Then who am I?” he asked, eyes fixed on the two graves.
“Someone lost in the shadows of his ancestors,” An answered. “Like the French woman in my dream—she once loved an Asian man, but your ancestors left her adrift. Alone, she turned her back on herself. And now, you are following her path.”
Nguyên was silent for a long time. Then, like part of an ancient ritual, he knelt before the two graves.
“You forgive me?” he asked.
“No,” An shook her head. “I forgive myself—for ever giving you the power to hurt me. And I forgive you… so I can move on.”
They stood beside each other—not enemies, not victors or losers. Just two silhouettes in a graveyard, silent like the remnants of a centuries-long ideological war.
“I no longer believe in hatred,” Nguyên said. “Because now I know: if I want to be Western, I’ll never have black hair, black eyes, yellow skin… unless I destroy them all. And if I did that, I wouldn’t be human anymore.”
An touched one of the tombstones.
“And I… I once wanted to erase the European blood in me. But I realized: denying part of myself is denying the whole.”
On the way home, An watched motorbikes whizz past like arrows. She smiled—a smile that belonged neither to East nor West. Not a smile of victory. Not one of defeat.
But a smile of someone who had stepped off the battlefield—not as a survivor, but as one who had laid down her weapon.
Forgiveness was not the end—but the beginning of truth.
Chapter VI: The Replacement Can Never Be the Original
That afternoon, the wind was still.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIU9Rbb6UUI
The air seemed frozen. Time stood still.
An sat in an old teahouse, holding a crackled ceramic cup, silently watching the tea seep into the hairline fractures. Outside, Saigon was still as noisy as ever—but in her mind, only one image remained: Linh.
The girl who had entered An’s life like a breeze.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRIL4vEfJUV
Gentle. Yet cold. Soothing. Yet dangerously quiet.
The girl who once said she wanted to stay by An like a shadow… but over time, seemed to want to become An. Not to walk beside her—but to replace her.
An remembered Linh’s gaze from those days—the look that wasn’t quite envy, nor admiration. It was something between jealousy and the longing to possess.
Linh didn’t want to be An’s friend. Linh wanted to become a “better” version of her—prettier, more Western, more successful, more loved, and… more remembered.
An had once felt angry. Bitter. Disgusted—seeing Linh as someone without roots, someone who abandoned her identity to chase the imported shine of secondhand dreams.
But today—with everything settled—she no longer felt angry.
Because now she understood.
Linh wasn’t like Nguyên—a man swallowed by the past and ideology to the point of losing himself without realizing.
Linh, on the contrary, was fully aware.
She knew exactly what she was doing. She understood the price. And still, she chose to pay.
Linh chose to live like a Westerner—not because she was one, but because she wanted to be loved like one. To be desired like one. To belong in their gleaming world.
She trained herself to change her voice, her walk, her makeup, her eyes—even her smile—to resemble the foreign women in French films.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnYqxlLfqHs
She wore their dresses, painted her lips like theirs, and loved their men.
An had once thought it was filthy, traitorous, self-destructive.
But now… she only felt sad.
“Maybe she loves the things I never could,” An whispered to herself.
Linh didn’t want to be herself—because herself wasn’t glamorous enough. Not chosen enough. Not loved enough.
She wanted to be An.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk4QokKRE4T
But not the An as she was—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbkNXYOUBUy
She wanted to be an “improved” An: an An with visibly Western blood, a Western body, a Western romance, a Western future.
An that… An had never been.
An looked out the window. A foreign couple walked by, holding hands, laughing. She smiled—a faint smile, like fading tea smoke.
“You wanted to replace me, Linh?” she murmured.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhOYwT7D6gm
“Then take it all. Take the worst parts too. Take the deepest wounds. Take even the memories that were erased from me.”
She closed her eyes briefly. Then opened them and wrote a line in her worn leather notebook:
“If you truly want to become me,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8OkaFlCUHZ
Then bear ten times what I’ve endured.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUOJ8NZr6Ro
You once thought I was pitiful.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6Q1wFNJN7c
So now, I hope the world loves you—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY2XL02MCh7
In the way it pitied and despised me.”
It wasn’t a curse. It was a release.
An no longer needed Linh to pay.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaVCw1Qr8jm
Because, in truth—Linh already had.
The cost of losing your identity is emptiness.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPACaR2haQA
The cost of loving a world that won’t accept you is loneliness.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡstLWAhwaWt
The cost of becoming a replacement is never being loved as yourself.
Linh now—might look very Western.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhf8BcGbYtj
But perhaps… no one truly sees her as Western.
And perhaps no one remembers that she was once a Vietnamese girl—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡf0ogfzZuxE
Once knew the taste of fish sauce,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡviKSu9XSXy
Once spoke her mother tongue,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWcUlpJLbMS
Once understood the meaning of heart.
An picked up her phone and sent a short message:
“Linh,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9yGm8kTNqp
I forgive you.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRq2jx8dC5j
Because you didn’t take anything from me.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN2eoL3ebUY
You only took what you’ll never be able to keep.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡifuWMDcFb2
And I no longer want to hold onto them either.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3LBYweolFw
Your world is beautiful—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5p3n2dsw3P
I just hope you’re strong enough when it turns its back on you.”
There was no reply. But An didn’t need one.
She had forgiven.
Not because Linh deserved it.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA57rT8e9G2
But because An deserved to feel light again.
That night, An dreamed a strange dream.
She saw Linh standing in the middle of Paris, wearing a white dress, spinning in the crowd.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAc3u4bETx8
But Linh’s eyes… were those of someone who had gone too far to find the way back.
An walked toward her, ready to call out.
But Linh didn’t hear.
She just stood there, spinning endlessly—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3w26sKm5Ty
Like a wind-up doll in a music box no one opened anymore.
An woke in the middle of the night.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAJPU6jNhDf
Alone.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwGqbBz5ROz
But lighter than ever before.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSg9TnUABOr
It means refusing to let the past clutch your throat and drag you back into the abyss.
And An had done it.
Because she understood—not everyone who betrays is cruel.
Some betray… because they are too weak before the glitter.
And they, in the end, must live with that glitter forever—90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡduoP6y5Gd4
Without ever touching the light.
Chapter VII: The One at the Center of the Cycle
An sat beneath the moss-covered eaves of an ancient monastery on the outskirts of Da Lat, beside Linh — the woman who had once been her shadow, then her friend, then her teacher. Neither spoke. They simply sipped ginger tea, quietly watching the last rays of daylight fall into the valley like ashes from a war that had never been declared.
Nguyên still lingered in their lives like a ghost. He was no longer a man obsessed with drawing a line between East and West. He had changed colors. He no longer sought to divide — but to merge. He no longer hated the West, but longed to conquer it. He no longer rejected it, but wished to taint it, to dilute its blood, to stain it with the shadowy ambition of a man like him.
And for that, he needed Linh — a Vietnamese woman with a Western air, a symbol of the “domestication of the foreign.” And he needed An — the soil from which Linh had emerged, so that a new form could grow from it.
Nguyên wanted An’s blessing.
Not in the traditional sense of matchmaking. But as a kind of ritual sacrifice. A coronation.
He wanted An to give her approval to his union with Linh — as a form of surrender, an admission that An had failed to preserve her identity. That now, the very man who once dreamed of reviving “pure Vietnamese” blood was embracing the ambition of conquering the West through a political marriage.
“You’re a bridge,” he once told An, his voice calm and reverent like a prophet’s.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGtMbQVWBYk
“But a bridge cannot stand unless both sides agree to meet. You must allow your sister to marry me, so that the West will see Vietnam as fertile ground for ‘intercourse.’ And then… power will flow to us from the other side of the world.”
But An remained silent.
Because she knew: if she agreed, she would no longer be herself.
Nguyên wanted even more. He wanted to force An to bless the union of two Vietnamese men — to make her a symbol of support for same-sex marriage in a society still wary of the third gender.
If An, a woman of three bloodlines, supported gay marriage, she would become a multifaceted emblem — an international symbol ready to be used in any political, cultural, or power strategy.
“You can make the world believe Vietnam is progressive,” he whispered.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsfW59fMx6c
“And I… will make them submit.”
But An refused.
She would not bless any union where power led the way instead of love.
Instead, she chose to bless the love between two Vietnamese women.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXQMyzhhIHf
Not to oppose men,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ29ecxbpAbu
But to create balance — between West and East, between femininity and masculinity, between emotion and logic.
