Pip Against the Wind

Part 1: The Land of Childhood Memories

Chapter 1: The Boy from Dong Nai

Pip didn't remember much about his early life, but his memories, like an old film reel, came into focus from the years he lived with his maternal grandmother in a small hamlet in the Dong Nai region. The world of young Pip back then was a vivid painting, rendered in the glistening gold of the dusty dirt roads, the green of the vast fruit orchards, and the sun-darkened skin of his barefoot friends.

When Pip turned ten, his parents, like many others in the hamlet, decided to move to Binh Phuoc to pursue new economic opportunities. They promised to bring him up as soon as their lives were stable. Pip stayed behind with his grandmother. For a child, being away from parents could be a great sorrow, but for Pip, it opened an unexpected horizon of freedom—a freedom as boundless as the countryside wind he breathed every day. He had to take care of everything himself, from going to school and doing homework to personal hygiene. His grandmother, with her small frame and white hair, provided him with hot meals. The absence of his parents' embrace inadvertently forged in Pip a self-reliant character and a maturity beyond his years.

Pip's life was a series of adventures without adult supervision. Every afternoon, after finishing his schoolwork, he and his friends in the hamlet would invent all sorts of games. Their games weren't just gifts from nature like using dried banana leaves as swords or areca spathes as boats, but also deadly challenges whose risks their innocence couldn't comprehend.

Pip's grandmother's house was near National Highway 1A, where trucks and buses roared past day and night, carrying with them gusts of dust and the acrid smell of gasoline. And that, ironically, became their playground.

When night fell and the road grew quiet, Pip and his friends would gather by the roadside. Ti, the most rebellious of the bunch, pointed to a bush.

Hide in here,

he whispered.

Wait for a car with the brightest lights, and we'll throw one right at it to make it go dark!

Pip, though a little scared, didn't want to be seen as a coward and nodded eagerly. His heart pounded as the headlights of a bus approached from a distance. The group held their breath, clutching pebbles, waiting for the vehicle to get closer.

Ti gave a soft command.

Throw!

They all swung their arms in unison. A sharp "clang" rang out, followed by the furious, screeching sound of brakes. Terrified, the gang scrambled and ran for their lives back into the hamlet, not daring to look back. They didn't know that the stone might have taken someone's life. To them, at that moment, it was just a game, a feat to boast about the next morning.

The recklessness didn't stop there. One afternoon, the group decided to go fishing at the pond at the end of the hamlet, though none of them could swim. Pip's fishing line got tangled in a thick patch of water spinach. As he tugged with all his might, he lost his balance and tumbled into the water. The suffocating, helpless feeling of being enveloped by water hit him. He thrashed about in a panic, the mud at the bottom of the pond seeming to pull his legs down. Luckily, his hand grabbed a patch of water spinach. He clung to it, trying to lift his head above the water, his mouth stammering for help. Fortunately, an adult returning from the fields heard him and rushed to pull him ashore. Once on land, Pip could only cough violently, his body trembling from cold and fear. He had been a hair's breadth away from death.

These foolish games, thankfully, left no tragic consequences. But they sowed in Pip's heart the seeds of recklessness and a lack of awareness of boundaries. The absence of his parents, while granting him freedom, had also taken away his most important shield.

Young Pip was not just hyperactive. Deep inside, he possessed an endless curiosity about the world around him. He could sit for hours watching an ant colony, wondering how they could carry back food scraps many times their size. He wondered why dragonflies flew low over the water before it rained, why the moon always seemed to follow him as he walked. His grandmother could never answer these naive questions. She would just smile, a gentle toothless grin, and pat his head.

Later, when my Pip studies hard and grows up, you'll know everything.

Her words planted a seed in Pip's heart. He threw himself into his studies, not just out of curiosity, but also to find answers to his questions, and most of all, not to disappoint his grandmother.

A memory Pip would never forget was the scorching summer noons. The sun outside was as golden as honey, shining through the leaves to create dancing spots of light on the ground. The two of them would lie on a hammock woven from parachute cord, creaking with each gentle breeze. From an old battery-powered radio, the sweet melodies of vong co and the poignant tunes of cai luong opera, sung by Minh Vuong and Le Thuy, would fill the air. Their voices had a strange allure, lulling Pip to sleep, seeping even into his dreams. His grandmother used to say that cai luong was the soul, the heart of the Southern people. Pip didn't fully understand then; he only felt a gentle sadness and a tender joy in those songs, just like life itself.

