The morning in Saigon in 2086 no longer carried the scent of coffee and morning mist as it once did. The sky was covered in a layer of pale blue electromagnetic haze, with artificial light cast by hundreds of advertising projections suspended mid air.
Hologram news boards constantly flashed, displaying campaign slogans:
"VẠN SINH: THE JOURNEY TO REGENERATE HUMANITY!"
"UPGRADE YOUR BODY, UNLOCK HUMAN POTENTIAL!"
The words flew past pedestrians like a cold wind no one read them, but everyone was illuminated by them. Trần Trung stood under the worn out awning of the central hospital, holding the strap of a faded canvas bag. His steel leg cast a silver light onto the pavement.
People passed by, giving him a few looks of admiration, a few of fear, and the rest indifference. Behind him, the automatic glass doors closed with a dry, cold sound. The hospital returned to its cycle saving people, forgetting people. He stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The "clank... clank..." of the metal foot blended with the calls of water selling drones, the sound of electric motors, and the deep hum of the magnetic levitation bus. The whole city was like a gigantic machine, breathing with noise. He walked past an intersection. On the LED bulletin board hanging at the corner, the headline flashed:
"SÁT THÁT WARRIOR: HERO OR REBEL?"
His image face smeared with blood, eyes shining brightly in the night of the previous year's battle was projected full screen. Below it was the subtitle:
"Sources indicate that the man is currently missing, possibly connected to the bio resistance organization in the North."
Trung looked up, staring at his own face in the street. That face now felt more alien than ever. A child pointed at the screen and asked their mother:
"Mom, is that a bad guy?"
The mother pulled her child away, not answering. Trung smiled faintly. The smile of one who knew that every title, whether "hero" or "rebel," only exists until the crowd finds something else more interesting.
He turned into a small alley. There was still the smell of rusted iron and the heat from manual mechanical workshops the rare things that survived the fully automated age. An old, white haired man repairing a bicycle tire was absorbed in fixing an old motorbike wheel.
"Are you the one with the strange leg?" the old man asked without looking up.
"You know me?" Trung asked back.
"Everyone here knows. I saw you fighting those traffickers on Võ Văn Kiệt a while back. Your name 'Sát Thát,' it sounded like thunder striking the earth."
Trung was silent. The old man looked at him, his voice softer, like whispering a secret:
"Do you know why the ancients feared those who invoked the past?"
"Because they didn't understand it?"
"No. Because they were afraid it would return."
The sentence dropped into the space like a pebble thrown onto the water's surface. Trung looked at the thin, bony hands repairing the bicycle chain, the protruding joints trembling slightly.
"Do you know where I'm going?"
"You don't need to say. The feet of a man searching for the truth never stop in a safe place."
Trung paid for the repair, even though nothing had been fixed.
As he turned to leave, the old man called out:
"If you see him... tell him I haven't forgotten the old debt."
"Him?"
"The one who used to work for Vạn Sinh... then left them. A fellow named Khải."
Trung froze. But when he turned back, the old man had disappeared behind the welder's smoke, as if he had never existed.
Night fell. Trung sat in a small rented room on the outskirts.
The city outside was still bright white as day, but inside the room, the darkness was thick. He removed the outer shell of the mechanical leg, checking the circuit board, and found something he had never installed: a small blue chip, engraved with the letters "VS-03."
A familiar symbol: "Vạn Sinh, Test Series 3." He lightly touched it, and the chip lit up. A female voice rang out, clear yet cold:
"Hello, Trần Trung. You are not a failed product. You are the testament to the completion process. All resistance is calculated. You were born to prove that humans are only strong when they accept becoming machines."
He clenched his fist. "If so, you miscalculated."
"Are you sure?" the female voice replied. "You have killed people with your own hands, without regret. You etched 'Sát Thát' onto your chest, like an execution order. You are proof that ideals are just another form of programming."
He violently threw the chip onto the floor. Blue sparks exploded, and a burnt smell filled the room.
"No." He spoke softly. "I was not programmed. I was taught. By blood and by soil."
Outside the window, rain poured down. The raindrops fell onto the corrugated iron roof, falling onto his steel leg, making a tapping sound... tapping... like the resonance of an ancient bronze drum from somewhere far away. Trung closed his eyes.
He heard his own shout in his heart from that night:
"For the dignity of our Việt Nam!"
And amidst the rain, another voice whispered, as if echoing from the earth:
"If you truly believe, head North." He opened his eyes, looking out the window.
On the distant horizon, where rain and haze blended, a faint blue light was rising through the clouds. That light lasted only a few seconds. But Trung understood. It was a signal. Or a calling.
He stood up, clenching his hand tightly. The metal leg emitted a low resonant hum in response. In the darkness, the two words "SÁT THÁT" on his chest cast a faint blue glow, like a flame being awakened.
Trung left the room, stepping out into the pouring rain, heading North. Somewhere between the sound of the rain and the motors, the distant sound of a drum echoed not of a machine, but of the soil.
"Sát Thát... revived."