An believed: if two Vietnamese women, carrying Western souls, could love each other, then the West would no longer dare to look down on the East.
And in that, An would become “more Western” — but in a way that she defined herself.
She followed Linh — not because Linh deserved to be a teacher,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKnKBpveXkO
But because within Linh burned a fire that An needed to learn to tame — the fire of survival through sacrifice.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFFbtsfw1nu
But Linh… never understood that.
Linh began to look down on An.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtREUUUiUlg
She believed that being seen with An devalued her worth.
“You’re like a crack on my face,” Linh once said in anger.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNwqOgDung1
“And you,” An replied, “are what grew from that crack.”
An no longer resented Linh.
She understood.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrGWOFXAlSz
Anyone who tries to live as a Western ideal will eventually be ashamed of anything that reminds them: they are not truly Western.
Linh had abandoned An — like someone fleeing the shadow they once stepped through.
But Linh forgot one thing:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXiyC657fEq
No one walks past their guide without carrying their footprints.
Nguyên, Linh — all of them — orbited around An like planets without their own light.
And now, An understood: she was the sun.
Not a blinding radiance.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnnkAj62LmK
But the anchor — the axis upon which every ambition, imitation, and mutation revolved.
She was the center of the cycle.
Not because she was the best.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaN2q9RhG6n
Not because she was the strongest.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXQ1A3Xb69p
But because she had dared to endure the pain that others only sought to wipe away.
She turned to Linh — who was carefully reapplying red lipstick in a mirror.
“You can deny me,” An said calmly,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSXXbHaqJ0X
“But you can’t deny the truth: without me, you would forever be an incomplete version.”
Linh was stunned. Her face blurred into the amber light. She didn’t reply, didn’t react — just glanced sideways.
That glance — filled with envy, gratitude, and regret — was the only answer.
That night, An wrote a single line in her journal:
“Some spend their whole lives trying to replace someone else.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFrt98DWwax
But only those who truly endure are remembered by history.”
Then she closed the page.
And quietly stepped outside.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBgfUhhZioG
She didn’t say goodbye.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9u6gGBludj
She didn’t wait for anyone to walk with her.
Because those who stand at the center of the cycle…90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkTvKtxh94r
Need no one’s validation.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs3KkesXQ1H
They shine on their own.
Chapter VIII: The Original Position and the Resurrection of a Consciousness
An stood before a large mirror in the quiet room where she had lived for nearly two years since returning to Vietnam. The mirror was no longer new; the edges of the glass had grown foggy. Yet it still reflected a face — no longer that of the mixed-blood girl once lost in the Western blizzards, and not quite the pure Vietnamese woman who had once embraced the darkness of the past like a pillow.
That face — was it the new An, or the old An returned?
The question hung there, suspended like a wind chime in her mind. And the one who had stirred it again was none other than — Nguyên.
He came back, this time not to persuade, but to demand.
“Only when you return to your original position,” he said,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2JIT4BLcH2
“can everything be realigned.”
“And what is the original position?” An asked.
“The identity of a Vietnamese man. Accepting your former role. No more mixing, no more Western traits, no more poison from foreign women.”
He no longer needed to hide.
He wanted to erase all Western refinement in An.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4LR9hMUuHh
To make her revert to being a “pure” Vietnamese — undiluted, unmutated.
An without feminism.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl9h5qf7a7s
An without gender distinction like Western women.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡM1xL1S6FA3
An with no right to choose her own love — only what had been predetermined.
Because to him, Western women were a threat.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDSggV9KjuD
They lived for themselves.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVDNHNf0J8P
They chose themselves over men.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6z7P0A0Kvs
They weren’t willing to be the good wife, the nurturing mother.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRup92lHB65
They didn’t bear children to fulfill some sacred duty, didn’t sacrifice just to be praised.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8FpjKppcKV
They rejected traditional roles — and for that, they symbolized a world he couldn’t control.
Whereas Vietnamese women — in his eyes — “knew their place.”
They knew how to sacrifice.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡW14NaKXVvH
How to love.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXefMLsx0ru
How to erase themselves for their husband and children.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWomp8gFJHY
Even how to become the third wheel in their own life — just to keep the family whole.
An had once been undefinable.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR4vKTg33AY
And because of that, she was the most dangerous.
He couldn’t stand it.
So he made her a proposition:
“You want to change Linh? You want to bring your sister back from France? Fine. But return to being a man. A true Vietnamese man. Stop talking about gender. Leave no trace of the West in your blood.”
An laughed.
He didn’t understand.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp5LqwiU9GE
Still didn’t.
She didn’t need to be a man to be strong.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkF921OP9fX
Didn’t need to be a woman to know how to love.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqVUQmrlUH2
Didn’t need to “go back” — because the original position itself was a trap.
And if she returned to being the man she once was,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMpSBrZcXsg
There would have been no Linh — the one who injected her with the drug.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwYqyIHvB4W
No France.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUsWWqzhYLx
No cold nights hiding in the dreams of a Western woman.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkHXjt3TXU7
No collisions that made her realize who she was.
But… there would also be no An today.
Nguyên didn’t know this:
It was Western women — the very ones he feared, hated, sought to control — who had, indirectly, saved An.
They hadn’t helped her through direct action.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDY9ErExvtN
But their independence, their fierce sense of self, and their belief in “loving yourself first”… had left a deep imprint on An’s soul.
And even though she initially resisted,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDPraTWEkyO
Even though she once despised them,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOE6fQDn07Y
She still learned from them how to stand tall — even while carrying the eternal insecurity of a mixed-blood soul.
She turned to Linh — her teacher, her replacement, her betrayer, and the only one who once held her hand after everything collapsed.
“Do you think I should go back to how I was?” An asked.
Linh pressed her lips together.
“Do you think I should become a man again?”90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRKdBuAjFFD
“Do you think I should play matchmaker for a straight couple, or a gay couple, just to be ‘certified’ as a good person?”
Linh didn’t answer.
Because she knew:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡboQdvZjXox
An no longer needed anyone’s approval to define herself.
As for Nguyên… he kept pushing.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSCBEdh7DZv
Not just with words,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5fHtZRY9t8
But with media pressure, public opinion, political games.
He did everything to build the image of a “fallen An”:
- A man who wouldn’t own his identity
- A mixed-blood betraying his lineage
- A third wheel in his own life
But there was one thing Nguyên had forgotten:
It was precisely because An dared not to return to the starting line that she could change Linh.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBgb8PNStWD
It was because she embodied intersection, not regression, that she could move her sister in the West.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnLtj8nv3nV
And it was because she was many things at once — that those who once looked down on her began to waver.
An stepped out of the room.
Linh followed behind, silent — but no longer hesitant.
Perhaps she had finally understood:
A guide isn’t the one who stands at the front.
A guide is the one who dares to step forward first.
An turned her head slightly, whispering — as if speaking to the world:
“I don’t need to return to the original position.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ30qyWFJVH6
Because if I go back… who will keep walking forward?”
Chapter IX: The Pomeranian Dog and the Trap of Freedom
One morning, An stood in front of the mirror. Sunlight streamed through the dusty window frame, casting light onto her gaunt face. Her hair was cropped short, her skin a gray-tinged golden brown, her eyes marked with faintly mixed features — not quite Western enough to be called "foreign," and her lips — pressed shut as if biting back what couldn’t be spoken.
“French dog,” An whispered.
Not as an insult, but as an echo of what she had once overheard — the murmurs of ridicule behind her back, the raised eyebrows that spoke without words, the jokes that seemed playful but were truer than anything else in life.
A Pomeranian — a small foreign dog, yet raised in Vietnam. Cute, but the moment it displeased its owner, it would be kicked out the door.
And now, An was that Pomeranian in this world —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoniAoS3FEA
Not mixed enough to be called Western,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPtmKbxSkY4
Not pure enough to be called Vietnamese,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjNRKWWZjvL
Not tough enough to be a man,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5ZeU1zAYms
Not soft enough to be a woman.
She had once thought about marrying a Western woman.
Not out of lust or fantasies of ideal love — but as a way to reclaim dignity for the blood inside her that had been scorned.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpZCk9ggDkG
She wanted to hold hands with a Westerner in public, to boldly declare:
“I have value. I, too, can be chosen.”
But then she understood.