Pip's intelligence and eagerness to learn were quickly noticed by his homeroom teacher. In the fifth grade, he was selected for the district's team for gifted students. Ms. Hue, the teacher in charge of the team, lived four kilometers away from Pip's house. The class started at five in the morning. This meant Pip had to wake up at four, when the sky was still pitch black and the early morning wind was chilly.

The road to Ms. Hue's house was not a peaceful village path. It forced Pip to walk a long stretch along National Highway 1A, where trucks still roared even in the dead of night. The most frightening spot was the Ta Lu junction, a name whose meaning Pip didn't understand but which was etched in his mind as a source of dread. The adults in the hamlet whispered that it was an accident "black spot," where many people had lost their lives. They wove tales of wandering ghosts lurking in the darkness, waiting for passersby. Pip was scared. The cold night wind seemed to carry ghostly whispers, and the danger from the speeding vehicles often made his legs want to stop, to turn back to his grandmother's embrace. But then, the image of his grandmother toiling by the fire, Ms. Hue's expectant eyes, and his own thirst to "know everything" urged him on. Pip gripped his backpack straps, humming the song The Red Scarf Lights Up the Dawn that he had just learned to drown out his fear. He walked on, huddling his small body in his thin shirt, trying to walk against the biting wind. At first, he tiptoed close to the edge of the road, then he quickened his pace, almost running through the deadly junction.

When he reached Ms. Hue's house, his forehead drenched in sweat and his heart still pounding, a sense of indescribable pride swelled within him. He had conquered his own fear. That feeling, for a ten-year-old boy, was more glorious than winning a mock battle. It gave him the belief that with enough courage, he could overcome any difficulty. The seed his grandmother had planted years ago, after many long nights of walking against the wind, had begun to take root, strong and resilient.

Chapter 2: The Boy of the Red Earth

After finishing elementary school, Pip left his grandmother's embrace and the familiar land of Dong Nai to reunite with his parents in Binh Phuoc. The old bus stopped at a remote crossroads, dropping him and his mother off by the roadside. The wind here was different; it carried the dampness of the earth and the raw scent of forest leaves. The new life that opened up before the eleven-year-old boy was not one of prosperity, but a much greater challenge, starting from his very first steps on the red basalt soil.

The land his parents had cleared was in a remote area, surrounded by rolling hills and vast rubber and cashew forests. The path to their home was just a narrow trail, dyed a distinctive crimson red. His mother carried the luggage, and Pip trailed behind. A sudden afternoon rain had just stopped, leaving the path as slippery as grease. The boy, used to paved roads, now stumbled awkwardly on the red earth. "Thud!"—he slipped and fell flat on his back, his new clothes stained with a patch of red mud. His mother quickly helped him up, brushed off the dirt perfunctorily, and hurried on. Pip whimpered, trying to keep up with his mother, but then "thud, thud," he fell countless more times on the short walk home. That was the first lesson this land taught him.

Pip's family home was just a temporary wooden house with a tin roof, standing isolated on a hill. There was no electricity, and water had to be carried from the stream at the foot of the hill. Life was deprived in every way. His parents worked from dawn till dusk, their faces to the earth and their backs to the sky, but poverty clung to them.

Pip vividly remembered the rainy nights. The old tin roof couldn't fully cover the house, and heavy raindrops would leak through the gaps, splashing in coldly, carried by the wind that whistled through the wooden walls. The family was so poor they didn't have enough warm blankets. His mother would often pile all the old clothes in a corner and tell Pip to crawl in there to sleep. The boy would bury himself in the pile of clothes; the warmth from the fabric and the smell of his parents' sweat mingling together, strangely, brought a sense of security. He snuggled deeper, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain on the tin roof and the howling wind outside.

Pip whispered, his voice sleepy.

Mom, why don't we have a tiled roof so the rain doesn't leak? Grandma's house has tiles, you can't even hear the rain when you sleep.

