Trung left Saigon on a peaceful morning.
There was no farewell, no airplane lights or escort, only the wind. The small backpack on his back contained a few power cells, a tool set, and the silver chip engraved with the bronze drum symbol that Mai An had given him.
He did not travel by flying vehicle they were easily tracked. He walked, sometimes hitching rides on cargo trucks, sometimes blending into old transport routes along the highway. The further he got from the urban area, the more the city faded, like a layer of paint peeling off the soul of the land.
Three days later, he arrived in an area not on the national energy map.
The hologram signals stopped at the edge of the town, power cells depleted, the navigation system completely shut down.
Before his eyes were only grass hills, old rice fields, and low houses with whitewashed walls and dark brown tiles. No drones, no electronic billboards.
Children ran barefoot, holding kites made from newspaper. The smell of kitchen smoke and rice straw mingled, floating in the morning mist. For the first time in years, Trung heard the true sound of a rooster crowing.
It was not the simulated sound of the city, but a raw, high, and broken sound. He stopped at the head of the village. An old man carrying firewood saw him and paused.
"A stranger? Come rest at my house."
Trung was slightly surprised.
"Why don't you ask who I am?"
"A person. If you're tired, rest. We don't have any law here greater than kindness."
The simple statement silenced Trung.
In Saigon, people asked "who are you" before asking "are you tired."
The old man's house was next to a small stream.
On the wall hung a few old, yellowed photos, but they clearly showed him in uniform, alongside some comrades.
"You were a soldier?"
"Aye. What generation hasn't had invaders?"
"There are no gun invaders now."
"No gun invaders, but there are heart invaders. That enemy is harder to defeat."
He smiled, his chipped teeth showing, and poured Trung a bowl of strong green tea.
"Your leg... looks strange, doesn't it?"
"Just an accident."
"It's alright. As long as the heart is still beating, any leg can take you where you need to go."
Trung smiled faintly. For the first time, he didn't feel ashamed of his mechanical leg.
That afternoon, Trung walked around the village. Children ran after him, chirping questions:
"Uncle, your leg makes a clanking sound, does it hurt?"
"It doesn't hurt. It only clanks when it's about to rain."
"Really, Uncle?"
"Really. When it's about to rain, the iron remembers the earth."
The children's eyes widened. Then one asked:
"Uncle, do you know how to beat a drum?"
"What drum?"
"The bronze drum. Our great-grandfather said that back then, our country had a drum whose sound made the invaders afraid."
Trung froze. The wind from the field blew over, carrying the smell of rice and moisture.
"If there's a drum, I will beat it for you to hear."
The children cheered, then ran to find a small tin toy drum. Trung picked it up, tapping lightly. The sound was thin, but real.
One beat, two beats, then everyone clapped along.
He burst out laughing. How long had it been since he forgot the sound of true joy?
That evening, the whole village lit a fire in the communal yard.
The elders told ancient stories, and children listened.
Trung sat on the edge, the firelight casting onto his face, clearly illuminating the scar on his chest the two words "SÁT THÁT" seemed to come alive. An old man saw it and spoke slowly:
"Why did you engrave those words?"
"To remember."
"Remember what?"
"To remember that some things must be preserved, even if the world changes form."
"Why keep them, when people now live by data?"
"To keep them so we remember we were once human."
The old man laughed, his white beard trembling:
"People say this era is the age of the machine. But I say, what machine knows how to bow before the earth? Remember this this land nourishes people, not machines."
Trung carved that statement into his heart. Outside, the rain began to fall lightly.
Raindrops fell onto the thatched roof, mingling with laughter, storytelling, and in the distance, a deep, resonant sound like the beat of the earth drum. No one knew where it came from. Late at night.
Trung lay on the bamboo bed, looking up at the thatched roof.
The sound of the rain was steady, gentle as a heartbeat. He opened the silver chip, placing it near his left ear, as Mai had instructed.
A voice spoke, very faintly, not entirely human, but carrying a warm rhythm:
"If you can hear me, it means the soul still remains. I am Free Data the memory segment Professor Khải hid in this chip, so no organization could decipher it. Head North. Where the mountains and rivers meet, you will find what people have forgotten to name: The Ancient Soul Core System (Hệ thống Linh Cơ Cổ)."
The sound cut off. The chip fell from his hand, the blue light extinguished. Trung sat up. Outside, the rain had stopped there was only the sound of insects and the flowing stream.
He opened the door and stepped out, seeing the rice fields gleaming with moonlight. In the wind, the rice stalks bowed as if whispering:
"Go. The Motherland is waiting."
He bent down, his hand touching the moist soil.
Cold. Soft. Real. No circuits, no signal, only primal life.
He quietly said:
"I will go. But not for revenge. I go to remember that we were once human."
The next morning, he left the village. The villagers saw him off with smiles, asking no name, asking no destination. The old man carrying firewood gave him a small bundle:
"Rice balls with sesame salt. Eat along the way. You are going far."
"Do you believe I will return?"
"No need to believe. As long as this land remains, you haven't gone anywhere."
Trung nodded, walking away. The steel legs touched the soft earth, emitting a deep, low sound like the ancient drum. In the sky, the clouds gradually dispersed, revealing a thin blue streak, like the mark of a sword drawn across the heavens.
Trung followed it with his eyes; his gaze shone with a soft blue hue, both human and divine.
"The Ancient Soul Core System..." he murmured. "If it truly exists, I will find it. Not to fight, but to understand why humans need a soul."
The wind from the North blew down, carrying the chill and the smell of fresh earth. Somewhere amidst the clouds, the faint sound of the bronze drum echoed, blending into the footsteps of the man walking not a warrior, not a machine, but a human searching for his own meaning.