Western women didn’t love her — they loved the Western part of her.
Forty percent French blood, a few delicate facial features, eyes that didn’t quite look Asian. They were amused. Curious. Intrigued.
But when faced with reality — with the rest of her:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKoqnXmIsKP
Her Eastern mindset, her tangled scars, her stubborn loyalty — they grew cold.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfqS2nzHe3p
They didn’t say goodbye.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOXH3o1M0of
They didn’t walk away with parting words.
They evaporated.
Like faint perfume fading after a party.
Because they only loved the 40%.
The remaining 60% — they didn’t know what to do with it.
And they hadn’t been taught to take responsibility for difference.
As for her Chinese side — the other part of her blood — it wasn’t much better.
They looked at her like a prototype in a “Western integration experiment.”
They chatted, offered tea, signed cultural exchange papers —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm2ciUlnts4
But no one wanted commitment.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuVxmpQPR0O
No one wanted marriage.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwnKMGFmEet
No one wanted a bond.
Because they knew: the West was the goal, and An — was just a temporary bridge.
“If the West can do it, the Chinese can do it too.”
That’s what a Beijing businessman once told An at a party in Hội An.
And that’s when she realized — she was only a draft.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcGg9ytPGVj
A transitional model.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbMgoWfOB1x
An elegant interface.
What was left?
Only Vietnam.
Where Nguyên and Linh — the very people who had stripped away her memories — still clung to her like toxic magnets.
Nguyên wanted her to become a “man” again — to be the pillar of his political ideology.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2Gd3dfs0FO
Linh wanted her to remain “mixed” — so she could continue using An as a mirror to reflect the Westernization she performed every day.
Both of them knew:
If An left — if An truly became free — both would lose their worth.
Because An’s presence justified their existence.
An had once dreamed.
In the dream, her twin sister — now living in France — returned to Vietnam.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJCDhJYQUVH
Not out of longing for home.
But out of fear of losing the lead role in the tragedy that An was performing.
She feared that if An left, if An severed ties with this land, the Western community would slowly withdraw —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOXLFILTSOr
Tourism, investment, culture, politics — all would fade.
Because An was the bridge.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqotvwioJut
The display case.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt8YZ03NptR
The “living proof” of integration.
If she left, that image of harmony would collapse.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEAAvwrjXUL
And the country — already dependent on money from across the ocean — would shatter.
An sat and wrote in her journal:
“I’m not a Pomeranian.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRUZQ1ick50
I am a small torch that lights up the darkest parts of my blood.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLqrAFcLRBs
But sadly, people only see the flame — and never notice my burning hand.”
She didn’t choose how she was born.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtl3zSiEfp1
Didn’t choose who injected her with the drug, who betrayed her, who pitied her.
But now, she chose silence no longer.
If forced to choose between being the “bridge” others walk across, or burning the bridge to build her own path —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡq1BWX9MlJS
She would choose the latter.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEVjyTqFRZE
Even if it meant walking alone.
When night fell, An looked up at the sky.
Wind blew. Leaves rustled.
In the wind, someone called her name. She couldn't tell if it was Linh, or Nguyên, or the Western woman she had once loved — the one who quietly vanished.
An didn’t respond.
Because from now on, her name would no longer be called by others as a symbol of what they wanted her to be.
Her name — was An — and only she knew, it was the name of a silent rebellion.
Chapter X: The Journey of Reversing the Flow of Capital
The sky over Saigon that day hung heavy, as if cradling a secret it could no longer bear to contain. Gray clouds gathered in streaks like torn silk, shredded by the invisible hand of fate. An sat by the window, silently staring out, though in truth, her mind was a battlefield echoing with ceaseless noise.
Nguyên.
That name was no longer just a person.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwtxeQ34KDw
It had become a whole belief system, a carefully calculated strategy as cold and methodical as the hands of those who script history in the shadows.
He had gone too far.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxfbehIIaps
For money.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4hD5gEDnZQ
For fame.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡW1RWcYtvVq
For the illusion of reviving a fallen dynasty.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoXZRe1zxpx
For the honeyed poison whispered from across the border — from relatives in China who poured syrup-laced words into his ears:
“If you can sway An to our side, the entire West will tremble on its own.”
And he believed them.
By injecting An with a sophisticated memory-erasing drug imported from China — a drug that didn’t just delete memories, but warped cultural perception — Nguyên envisioned a future where:
- An’s twin sister in the West would no longer dare bring her back to France, for fear An might "contaminate" the white community with Eastern thought.
- The West, frightened by the threat of “hybridization,” would react in reverse — preserving their purity by donating money to create a buffer from Asia, as if buying off the cultural boundary.
- And Vietnam — through Nguyên — would hold the keys to the vault.
The ambition was clear.
Nguyên didn’t just want to erase An’s past.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLZEYJyLgcW
He wanted to turn her into a sacrificial pawn drenched in Eastern essence, so that when the West feared assimilation, it would flood the East with wealth as a defense mechanism.
He once whispered:
“When you accept being Eastern — in both body and mind — the West will no longer dare embrace you. And when that happens, they’ll pay to build fences against their own fears.”
An knew everything.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD8grqcLQc5
She wasn’t as naive as Nguyên assumed.
She had silently read the forged documents he sent to international collaboration offices.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ8id21EgDA
She had examined the financial movement maps of multinational corporations and detected something off:
Western money was flowing into Asia — but not out of love for Asia.
It was flowing to avoid the fear of being infected by An.
A hybrid being, feared as a mirror reflecting the world after globalization.
In truth, it was because An had once leaned toward the West that the West had begun funding Asia — as a way of countering her reflection.
They feared that if they embraced An, they would have to accept that their own kind could be altered.
So they funneled money into Asian aid programs, Asian cultural investments, Asian-centered media — to suppress An’s influence.
Because if someone like An — with three bloodlines — leaned Westward, the lines of distinction would collapse.
And they weren’t ready for that.
But now, it was different.
An had embraced her Asian side.
Not out of defeat.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmsjA8obwXQ
Not out of surrender.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFcFOR8mq89
But because she wanted to unify her identity.
She was tired of running between East and West.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkEc7wwSpg6
Tired of being a “special case” under academic scrutiny.
And from the moment she accepted being Asian — the dominant part of her blood — the world began to shift.
The West no longer feared assimilation — they switched to contempt.
They thought:
“If someone like An ends up choosing her origin, why should we bother investing in her? She’s already chosen her root. There’s nothing to fear anymore.”
And the money started reversing.
Slowly, but clearly.
One by one, NGOs pulled their funding.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkdN17f7rD9
Corporations began cutting budgets for cultural exchange programs.
It was the endgame of a rigged match.
Nguyên panicked.
He never anticipated that An returning to her roots would disarm the West.
They didn’t panic — they simply… cut ties.
And with that, his dream of “harvesting gold from the West” collapsed.
He blamed An.
“You made a mistake. You should’ve stayed in the middle. You should’ve kept just enough West in you to keep them uneasy.”
An looked at him, her gaze calm as a still lake.
“The issue isn’t who I choose.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKSHYEHBX7S
It’s that the world never truly accepted someone like me.”
She sat down and wrote in her notebook:
“I don’t lean toward anyone.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwsbYmqWqWm
I am myself.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEUSgF3CPQD
But if the world needs me to lean, I’ll lean toward the side that bled the most.”
That day, An’s twin sister in France sent a handwritten letter:
“Dear sister,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcUdNNjnuPF
People here are in a panic. They see you turning East.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGNJ9EjMx4z
They say you betrayed them. But maybe… they never truly loved you.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsrNlOJ08FP
Thank you for keeping both sides from becoming too powerful or too weak.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDdPSR7TepW
And maybe… from now on, I’ll try living like you —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhJT3OOb2vd
Half staying, half departing.”
An smiled.
There are some streams of money that don’t need to keep flowing.
Just standing still is enough to cause an earthquake.
Chapter XI: When the Original Stands Beside the Copy
People often say: when the original stands beside the imitation, the truth no longer needs to speak.
An stood beneath the warm golden lights of an evening gala at the French Embassy in Saigon. Dressed in a simple black gown with a high collar, her hair tied in a low bun, she looked like an unfinished sculpture — rough, dusty, but astonishingly alive.
Meanwhile, Linh, in a pristine white dress, elegant and polished, stood beside her Western husband — her prince, who once believed he had chosen wisely by marrying a “refined Asian bride.”