His mother, sitting beside him, gently stroked his hair. She smiled in the darkness, a smile Pip couldn't see but could feel the warmth of.

Yes, when we have money, I'll build a really big house with a bright red tiled roof. There will be a separate room for you, Pip, with a desk and a bright lamp. You can study all you want, without fear of the rain or wind. How about that?

Pip rubbed his eyes, his voice full of hope.

Really, Mom? As big as Uncle Ha, the hamlet chief's house?

His mother chuckled softly.

Yes, even bigger than the chief's house. But... you have to promise me one thing.

Pip asked.

What is it?

His mother hugged him, her voice becoming serious yet still gentle.

You have to study really hard. Only education can help us build that house, son. This tin roof might leak, but the knowledge in your head never will. Remember that?

Pip nodded, his small arms wrapping around his mother.

I remember, Mom.

Outside, the rain continued to fall. But in the small corner of the house, amidst the pile of old clothes, a big dream had just been planted.

The road to school was a truly arduous journey for Pip. The only middle school in the commune was nearly ten kilometers from his house. The path wasn't a smooth, paved road, but a red dirt trail that snaked over several hills and through desolate rubber forests. On sunny days, every step he took kicked up a cloud of red dust that stained the cuffs of his pants. On rainy days, it turned into a muddy, slippery stream. More than once, Pip re-enacted the scene of falling flat on his back, just like his first day. His pristine white uniform would be splattered with red mud by the time he reached school, making him feel both ashamed and sorry for himself.

But the red dirt road was not just about hardship. The rubber forest had its own beauty. In the summer, walking under the canopy of lush green leaves, a cool breeze would blow through. In the winter, the rubber leaves would turn yellow and fall, leaving behind gaunt, bare branches. But the most beautiful season was spring, when new buds sprouted in unison. The entire forest seemed to wear a new, vibrant reddish-pink coat, as beautiful as any scene from a maple forest movie he had dreamed of seeing.

Pip's childhood was also linked to the gifts of the rubber forest. When the rubber fruits ripened and fell, they would split open, releasing the seeds. The seeds were round, hard, with strange and colorful patterns like snake eggs. The fruit husks were just as unique. They split into two curved halves. If you joined two halves in the same direction, they became a majestic samurai mask. If you attached them in opposite directions, they turned into a pinwheel. Pip and his two older sisters would often blow on these handmade pinwheels, watching them spin in the wind and laughing, their voices echoing through a corner of the forest.

In the summer, when many rubber seeds fell, Pip and his sisters had an extra job. Each with a sack, they would weave through the trees to collect the seeds. The smooth, shiny seeds were gathered and sold to traders for a little money to buy books and notebooks, or to help their parents with groceries. Pip's small hands became calloused from collecting seeds, but his heart was joyful, for he felt he had grown up and could share the burden with his family.

The biggest challenge on his way to school remained the stream that crossed the path. In the dry season, it was gentle, but in the rainy season, it turned into a raging current. On such days, his father would have to wade out to carry his son across the swift water. Seeing his father's thin figure, straining against the current, Pip felt both love for his father and a sense of his own smallness. He clung tightly to his father's sun-tanned back, feeling every muscle tense up.

His father, feeling the weight of his son and his anxiety, spoke in a gruff voice, drowning out the roar of the water.

Hold on tight. We're almost there.

Pip replied in a small voice, almost carried away by the wind.

Yes... The current is so strong, Dad, I'm scared.

The father didn't answer immediately, choosing a large rock to step on for a firm footing.

No matter how strong the current is, it must flow downstream. Only people have to go upstream. Going to school is like wading against this current, son. It's hard, but once you get to the other side, you'll move fast.

Pip fell silent, pressing his cheek against his father's back. His father's simple words were more powerful than the raging stream; they cut deep into his mind.

His father continued, as if talking to himself.

Your mother and I don't have an education, only our strength. This strength will wear out. Only the knowledge in your head can't be taken away. Keep trying, son.

Pip managed a soft "yes" in his throat. He said nothing more, but in his heart, he made a promise. He had to cross this stream, not just today, but the stream of life that lay ahead.

