The first seasonal wind blew through, carrying the metallic scent and the ozone odor of energy weapons. The overhead alarm speaker was silenced, leaving only the chaotic sound of the crowd.
The police were still encircled, but everyone knew there was no time for negotiation. While the central command system was holding an emergency meeting somewhere via satellite network, here, in the middle of Võ Văn Kiệt Boulevard, an ordinary citizen stood before the barrel of a gun.
The leader gestured with his chin, his voice cold:
"Idiot, heroes still exist in this day and age? We've bought all your identification data, we know where your family lives! Back off, or I'll have those kids' skulls blown out!"
But Trung did not retreat. In his mind, there were only images of his wife hugging their children, the cries of the mothers around, and the trembling eyes of the tied up kids.
He slowly tied the fabric strip around his thigh hot blood trickled down, soaking into the pavement like red rain. The pain spread, but his will did not. The big man behind him signaled. A flash of a blade. Trung's eyes blurred his left leg was severed, the flesh mangled, the bone shattered. Mai's scream exploded like thunder:
"Trungggggggggggggg!"
Everything seemed to freeze. A child screamed:
"Mister, don't die…"
Blood poured out, but Trung still didn't collapse. He propped himself up, scrambling to stand on his remaining leg. The kidnappers took a step back they couldn't understand why this man could still stand.
He tore his shirt, tightly bandaged the wound, and used four broken pieces of metal as a temporary prosthetic leg.
Each knot trembled, yet was resolute, as if each fiber was a sacred chant, a call to his ancestors. The sky turned bronze. The electromagnetic current from the street boomed like an ancient bronze drum awakening.
Then, in the dim light of the holo-lamps, Trung drew a broken piece of a sword, plunged its tip into the ground, and used the steel blade to carve two words onto his own chest with his blood.
Each cut was a heartbeat. Blood spurted fresh and red. Everyone was stunned. Trung spoke, his voice hoarse but echoing like a bell:
"In the past, Trần Hưng Đạo carved the two words SÁT THÁT onto himself, to show his absolute loyalty to the people and the nation! Today, the two words SÁT THÁT will be resurrected in this generation not just for the people and the nation, but for the young shoots of Việt Nam! FOR THE DIGNITY OF OUR VIỆT NAM!!"
His voice tore through the atmosphere. It was no longer just the vow of one man. It was an echo from a thousand years ago. A mother knelt, crying hysterically:
"Save the children, mister!"
A young police officer trembled, gripping his gun, whispering over the radio:
"Captain… I apologize… but I can't stand by and watch anymore."
And without waiting for orders, he stepped out, firing a warning shot. The plasma bullet cut through the air, knocking the gun out of the leader's hand.
The kidnappers panicked, trying to use the children as shields, but Trung had charged. The makeshift leg snapped; his body leaned, his eyes blazing.
He saw nothing but his path forward. Every punch was a vow. Every strike was an ancient ancestral bloodline echoing through time. Blood splashed.
Knives, daggers, guns all became a fierce symphony.
The fathers and mothers behind hugged their children and wept, muttering:
"May Heaven protect that man…"
Mai knelt, her hands shaking uncontrollably, her eyes wide with fear and agonizing pride. She saw her husband no longer as 'the husband' but as the embodiment of all those who had ever risen up for this land.
In the smoke and fire, Trung raised his head, shouting:
"I am a citizen of Việt Nam!
Fear neither the strong enemy nor anyone!
Invaders who come, we shall annihilate!
Maintain the peace for the Southern land!"
The shout echoed throughout the street. No one dared to move. Even the camera system paused a few frames, as if the entire city was listening. The kidnappers shattered into groups.
A few tossed their weapons, kneeling for mercy.
The leader roared, pulling out his last energy gun, aiming it at the children.
"Bang!"
Another shot rang out from a police officer's gun. The bullet tore through his shoulder, making the weapon drop. He buckled. Blood mixed with artificial rainwater streamed down the pavement. Trung hobbled over.
Hologram lights reflected on his face half man, half shadow. He raised the broken dagger, his voice deep and resonant:
"You trampled the dignity of the Southern nation,
held the children of the Southern nation hostage.
YOUR CRIME IS UNPARDONABLE…!!!"
The dagger swung. A red streak sliced across. He fell. Then Trung staggered. All sound seemed to drift away. He looked up, seeing the city lights shatter on the road like disintegrating stars. Mai ran to him, hugging him, her tears mixing with his blood.
"Trung… don't leave me… my darling…"
He smiled weakly. His blood-soaked hand lightly touched her cheek:
"Mai… don't cry… Today… I truly… lived as a Vietnamese."
Then he passed out. Sirens wailed everywhere; emergency drones rushed in. The liberated children burst into tears in their parents' arms. A mother, hugging her child, said through her tears:
"Who… is that man?"
A silent police officer replied:
"I don't know… but surely… he is one of us."
The next morning, the global network was flooded with images and videos of that night. A man without armor, without weapons confronting an entire criminal gang.
The two words SÁT THÁT carved on his chest blazed under the holo-lights, the streak of blood falling like an ancient flag burning in the new century.
Foreign news agencies called it the "Võ Văn Kiệt Incident."
But for the people of Việt Nam, they simply called it by two simple words:
"DIGNITY."