But it only took one glance… for the illusion to shatter.
The Western man’s eyes — once convinced by Linh’s modern allure — suddenly clouded with doubt. Because An was real. Without a word, without explanation, she was real — from the scar left bare without makeup, to her slightly husky voice, to her faintly sorrowful gaze, to her imperfect but grounded steps.
And Linh was revealed: a finely engineered replacement, but soulless. A replica without memory. A “Western-style Vietnamese woman,” but one lacking the historical depth of the West itself.
An said nothing.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyRoDN2zTzW
She just stood there.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhE7I8FdtXX
Her presence alone was an irrefutable declaration.
That’s why Linh grew flustered.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwOlHACVCHU
Very flustered.
She gave a forced smile, changed her tone of address, cut off her husband when he asked curiously about An. Then she began... drawing lines.
“She’s just an old friend. We’re not that close. Very different personalities.”
Linh wanted distance. Because she understood: if her husband looked a moment longer, compared a bit deeper, everything she had built over the years — to become a “new persona,” a “modern Asian princess” — would collapse.
Because…
There is no pain more devastating than standing beside the original, and realizing you've bought the wrong version.
The next morning, An read the news: A series of French scholarship funds were withdrawn from Vietnam.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOJYMPEZUcl
No clear reason was given.
But she knew.
The West had awakened.
They had realized that Linh — once awarded the labels of “peace,” “cultural harmony,” “ideal wife” — was merely a vessel of performance. A living deepfake, trained to win trust.
And more dangerously: Linh didn’t just represent herself. She represented a replicable model — one the West had mistakenly believed it could control.
They couldn’t let it happen again.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLDRxH6yeQv
They couldn’t allow a second Linh to infiltrate their culture.
So they changed policies:
- Tightened marriage VISA approvals.
- Expanded international student programs — but required disclosure of all social media identities.
- Scanned interaction histories and cross-verified relationships.
- Blocked all acts of covert cultural replication.
And most importantly:
They stopped funding Vietnam.
Not out of hatred.
But because they no longer knew what — or who — was real.
Linh sat alone in her luxury apartment, biting her lip. Her husband hadn’t come home the night before. He had only sent one message:
“I need to rethink everything.”
Linh wanted to cry.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEclW25Pckl
But the tears didn’t come.
Because deep down, she knew:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEJRDambM2z
That was the price of faking — even with good intentions.
An didn’t blame Linh.
She understood.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxcN5e87MXJ
In the journey of seeking love, not everyone manages to stay true to themselves.
But Linh had lost herself in the pursuit of a place that was never hers to begin with.
And for that, Linh was no longer a traitor to An — she was a traitor to herself.
That afternoon, An received an email from a university in Paris.
They invited her to return as a visiting lecturer for their program on postcolonial identity studies.
An closed her laptop and sighed.
She knew — it wasn’t because they loved her.
But because now, only she — the original — could help them distinguish what was real from what was not.
She had become… the authenticity check.
A genuine article displayed in a marketplace of counterfeits.
And perhaps, only that… would keep the West from withdrawing completely.
Because if they lost An, they would have no one left to prove that hybridity could exist without assimilation.
An was what remained after everything —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSGSSOPuRc8
Imperfect, inconvenient, ungovernable —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4NLzFuHceO
But the only thing that was real.
Chapter XII: Freedom Comes From the One Who Refuses to Kneel
Nguyên was no longer a ghost.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX95Pi8jEtI
He had taken form — towering like a dormant volcano, cold on the outside, yet filled with smoldering ashes capable of burning anyone who stepped too close.
An looked at him — for the first time in many months.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe3JkZXDIUN
He hadn’t changed.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxQeNaPvo9m
He didn’t need to.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsVHxYuO9wH
Because he never wanted to evolve.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ34eaXGuiyS
He only wanted to dominate.
“You betrayed your blood,” Nguyên hissed in their final confrontation. “You chose to become a spiritual puppet of the West.”
“And you chose to become a slaughterhouse,” An replied. “You want to turn both East and West into a place where your knife rests on everyone’s throat.”
Linh stood between them, like a painting torn in half. One half leaned toward softness, the other drowned in fear.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX9p5XfXJQt
Because she didn’t know — she, too, was just a sacrifice.
Nguyên never loved Linh.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR8WDcxPsaS
He needed her — as living proof.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9GqxFOWb5E
As the “fake Western woman” to be dragged back to the pen, just so he could declare:
“I have conquered the very kind that once ruled us with their gaze and language.”
He needed Linh to fall —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqMLfThKC21
So that she, too, could die alongside An, if necessary.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4wXZSxMkAZ
Because to Nguyên, even a counterfeit Western woman still had to pay the same price as a real one.
“You thought I was your ally?” Linh asked An in confusion.
An answered gently, “I am the last one left who can still protect you.”
Only An — as someone in-between, a double-edged blade who had lived on both sides — could see what Linh couldn’t:
If Linh stood equal to Nguyên in spirit — strong enough, defiant enough, unyielding —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEMC84XOFKc
Then only her body remained a weapon for Nguyên to use violence against.
But if Linh continued to wield Western values as a shield, keeping herself “above” Nguyên —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWyoPGtMfyx
Then he would not dare touch her.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXIPl5wVtYa
Because no matter how tyrannical, Nguyên still feared the powerful image of the West he never truly understood.
Spiritual value — even a fabricated one — still held a weight that made a brute hesitate.
“You thought pretending to be Western would make you loved,” An said.
“But you didn’t know… pretending to be Western was the only way you wouldn’t be beaten like an Asian woman from the Middle Ages.”
Nguyên grew furious.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcnR5bj0uxz
He slammed the table.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOnj4X4Imlf
He screamed in An’s face.
But An did not fall.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡksDwg9l4PF
She was no longer the An of the memory-erasing drug, no longer the An lost between three bloodlines.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVs16xVkKk2
She was An who had unified her body, mind, and spirit.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8ipZQIZjCF
An who knew she didn’t have to be anyone else.
And what frightened Nguyên most —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjjKhLifkNB
Was not rebellion.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrdwH7jDJNZ
It was serenity.
“You can’t defeat me,” An said, eyes fixed on him.
“Because I no longer have the ambition to defeat anyone. I only want to stop being dragged into being a sacrificial pawn for any so-called civilization.”
Linh began to cry.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZTks1NaPJd
For the first time, she saw An —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWPbzYXXykp
Not as a shadow.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6QDgTluF02
Not as a rival.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVVrrtnyaxs
Not as the original.
But as a sister, a friend,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBHF1LayYyC
A woman who refused to kneel — and in doing so, saved Linh from kneeling forever before a man cloaked in the words nation, tradition, heritage, who was in truth merely obsessed with controlling women.
“I don’t need a man to survive,” Linh whispered.
“Not because I’m strong — but because I was once lifted from the abyss by another woman.”
She looked at An —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1Z8bneM9LQ
No more envy.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ37ERmjIzzV
No more shame.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBzeTA6MSLv
No more walls.
An had succeeded.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdqhVMztkSj
Not because she defeated Nguyên —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlYCJGIM04E
But because she refused to be a pawn in his game.
She had protected her dignity.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnxsmmosXUR
Without falling.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA0b6osMpbV
Without surrendering.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbz1kUOzZns
Without choosing a side.
She remained herself while others lost who they were.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4UfmgTlOFa
She saved Linh — not from death, but from a life that was like death.
She shattered Linh’s dream of becoming a wealthy Western bride —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkNWjaciOlW
Not by crushing it,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡW0RsZZls2q
But by placing a mirror in front of her,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOw7RFbuBWL
So Linh could see who was truly using that dream to chain her down.
Nguyên left.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9KL2puLhcd
Like a shadow rejected by the light.
An wrote the final line in her journal:
“Freedom doesn’t come from breaking the chains.
It comes from no longer believing you need chains to survive.”
Chapter XIII: The Women Without Flags
Saigon’s weather shifted abruptly, as if the sky itself longed to shed its skin after days of ash-gray gloom. In a worn silver-gray coat, An walked slowly through the crowd, as if drifting backward into a moment suspended in memory — a moment she could never forget: when two Western men stood beside her and blocked a death that had already been planned.
That day, the sky was just as hazy as today.
An had just left a human rights seminar at the National University when she noticed Nguyên’s car parked only a few meters away — his stare no longer a veiled threat, but an open, burning glare.