Once, due to heavy rain, his father told Pip to stay home, but he was afraid of missing class and falling behind, so he went anyway. At the stream, he saw the water was too swift and hesitated. But not wanting his father to have to come get him, he decided to cross by himself. He clutched his schoolbag, edged along a large rock, trying to hold onto the roots of the trees along the bank. But the current was too strong. After just a few steps, he slipped and fell. The icy, fierce water immediately swept him away. Luckily, his hand caught a large overhanging branch. He held on with all his might. At that moment, he heard his father screaming his name. His father had plunged into the stream, wrestling with it to save him. The moment his father pulled him to the shore, Pip burst into tears, not out of fear, but out of love for his father. That day, he truly understood that his path to education was paved with the sacrifices and even the lives of his parents.

Adversity only seemed to steel Pip's resolve. He never complained, diligently climbing the slopes and navigating the muddy paths to get to class. His silence was not a lack of sadness or self-pity, but an understanding that complaining would change nothing. He bottled up all these emotions, turning them into a resilient energy, a quiet grit.

This suppression created cracks in his soul. The insecurity about his poverty, instead of being released, smoldered within him, sometimes erupting into regrettable actions that he would agonize over as an adult. He remembered most vividly his Biti's sandals, his most prized possession at the time. He wore them everywhere until the soles were worn thin and the strap broke. With no money for a new pair, his father took a small piece of wire and skillfully wrapped it around the broken strap. He handed the mended sandals to Pip, looking at the shiny wire repair, then at his son's face trying to hide his disappointment. He said nothing, just quietly turned away. But as Pip slipped his feet into the sandals, about to walk away, his father suddenly spoke, his voice low and somewhat distant.

Things are like people, son. Sometimes they're whole, sometimes they're broken. What's important is that they're still useful, that they still help you move forward.

He paused for a moment, not looking at Pip, his eyes still fixed on the yard.

This wire tie, it isn't pretty, but it's strong. Just like your mother and I. We can't give you the same appearance as others, but we'll try to be your strongest support. Just go, don't be afraid.

He mumbled a "yes" and hurried away, as if trying to escape the very sandals on his feet. That shame followed him to the next day. On the way to school, he walked furtively, his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the ground. He tried to use his long, baggy trouser cuffs to hide the makeshift wire repair, and his gait became a pitiful, clumsy limp.

That shame was also tied to his father's dilapidated motorcycle, a bike so worn out its engine sounded like it was about to fall apart. Occasionally, his father would use it to take him to school. Each time he sat behind his father, Pip felt not joy, but dread. He was afraid his friends would see. As they neared the school gate, he would hastily jump off, urging his father to speed away.

Go, Dad, go quickly!

he would urge, not daring to look back. After a few times, his father noticed. He said nothing, but quietly changed his routine. The next times, he no longer dropped Pip right at the gate, but at a hidden corner behind some trees, waiting for him to walk to school before quietly turning the bike around and heading home. His father's silence was more painful to Pip than a thousand scoldings.

The peak of his foolishness was the time he denied his own mother. To earn extra money, his mother would ride her old bicycle every day, carrying a load of banh beo (steamed rice cakes) to sell in the hamlets. One afternoon, while walking with his friends, Pip saw his mother from a distance, her back bent as she pedaled towards them. His heart tightened. He wanted to run to her, but his feet felt rooted to the ground by his friends' eyes. He bowed his head, pretending not to see, and silently walked past her. A curious friend asked,

Hey Pip, isn't that your mom?

He blurted out an icy lie:

No, that's my aunt.

That lie, though just the impulsive reaction of a child, became a scar that would never heal in Pip's soul.

Looking back on those actions, Pip only felt a pang of sorrow for his own immaturity and a heart-wrenching love for his parents. The Pip of that time, driven by a child's fragile pride, had unintentionally hurt the people who loved him most.

To help his parents, Pip would take the family's cattle to graze on the hillsides after school. Those afternoons on the hill were his favorite times. He would study amidst the vast expanse of land and sky, the howling wind, and the chirping of birds. Nature was his greatest teacher.