He gripped the steering wheel as if he were gripping someone’s neck. His foot hovered over the gas.
No genius was needed to understand:
Nguyên wanted to run her over.
Not just out of hatred.
But because to him, An was the seed of “impurity,” the crack in a nationalist pride he had built with hollow slogans and bloodless banners.
And right at that moment, two Western men stepped out of the building’s lobby.
One was a specialist in international law, the other a professor of cultural studies.
They didn’t know what was happening.
But they stood beside An — not out of calculation, but as a reflex of conscience.
No questions.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9xvq3zvFfq
No panic.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1LcwVW4E3x
Just presence — quiet and profound.
And that was when Nguyên let go of the wheel.
Because if he hit the gas,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAZj5YUmLhQ
he wouldn’t just be punishing a “Western puppet.”
He would be killing two white men — betraying his own belief that the West should be controlled, not destroyed.
Two is always more than one.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOwQHVG1NBp
He didn’t dare.
That was the second time Westerners saved An’s life.
The first was in Lyon, on a misty afternoon, just after An had arrived in France on an exchange scholarship.
An elderly woman — the landlady — opened the door for her without asking for documents, nationality, or proof of bloodline.
“You’re human. That’s enough,” she said.
And from that moment, An understood:
Freedom doesn’t come from identity. It comes from not having to prove you deserve to exist.
An never forgot.
She learned because of them.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxCG5Fywb21
She survived because of them.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlNkiREArai
She wasn’t killed — because of them.
Not because they were Western.
But because they were human.
The Westerners An had known were not prime ministers issuing VISA policies,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYREizlnyvI
not the suits at summits,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUmGxc41aTf
but quiet women raising children in small Marseille apartments, women who donated to Vietnamese schools without ever attaching their names.
They were women without flags.
And for them, An chose to live with dignity — to prove that they had not been wrong to help her.
An refused to degrade herself like Nguyên.
Not out of vengeance. Not in rebellion.
But because if she fell, then every hand that once lifted her up would be discredited.
Linh once asked:
“Why don’t you use your fame to climb over everyone?”
An replied:
“Because if I do that, I won’t just betray myself — I’ll betray those who loved me without asking me to become someone else.”
She wrote a long letter to the French Embassy:
“I do not represent any nation. But I am living proof that a person can carry three bloodlines and still retain a whole, unbroken character — if seen through the eyes of compassion.”
“I owe my life to the Western women — not because they were white, or rich — but because they did not abandon me when both East and West fell silent.”
“If I’m still alive today, it’s to repay that debt of humanity.”
She founded a fund called The Women Without Flags,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlVGjmphgjE
dedicated to helping immigrant women without papers, without homes —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEqw30tz67l
women like she once was, arriving in the West with no clear identity, and no protection.
And for the first time, she didn’t feel like she was repaying a debt.
She felt she was continuing a legacy.
A journalist once asked her:
“If you could choose again, would you prefer to be ‘pureblooded’?”
An smiled.
“If I were pureblooded, I’d probably be dead — and no one would have dared stand next to me when the car sped forward.”
The Westerners who once saved her —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbPuHisLkpd
they never needed her to bow.
They just needed her to stand —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC9uhUOgHpN
as a witness.
And An did stand.
Not to rise above anyone,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZzzo9awgpD
but to remind the world:
Gratitude isn’t found in skin color.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCDDE8WIeoq
It’s found in those who stood by you —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJIVIg5gbxX
when everyone else walked away.
Chapter XIV: Keeping the Home Intact in the Storm
People often assume that when a child makes a mistake, the parents are exempt from consequences. But in the political chessboard that An found herself trapped in, even blood ties could be used as bargaining chips, honor could be taxed, and love became a suspended sentence hanging in the air.
Unable to hurt An with brute force or direct threats, Nguyên turned his wrath on her family.
He didn’t need to make bold declarations. Just one ambiguous document from the local tax office, one subtle nod from someone “above,” and it was enough for An’s parents — humble street vendors — to be taxed at double the normal rate.
“To compensate for the damage your daughter has caused to the West,” a government officer said, as if reciting from a script.
They didn’t understand.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2d36T8Ql6H
They didn’t dare ask.
They simply bit their tongues, paid each coin, opened their shop earlier, sold longer, slept less, and complained less.
Not out of fear.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0HWq7BX36B
But out of love.
An’s parents never blamed her.
On the contrary, they told themselves:
“She stood with Asia. She hasn’t forgotten who she is. We have to live in a way that honors her.”
And in the depths of hardship, that love became the quietest yet brightest light.
An knew.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKKroUuN4yE
She knew Nguyên was using love as leverage.
He didn’t have to slap her.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwacVhvvIYp
He only had to make her father wake up an hour earlier for the market, her mother lower the price of vegetables while enduring the sneers of customers.
He wanted An to feel ashamed of her own beliefs.
But An did not bend.
“If I abandon my beliefs just to ease my parents’ burdens... all three of us will die from within.”
What no one expected was this:
Nguyên’s own parents — long considered his support system, the power behind him — were the ones who extended a hand to An.
Not because they had “betrayed” their son.
But because they understood better than anyone:
“If someone like An is broken, then this society has no reason left to believe that ideals can exist without being called rebellion.”
And so, they helped her find part-time teaching work at a life skills center for youth.
No paperwork.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJfBBIKuCcC
No binding contracts.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyZYRbYp32D
Just a word passed through someone:
“That girl can teach. Let her pass something useful on.”
From that day forward, An became a night teacher, teaching Vietnamese children about Vietnamese culture — with the full heart of someone carrying three bloodlines.
She taught in Vietnamese,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1hBbjmkqvM
but sometimes, she added a line or two in French.
She told stories — some familiar, some deviating from textbooks — about love that didn’t require purity, about honor that didn’t need a passport, about character that didn’t rely on an ID card.
And from that humble little classroom, a new model was born:
Being Vietnamese didn’t mean being “pure.”90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj7PFJQHeQg
Being mixed didn’t mean lacking honor.
An’s parents, watching their daughter teach, began to smile more often.
They still paid the high taxes.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡF4lDyfdPC7
But they held their heads high.
Because they knew — their daughter wasn’t betraying the nation.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFMk7dujoJp
She was protecting the best parts of it from narrow-mindedness.
Nguyên knew.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvkenwBgPjX
He burned inside.
Because he wanted An to disappear.
But each time she stood in front of a classroom, chalk in hand, calm voice guiding — he lost another piece of power.
And the strangest thing was:
From that incident, a movement began: “Patriotism without purity.”
Young people began wearing the áo dài while singing French songs.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2pzZ5ANKSp
Elders stopped feeling ashamed of their mixed ancestry.
Once, An wrote in her journal:
“If I had to choose between personal freedom and the honor of my parents,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcmLj4KVfpy
I would choose both — by living a life where no one has to bow their head because of me.”
And she succeeded.
She didn’t just protect herself.
She protected her parents — from Nguyên’s storm.
Not with force.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡleaiFcRDFx
But with meaning.
In the final scene, An stood in her classroom, looking out the window.
Evening sunlight fell gently across a student’s white áo dài.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJf2lnAnCvA
The girl bore two bloodlines — but her eyes sparkled with confidence.
An smiled:
“As long as someone can stand at the intersection of three rivers,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxfa94n0ql1
this land has never truly been defeated.”
Chapter XV: The Honor of the Nameless
Hanoi’s sky turned gray — like a whisper from the past, where forgotten memories suddenly reemerged. In the sweet air of a fading spring, An stood in the small courtyard behind her house, where the sidewalk tea stalls of life now seemed to exist only in memory.
Raindrops fell like dust, and with them, old wounds resurfaced.
Linh — who once vowed to leave the past behind — had returned.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNjou2LVd9r
But not for reconciliation.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9IdztIyOgU
She came back for revenge.
Revenge masked as longing.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAqSwpA4uRP
Revenge fueled by wounded pride.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLmCZWFYeXd
Revenge… through An’s younger sister.
In the past, it was An who exposed Linh’s impersonation — her attempt to infiltrate an elite family by pretending to be An.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhLrqeqtKLK
An wasn’t jealous; she simply wanted the truth acknowledged.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKpjWaPC5f0
But Linh didn’t see it that way.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8Mct31rt6G
She believed An shattered her dream — and so she retaliated by slandering An’s younger sister, who was then a radiant, innocent girl — pure as morning dew.