Besides textbooks, Pip's old schoolbag also contained a small notebook and a few colored pencils, a gift his father had saved up to buy for him. In that vast space, Pip didn't just study; he also drew. He drew the hills, the river, the lazy clouds. His sketches were naive, but they held all his love for this land.

Despite the difficult conditions, Pip always maintained excellent academic performance. He was always at the top of his class, a source of pride for his teachers. Seeing their son so eager to learn and so bright, all of his parents' fatigue seemed to vanish. Their eyes, when they looked at Pip, held a belief, a fierce hope for the future.

The boy of the red earth, with his sunburnt skin and calloused feet, nurtured a grand dream. It wasn't just about escaping poverty, but about repaying his parents' sacrifices, about lifting them out of this barren land. That dream was as pure, strong, and majestic as the mountain scenery of Binh Phuoc, the place that had forged him.

Part 2: Lost

Chapter 3: The First Crack

The difficult yet memorable middle school years in the mountains eventually came to an end. To prepare for his higher education, Pip's parents decided to pool all their savings and rent a small room in town so Pip would have better conditions for high school. It was an immense sacrifice, and Pip understood that. He entered high school with a silent promise in his heart: he had to study hard, get into university, and not disappoint his parents' hopes.

He passed the entrance exam for the school's advanced class, a great source of pride. But the new environment brought not only joy but also invisible pressures and the first harsh truths that young Pip had to face.

His nickname seemed to be his destiny. He was shorter and lighter than his peers. This was most evident during physical education classes. He dreaded the high jump. The bar was set at its lowest, but to Pip, it still seemed impossibly high. To get a passing grade of 5, he had to clear a bar that was as high as his head. He had to summon all his strength, take a running start, and then shut his eyes and leap over it amidst the laughter of some classmates. Each time he cleared the bar, he would breathe a sigh of relief, but inside, he felt a deep sense of inferiority and self-consciousness about his physique. Pip wondered why the teachers, and indeed the entire education system, couldn't be more flexible and adapt to each student's physical build. His friends who had hit puberty early and came from well-off families with good nutrition were tall and strong; they could clear the bar with a light hop, while he had to struggle just to pass the lowest level.

The tumultuous years of adolescence were not all sorrow. Amidst the insecurities and pressures, Pip still had warm pillars of support. There was Tung, a friend from the same commune, who would occasionally give Pip a ride on his 50cc scooter for the dozens of kilometers back home from the boarding house. Pip was a terrible singer, unable to remember melodies or lyrics, but he had a phenomenal memory for literature, even for difficult genres like proclamations. So, to fill the silence on their long journeys, Pip turned himself into a "rapper." He would chant raps by popular artists of the time like LK or Young Uno. His rapping might have been awful, but Tung would listen patiently, occasionally bursting into laughter.

Pip also had a special rapport with the girls. He was close friends with a group consisting of Tham, Hong, Le, and Trang. Perhaps because of his gentle nature and love for learning, they liked him and never hesitated to help. On days Pip was sick, they would take turns copying notes and sending materials so he wouldn't fall behind. He also liked to write poetry—naive, silly poems about teachers, friends, and golden afternoons—that were passed around the classroom. These were moments of purity that helped keep his soul from being completely consumed by the darkness of self-doubt and injustice.

Perhaps the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional wounds. Pip's class was an advanced class, gathering the brightest students from the entire district, and it was also where the injustices of a flawed education system were most apparent. The problem of private tutoring was rampant. Most of the students in his class attended extra classes at the homes of their subject teachers. Pip's family was poor; the cost of his room and board was already a heavy burden, so there was no money for private tutoring. And so, he became one of the few "outsider" students.

The pressure began subtly. In class, difficult questions were often directed at students like Pip who didn't attend private tutoring. When he couldn't answer, the teachers would make snide remarks: "How are you going to keep up with your classmates if you study like this?" Meanwhile, the students who attended tutoring would answer fluently, as they had already solved those types of problems in their extra classes.