“She stole my boyfriend. It’s because of her I had to leave the country,” Linh said, then walked into the arms of a foreign man.
An’s sister, who had done nothing but honor her love with quiet dignity, was thrown into the fire of public gossip.
What An didn’t expect was this:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡICMjkXBPhE
The Vietnamese man — once the very reason for Linh’s fury — chose truth over lies.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoJZdlEUdJi
He stayed.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVmG7WRkdWV
He held An’s sister close amidst the rumors, with a quiet but resolute affirmation:
“She is pure.”
And life seemed to settle once more.
Until today.
When An finally decided to speak out about her past injustices — about being drugged, about having her identity stolen — Linh didn’t remain silent.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtzaJPOzv4t
Her old accusations held no more weight, so she reached back into the shadows… and attacked a different weakness:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpNiaQByvQ3
An’s sister’s past.
Once again, an innocent person was dragged to the stand.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡw835FWbZiZ
Once again, a person who had done nothing wrong had to justify herself because of old scars.
An, in tears, said:
“You’re taking revenge on someone who never deserved your hatred.”
But Linh wasn’t listening.
She had become the embodiment of insecurity — of things lost and dreams denied. She no longer struck at An directly.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ51kPXYihZO
She went after what An loved — her compassion, her spirit.
That night, An came home to find her sister sitting quietly, wrapping rice balls for Tết. Her hands moved with practiced care, the kind you learn when you’ve had to build your own path through life.
“I’m sorry,” An said.
“For what?”
“For not being able to protect you… again.”
Her sister smiled.
“You don’t need to protect me. I can protect myself. You just need to live with truth — and that’s enough.”
An wept.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqdnYUcXW49
Her tears fell onto the white glutinous flour — but there was no stain of hatred.
A week later, at an old school reunion, the man from the past appeared.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp0ONYuXoh8
He was the first to speak:
“If someone has once been loved with purity, then that person carries eternal honor.”
The room fell silent.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdx63fH2iPV
Linh was there too — and for the first time, she said nothing.
She had lost.
Not because she lost An.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ658q1x76fB
But because she had lost herself.
The chapter closed on a windy afternoon.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwaSozCllWS
An and her sister walked across the old bridge, one that had seen many currents flow beneath it.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpPfUnFN22H
On the other side was something new — a land untouched by gossip and slander.
Only laughter remained.
And the peace of those who had chosen the right side.
Chapter XVI: The Price of an Era
Through countless storms of history, one might think the world had learned the lessons of compassion and harmonious growth.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGTrPl68Z0T
But no.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQpfC3etkx0
The wounds of colonization, assimilation, exploitation, and humiliation still burn quietly in the blood of those who carry the legacy of the East.
Nguyên — a mere pawn of a greater force — had no idea he was being used.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGCWRTcNnbE
To him, life was a preordained game, and the existence of An, of Linh, of the Westerners — were just pieces to be removed, reshaped, or manipulated.
A masterplan had already been drafted on the geopolitical chessboard: nations like Vietnam and China, long exploited, would now join hands — using Nguyên as their instrument — to exact historical revenge, to upend the global order, to transform a Westernized world into an Eastern empire.
And it all began with a seduction named "money."
“Make the West fall.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbh8LMMTkoN
Make them kneel and beg to remain in this world.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2Z4eidxRug
Steal the light that once belonged to them.”
Those were the words of a political advisor to Nguyên, spoken in a dark room filled with maps and dossiers marked in red ink.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg4wO82ZRDr
The mission was not only to dismantle Western values — but to sow seeds of chaos so that the East could rise as the new global ideal.
Nguyên was convinced.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZZnOnHEskP
Not out of patriotism —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb6MLASvYpt
but out of a burning desire to prove that Asian men, especially Vietnamese men, could rise to power and make the West bow down.
But no one told Nguyên the price of such a reversal.
Because to bring the West down, the East must also lose parts of itself.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuVpH7u8dIR
To pull others into the mud, one must first dirty their own hands.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNNOQ4ylx5R
To change the world, one must accept being changed by it.
And a nation’s honor cannot be built on the humiliation of another.
Linh — once dreaming of becoming a daughter-in-law of the Western world — became a symbol of pride’s collapse.
Raised as a political tool, she became a shadow of An — a living metaphor for identity loss and moral inversion.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoAurggGhnI
But no one asked if she was happy.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡi0QbbA1PlG
No one asked if she wanted to trade everything just to become a living banner for a ruthless plan.
She endured years in exile, seen as an exotic commodity in a political game.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡq9a6xNqOLc
She bore the scrutiny of Western eyes, of her own people, of her own reflection.
An, standing at the crossroads between East and West, understood more than anyone:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBXgiH4PSL1
If mixed blood becomes currency, if interracial marriage becomes mere political leverage, then the most sacred thing a people has — the purity of its identity — will vanish.
And when that happens, they are no longer Vietnamese, Chinese, or French.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGii8Mt2heX
They are shadows — without roots, without soul, without identity.
The world would spiral back to a medieval age: backward, bleak, and less civilized than ever.
An sat alone in the narrow room that held her childhood memories.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4XMcUbUEf4
She recalled learning French with her elderly tutor, remembered the gentle voices of those who once saved her from harm.
She understood:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUS0o5Ct7hM
Progress does not come from erasing the West.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIFgDKt7ihk
Progress comes from balance, from holding onto one’s dignity without stepping on others.
If the East wishes to rise with pride, it must walk on its own feet —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtXVaF2aLNN
not over the spilled blood of another.
Nguyên never saw this.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs18FRcSb6K
He pressed forward — expanding influence, forging marriages, manipulating media, launching campaigns to stir global emotion.
But one day, as he sat before a television screen, watching Linh — the woman he once believed would symbolize Eastern victory — break down in tears after being denied citizenship by her Western husband, Nguyên froze.
What had he done?
He had turned her into a symbol of failure.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSHCyYupuM3
A commodity.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡALRy9I001L
A wanderer without a nation.
On a small street in Hanoi, where the wind began to turn, An walked with dry eyes.
She had come to understand one thing:
No one truly wins when dignity is weighed and priced.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDczJ7YPRIE
No one truly wins when women must sacrifice their bodies and honor for the ambitions of men.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡw85St3s7su
No one truly wins...90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ70JSmpaGfp
if the price is the soul of their own people.
Chapter XVII: The Price of a Pureblood Dream
The world had entered an age of chaos.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMJCnCrt3CC
No longer were there borders between East and West, between white and yellow, black and brown.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡivDJS2QhmR
Everything had merged into one — a gray mass of hybrid identities, a blurry space where heritage became a luxury, and the idea of a “pure” human remained only in memory.
An — a living witness of this historic shift — felt it most deeply.
Distinction — once the compass of perception — now melted like ice under the harsh sun.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl0iC8MBhsa
Westerners no longer preserved their golden hair, porcelain skin, or crystal-blue eyes.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ931KWT4kOm
Asians lost their distinct monolids and pale golden tones.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXGwnaXIepS
And Black individuals — bearers of radiant night — were diluted to the point of no longer recognizing themselves in the mirror.
Science stood confused.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsSHodpmLwX
Culture, disoriented.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2uDjGUYL8U
Tradition, reduced to fragments in dusty books and forgotten documentaries.
And only one path remained to reclaim ethnic identity and power:
Either rewrite the genetic code entirely. Or eliminate all remaining “other” races.
That was the ultimate dream of those with unyielding ambition:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbKLwl1vofZ
A world ruled by East Asians — in economy, in politics, in race.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPPJFCczNN1
A world where “Asian purity” reigned, and everything Western lay in ashes.
But at what cost?
The price was identity, dignity, and even ancestral memory.
An — with a body shaped by three bloodlines — became a symbol of dislocation.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡW8DVAnUP6Z
She was no longer French.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEerT5DVBm7
Not entirely Vietnamese.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSyujtjAwtC
Nor fully Chinese.
She was everything.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlMv8SFlwta
And nothing.
And in that ambiguity, she was constantly torn between past and present, between homeland and foreign land, between what was “pure” and what was “plural.”
She asked herself:
“If I abandon the West to return to Asia, will I still be me?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn00x2h4n0b
If I betray the foreign blood in my veins, who will forgive me?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtZxiqELxea
If I continue to live, to replicate myself through future generations, am I passing on pain — not hope?”
And she knew:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9bSBFCUqBM
The answer lay nowhere else but within herself.
New generations of An came into the world — carrying the marks of intermingling: eyes that held both East and West, hearts that throbbed with restlessness.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡueyb8lOj7M
They were haunted by a false philosophy:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡruZuNKspeD
That only purity is glory, that only uniformity brings strength.
But the truth is:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCAaaY5yXIW
Only through hybridity do humans learn their limits.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn3MXzXAnmO
Only through the pain of belonging nowhere do they learn to love everyone.
From the shadows of history, a flicker of light emerged — the light of truth:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTQUjkB3Akz
That dreams of racial supremacy are hollow.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWhLgDbiQ9o
That honor does not come from skin color or origin, but from how a person lives, how a people love one another.
And only when we relinquish insatiable greed —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡphccsgEJ4s
only when we release the obsession with dominating the world —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvVXOS216SL
can humanity truly begin its journey of becoming human.
An closed her eyes.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHrEUwmBUWB
A droplet fell from the corner.
Not a tear —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaJAEwoD2dy
but a bead of blood, blended from three ancestral rivers.
And she whispered into the wind:
“If there is reincarnation...90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzUAwk3kbft
please don’t make me choose again.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyBoWplaopx
Let me just be myself — undivided, unmasked, unburdened by hate.”
Chapter XVIII: The Lotus Blooms in the Mud
So, which ending will you choose?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNstxW2miX0
Revenge, release, or waiting?
When every path leads to the same fateful crossroad —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP8oCvmKinv
where history intersects,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeQohCkuOq9
where the future is redrawn from the past,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHLq5dOgY3v
and where guilt never truly vanishes…90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡChqqVJoUkq
it simply takes on a new name: An.
People often say, “You reap what you sow.”90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvjQCdWVULm
But that only applies in a world of singular colors.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqpDg3QAJZ7
In An’s world — where every cell carries three cultures, three bloodlines, three ways of thinking —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡorv9x8G6Fw
karma is no longer a circle.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ11P6J4Ph1P
It is a spiral, endless and ever-unfolding.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡApwQ0SlpSl
With each passing life, a new An is born: more mixed, more conflicted, but also... more human.
So calculate all you want — in the end, you’re only paving the road for the next generation of An-children to ascend to a global throne.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKVONTFfcbm
Not by weaponry or wealth,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqCyg0i4FbA
but through the very hybridity of their being.
Did Nguyên know?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ57J4wHmkuQ
While he was still busy playing political chess,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvknGQEkAOU
still lost in the dream of Asia dominating the world by destroying the West,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsUrl8A8AeL
An was already planting seeds —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDWQ5dSx5bZ
in thought,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRXhAkhhAf8
in culture,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8Gp78QfXlq
in every restless heart still searching for home.
No need for preaching.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBcWAY1oSlD
No need to fight.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSYKq4IXWNJ
Just live — true to her conscience.
Did Linh understand?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhMA0hlqxKf
That the more she ran, the more she imitated,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHXkblSBLnc
the more she became a shadow of herself.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYALBXC5Ns5
That her jealousy of An didn’t make her more Western —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡakgtBoHbrY
only more lost.
Meanwhile, An remained the lotus in the mud.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp2V6rF92qe
Not competing for sunlight.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR3GnPybQWD
Not declaring herself purer than anyone else.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpM13RBdk8T
Just quietly rising, silently blooming.
You choose revenge?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8kFhVx4GnJ
Then prepare yourself for a lineage-long descent into ruin.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡybQufOFoc4
Interracial marriages will multiply.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfPsbFKSvhF
The world will blend.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMstHsBkKaM
Purity will disappear.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn17Uab34iO
Children like An — half Asian, half European —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ673MkNXDYe
will become the new race,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe9MvM5C5F2
a generation beyond all racial borders.
You choose release?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOFhoF3wo9U
Better.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxot6k5hxcS
But not enough.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt43AsGMI8J
Because if you stop there,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡT6VpAVvh8w
you’ll live forever in regret,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWlQvX7EKbr
haunted by unanswered questions.
Or will you choose to wait?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPZtW4zrjN7
Wait for another An to be born,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡERUIkflQ1m
to bear the responsibility you couldn’t face?
Stop — while you still can.
While the world still holds the faded traces of Eastern purity:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvEMDzjtFuf
the whisper of wind through bamboo groves,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhKjKeNoc6Q
the scent of lotus tea at dawn,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs6kS1RB2M1
and the gaze of children who do not yet understand the color of skin.
An is smiling.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwAFw9AWyGP
Not a mocking smile.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4G1wDcOpRn
Not a victorious one.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCYbx1aptrx
Just the smile of someone who understands.
Understands that life isn’t about winning — it’s about being right.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAfOnSQNhwL
Understands that justice isn’t born from blood, but from dignity.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVRyA4GLxBF
Understands that to live like a lotus in the mud90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUKq5bmLlO7
is not to stay clean —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv2Nrr7ormg
but to stay true.
And when An softly whispered into the wind:
“Greed leads to loss.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ86panq5m9f
But me — I choose grace.”
Chapter XIX: The Crossroads of Five Souls
There are days when the world seems to hold its breath.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnILwrewccp
The wind stops blowing.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡibJ3LrmqE0
Eyes stop seeing.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPXHagGInOS
And hearts cease to beat to the rhythm they were told to follow.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnu5epdcauv
An stands at the crossroads of history — and this time, it’s not just her identity at stake, but five paths, five souls, five choices entangled like the tangled threads of fate.
1. "Little An" – the legacy of hybridity
She stands there, looking at An with eyes that bear the cold clarity of the West but gleam with the contemplation of the East.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhQw7ilNtgO
She doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, but she knows this:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUiUQbzwW7e
She is the result of an era where people chose blending over borders.
“You must learn to be Asian,” An tells her,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGnuIbyAzEr
“but never forget the smile of the West.”
Little An is the embodiment of a question:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZvcXX25hFG
Is hybridity a curse or a chance at rebirth?90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbZQcHb6arE
In her heart is a tug-of-war — a lullaby sung in Vietnamese, a father’s embrace spoken in French.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvChH2ZQWGt
And in her eyes, An sees herself — lost once, but full of promise.
2. Nguyên’s awakening
He kneels in the dark, not for strategy, not for power, but out of a strange new fear:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPAgw3uY6qb
Extinction.
Nguyên once believed he was the architect of revolution, the crownless king of global restructuring.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeenarAMMpq
But as more generations of An are born, he feels smaller.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQE3aoC3hMN
He’s lost control.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtx6iJgcoXA
The sister he once scorned, the enemy he once watched — they’ve all broken free of orbit.
“Was I merely a pawn in An’s game all along?”
And in that moment, he realizes:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSjO3PQMiSz
True sovereignty belongs not to the one who seeks revenge — but to the one who chooses forgiveness.
3. Linh – the shadow resisting the light
She still wears red lipstick, still dons Western labels.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMEdcOpmRc3
But when she looks in the mirror, it’s Vietnamese eyes that are crying.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHl8Aocwjw0
Every attempt to Westernize only leaves her emptier.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfRI5q5xZDx
Every step chasing Western ideals pulls her further from herself.
Linh once dreamed of marrying into foreign wealth, once framed An’s sister, once tried to steal An’s identity.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiIwCsxXgIN
But now, standing between the cold towers of the West,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡr3e24xf3c6
she finds herself missing the morning calls of street vendors,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFpXnu9VNY0
missing the sound of her mother’s voice calling “con ơi” under the sunlit courtyard.
Linh no longer wants to be Western —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ3Fs3k0anr
but no longer knows how to be Asian.
4. The West responds
After realizing An is the "authentic original" and Linh merely a poor replica,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3dfzxmswyl
the West shifts tactics.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlfOsUJTw0o
They tighten borders, scrutinize documents, and even demand social media transparency from all foreign students.
“We won’t accept another Linh,”90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbdOVppCIyX
a Western official declares in an emergency meeting.
The West doesn’t want history to repeat itself.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXzHUDH7k7y
They once invested hope and money in people like Linh — only to be betrayed.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSSDGgarjT2
Now they revert to control: stricter immigration, ideological surveillance, and even “reverse purification” campaigns to restore Western honor.