The height of injustice came during the 15-minute quizzes. The math teacher would give a test with a huge number of problems, impossible to solve in 15 minutes. Pip and a few other non-tutored friends would work frantically, their hands never stopping, yet still couldn't finish. Meanwhile, other students worked at a leisurely pace, even having time to chat. When the scores were returned, Pip would get a 7 or 8, while the others would all get 9s and 10s. He was furious. He knew he had done the work correctly but simply didn't have enough time. He also knew the other students could do it because they had been given the exact same problems the night before. He would get the same results as a tutored student, but when the papers were returned, his would be docked points for "messy presentation," while the other student's would get a perfect score.

These injustices were like knives cutting into Pip's young soul. He felt lost and helpless. His efforts seemed to go unrecognized. His diligence was rendered meaningless by the power of money. Away from home, with no one to confide in, his sense of grievance grew. His grades slipped, and he didn't dare tell his parents the truth. His parents back home only saw the grades and thought their son was slacking off.

Why have your grades been slipping lately, son?

his father's question was like a hammer blow to his pride.

The boy Pip, who had once overcome his fear of ghosts to go to school, who had crossed a raging stream to get to class, now felt powerless against the injustices within the very environment he had once trusted. His faith in the fairness of education began to crack. He was disillusioned and tired. He needed an escape, another world where his efforts would be rewarded fairly, a world without discrimination.

And then, as Pip was drowning in deadlock and despair, he found that world. It wasn't in textbooks or at school. It was in a dark, cold room filled with strange sounds at the edge of town.

Chapter 4: The Virtual Maze

The small town where Pip boarded, which once only had a few cafes and grocery stores, one day sprouted a flashing blue and red sign: "Internet Game - 999." To Pip, who was only familiar with books and nature, the words "Internet" and "Game" were completely foreign. He had only vaguely heard his classmates talk about it with an inexplicable excitement.

One afternoon after school, having received an unfair grade of 7 in Physics, his heart full of resentment, Pip wandered around, not wanting to go back to his rented room. The town wind blew past, carrying a strange feeling, lacking the warmth of the earth like back in his commune. Persuaded by his friends, he stepped into the world they called a "net cafe" for the first time. A sense of being overwhelmed hit him. The air was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and the stuffy atmosphere of dozens of people, with not a breath of fresh air. The room was dark, lit only by the flickering light from computer monitors. The chaotic symphony of clacking keyboards, rapid mouse clicks, shouts, curses, and satisfied laughter blended together, creating the sound of another world, a world full of magnetic power.

His friend clapped him on the shoulder, pointing to a screen displaying vibrant images: "That's Vo Lam Truyen Ky! Give it a try, it's awesome!"

Pip timidly sat down. He had never touched such a modern computer. With his friend's guidance, he created a character, and the game world opened up before his eyes. It was a stunningly beautiful world of ancient martial arts. Pip, the poor student from the mountains, was instantly transformed into a young hero in brocade robes, a sword on his back, riding a horse through a magnificent citadel. He could learn martial arts, fight monsters, and make friends.

Most importantly, in this world, effort was rewarded fairly. That afternoon, he had just received a 7 on a 15-minute quiz, not because he was wrong, but because he didn't have the "answers" beforehand like his tutored classmates. The feeling of injustice was still lodged in his chest. But here, in this virtual world, when he clumsily controlled his character to defeat the first monster, a line of golden text appeared: "+10 experience points."

He killed another monster. Again, "+10 experience points." The blue experience bar slowly inched forward. It was a simple, clear, and absolutely fair rule: effort yields results. No snide remarks. No favoritism. No one could take away his achievements because his "presentation wasn't neat."

That feeling, the feeling of being instantly and fairly recognized, was so new, so captivating. It was like a cool stream of water washing away all the resentment and hurt he had endured. It offered him an escape from a reality filled with injustice and pressure. In that virtual world, he wasn't Pip; he was a renowned hero. He could do extraordinary things that he could never do in the real world.

That first trial session lasted until late at night. Pip forgot to eat, forgot to study. When he stepped out of the net cafe, his mind was still buzzing, lost in battles and magnificent martial arts techniques. He had found his escape.

And then, the inevitable happened. From once a week, Pip started going to the net cafe twice, then three times, then almost every day. The net cafe became his regular destination after school. Reference books and practice exams were pushed to a corner. His evening study time was replaced by all-night gaming sessions.