5. The reversal of fate – and An
Every current now converges on An.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpS59b9AIKV
Nguyên trembles before her.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡimPfa0bbaw
Linh is silent, as if she’s never uttered a word.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmkkLnJAOTd
The West is cautious.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWyxB5tYIqp
Little An waits.
An doesn’t smile.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk6NOTHFyTU
She simply looks up at the Vietnamese sky, then turns toward Paris.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbOuaf7WgGQ
The wind brushes through her dark hair streaked with chestnut tones.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPeAo1WXdiD
In her gaze lies the distillation of centuries of war, ambition, mistakes — and hope.
“We will not win by eliminating one another,” she says.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlc0EGD8ruR
“We will win by surpassing ourselves.”
And from that moment, a new civilization begins.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuupHuvJ4Dn
A civilization not built on skin color,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtJkOFQv6rF
not worshipping purity,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFOP0G8aEee
but grounded in humanity.
This time, the lotus does not bloom from mud —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVfuDti3CMa
but from the memories of pain,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRVHTFrMFal
from forgiven resentments,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUo32mctmmy
and from hearts brave enough to live truthfully,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiKf8DbUs1N
no matter how many bloodlines they carry.
Final Chapter: Lessons from Mixed Bloodlines
A novel, no matter how fictional, always reflects a certain truth about life.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa89hv5uvTQ
And An’s journey — a girl of three bloodlines, torn between East and West, past and future — stands as a symbol of our modern world: hybrid, disoriented, yet filled with hope.
1. Identity does not lie in blood, but in choice.
No one gets to choose the blood they carry,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnLfkIRZ6x1
but everyone has the right to choose how they live with it.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuDELQau1mu
An — instead of denying or fleeing — learned to face it.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3QmKPjFHcR
She is neither proud nor ashamed; she simply accepts it.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡz7BH4TEzDn
And it is in that acceptance that she becomes an independent being,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqi1HJ5Rl4X
unbound by the myth of purity.
The lesson: You don’t need to resemble anyone to be recognized.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNZgT2BsRnm
You just need to be honest with yourself.
2. Revenge never heals.
Nguyên went to the furthest depths of hatred,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzTnTHFK1cz
sacrificing everything to prove one thing:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuYDpVqv0mF
that Asians could dominate.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgSbrUfuZ42
But the further he went, the more he lost himself.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgcsu5aOnfl
Revenge didn’t bring justice — it only created more victims.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbvXlIH3D4e
Only forgiveness, as An chose, can close old wounds.
The lesson: Only when you stop seeking retaliation can you truly begin to live.
3. Women — East or West — have the right to be themselves.
Linh represents women drowning in expectations:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7YvxRbWEgc
be beautiful, be refined, marry a Westerner to change your life.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdlC53moTU5
But the more she chased the shadow of others,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJVK79iBLdZ
the more she lost her own light.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD1LYVOkw4W
And when she finally realized it,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8DvAjU0O5f
she no longer knew where she belonged.
The lesson for all women:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnjpLtAsKYa
You don’t need to be a copy of anyone else.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx3ctQTL9Sv
Your uniqueness is already your greatest treasure.
4. The West is not perfect — but it is not the enemy.
Many in the story wanted to defeat the West to glorify the East.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1FFvkGxQAb
But they forgot:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlPhwxKAseM
it was also the West that saved An, educated her, sheltered her.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeflbWaWIkW
Opposition cannot build a better world — only cooperation and mutual understanding can.
The lesson:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXGSfOOPoeY
Instead of dividing West and East,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnLFgV5oOBT
find ways for both to complement each other.
5. Mixed-race children are the face of the future.
An — and those after her — do not merely symbolize mixing.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3qSa9Vcznc
They are proof of a world in transition.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIysT9coUKo
A world where no one may look the same anymore.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡr6Djd9pKRe
And because of that, each person must live more kindly,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAfNWCK7lRU
more deeply,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1ITDZzDYel
to not feel lost among the many shapes of humanity.
The greatest lesson:90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡz8asOzJGdn
Humanity does not need purity.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkKZfYKU0MO
Humanity needs decency.
When you reach the final page of this story,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJvPGuUYv14
you may find yourself somewhere in An, in Linh, or in Nguyên.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeifOFXTEVc
Maybe you too have once blamed the past,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMmFB0JvZnf
run from yourself,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2hwWCIfd5h
or longed for a place on the world map.
But after everything, remember this:
Every human being — no matter how many bloodlines, no matter where they come from — can choose to become a lotus.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDuIiGY4qQt
A lotus doesn’t need rich soil.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6WGYNEwBcW
It only needs mud, light, and a heart that refuses to abandon itself.
APPENDIX
I. Symbols and Imagery in the Story
Contrary Wind (Gió nghịch)
Represents a self that refuses to conform to prejudice, lives against societal norms, yet remains loyal to conscience.
Three bloodlines (Vietnamese – Chinese – French)
The conflict of identity, history, and modernity; representing the multiple dimensions within one person.
Memory-erasing poison
A metaphor for being forced to abandon the self, having one’s roots erased for political or assimilationist agendas.
The Western twin sister
A mirror reflection: the lost self, or the image society expects one to become.
Nguyên – Linh – An
A power triangle – representing the past (Nguyên), the present (An), and aspiration (Linh).
Interracial marriage
Image of uncontrolled assimilation, leading to broken identities and blurred senses of self.
Lotus blooming in mud
The beauty of freedom and dignity, even when born from rejection and pain.
II. Terms and Concepts in the Story
Tam tai / Number 3 in East Asian culture
A folk belief that 3 is an unlucky number, symbolizing imbalance and misfortune.
Purity vs. Hybrid identity
The contrast between "pure" cultural identity versus hybridization through Western influence or geopolitics.
Eastern vs. Western values
The tension between collectivism – family – sacrifice (East) and individualism – freedom – ambition (West).
Reincarnation – Karma
The flow of actions – choices – consequences, carried across generations like an unending cycle.
III. Reflective Questions After Reading
- If you carried multiple cultural bloodlines within you, which would you choose to embrace — and why?
- Which matters more: personal dignity or fitting in with the community?
- Is forgiveness the highest form of self-protection?
- Can someone be both a victim and a complicit party?
- How do you define belonging — and have you found it?
AFTERWORD
(Written for An — and those who never knew where they belonged)
Some are born between two currents — and spend their whole lives unsure which one to swim toward.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlv78mqIBUF
Some souls are stitched from many strands of blood — yet none are deemed “right.”90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqi7L0pveLh
An is one such soul.
We have followed An through the shadowed corridors of identity,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVJBoowj2tV
through the silent dungeons of prejudice,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjA2wqcWGbh
and to the edge where love, gender, nationhood, and dignity intertwine into a labyrinth with no exit.
But An —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDqoSdVz3H7
she did not run.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTwI9yYb08B
She did not surrender.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡu5VrKV8ny6
She did not pretend.
She walked straight into the storm,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9mVwCkHgtI
letting the opposing winds inside her strip away every protective layer.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjCZ0daNKAa
She stood bare before the world —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2nh8EPpi4A
to learn that belonging is not a country,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6NEe38U6sW
not an ethnicity,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrdxBPk8IYl
not a name on a birth certificate.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH7pDbxCpTh
It is the moment one lives truthfully with the self that was once buried under prejudice.
An is no hero.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLbttx59J6c
She doesn’t need to be.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡepaJDCK8Lu
She is simply a living testament —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPA8pMLWfzb
that even with the scars of three cultures,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOYQkrx1fqn
even when robbed of memory, identity, and the right to love —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrsgITjQMPd
she still preserved the one thing that mattered: dignity.
And in a world where everything can be exchanged —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxilqg0jrUu
money, nationality, gender, language, faith —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcX82kkeJcr
dignity is the last thing that must not be cheapened.
When you close the final page,90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTUJds8LnfU
you may forget the plot, the characters’ names, or the politics.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡabPVCmORNb
But if you remember just one thing, please remember this:
“Some flowers only bloom against the wind.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoiFNd8wTli
And some people only shine when they stop trying to resemble anyone else.”
An is such a person.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBM2YeJP3y2
And if there is a little An inside you — lonely, imperfect, different —90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡctiUcDljqb
please embrace it.
Because contrary winds are still winds.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRwCT9K3kXJ
And not all winds are born to blow in the same direction.
— Pham Le Quy90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡL1UZV4SdHm
End of the Wind Season, 2025
and then Add to home screen.