He started to lie. He lied to his parents that he was going to tutoring to ask for money. He skipped breakfast to save money for games. Dark circles began to appear under his eyes from lack of sleep. In class, he no longer paid attention to the lectures. The teachers' words, the unfair grades—they no longer bothered him. His mind was somewhere else, in a world of epic sieges and thrilling boss hunts.

Pip's decline did not escape the notice of his homeroom teacher. Ms. Loan, who had once had high hopes for him, couldn't help but see the change. She remembered back in 10th grade, she herself had to talk to the physical education and military training teachers to ask for "leniency" for Pip due to his weak physique, so he wouldn't lose his "Excellent Student" title over a few minor points. She knew he was a student of extraordinary willpower.

So, when she saw Pip starting to skip school without reason, she sensed something was wrong. After several fruitless inquiries with his classmates, she decided to do something few teachers would: she traveled to his parents' home in Loc Dien commune one weekend. It was an arduous journey, and she had to ask for directions many times before she found the temporary wooden house standing alone on a hill.

The image of Pip's parents, two weather-beaten people with sunburnt skin, looking bewildered and confused to see their son's teacher from the distant town, haunted Ms. Loan. She looked around the house, which had nothing of value, and listened to them talk about how their son rarely called home lately. Her heart ached with sorrow.

Ms. Loan sat on an old wooden chair, her hands fiddling with the hot cup of tea Pip's mother had just brought out. His mother sat opposite, her eyes unable to hide her anxiety. His father leaned against the door, silent, but the tension was clear on his sun-darkened forehead.

Ms. Loan spoke, her voice gentle, to break the heavy silence.

Sir, Ma'am, I am Pip's homeroom teacher. I... I came here because I'm a little worried about his studies lately.

Pip's mother quickly asked, her voice trembling.

Ma'am, has our Pip caused any trouble at school? Has he been misbehaving?

Ms. Loan shook her head, looking at the two parents with a sympathetic gaze.

No, not at all. Pip is a very good and intelligent student. It's just... lately he's been a bit neglectful, often absent from school. I couldn't reach him, so I took the liberty of coming all the way here to see if anything was wrong.

Pip's father, who had been silent until now, suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse and heavy.

Please speak plainly, teacher. Is he fooling around, not focusing on his studies? My family works hard here, saving every penny to send him to school, just hoping he'll become someone...

He left the sentence unfinished, but the disappointment in his voice was undisguised.

Ms. Loan felt a lump in her throat.

I understand your hardship. I think Pip is going through some psychological difficulties. At his age, living away from home, he might feel lonely and lost. I just hope your family can pay more attention to him, talk to him more. Pip is a good seed. I believe that if we help him together, he will get through this.

The conversation ended in silence. Ms. Loan left, her heart heavy. Pip's mother sat motionless, her eyes welling with tears. As for Pip's father, he stared out at the sunny yard, his eyes hardening, holding a decision that had just been made.

The very next day after the teacher's visit, Pip's father appeared at the door of his rented room. He came unannounced. The nearly thirty-kilometer journey from the commune to the town on his old motorcycle had etched exhaustion and suppressed anger onto his face. He didn't say much, just looked straight into his son's eyes, a look Pip had never seen before.

Your homeroom teacher came to our house

his father said, his voice hoarse.

What kind of student have you been, to make her come all the way to our home, son?

His father's question, and his very presence in the room, dealt a heavy blow to Pip's pride. He felt not only guilty but also humiliated. He didn't want anyone to see his circumstances, especially the teacher he respected, and now his own father had to travel all this way because of his negligence. The teacher's kindness, ironically, had become an unbearable burden, a harsh reality he just wanted to escape.

The virtual world, where no one knew who he was, where no one judged his situation, became an even more ideal refuge. He plunged into the game as a way to forget, to assert his self-worth in a place where no one knew Pip or his family.

Ms. Loan's concern continued. She looked into the school's support policies and nominated Pip for a scholarship for students from disadvantaged backgrounds. But every time she called him in to talk, he felt more and more embarrassed and ashamed. He felt he didn't deserve it, and above all, he was afraid to face her pitying eyes.

Pip just bowed his head, mumbling

yes, ma'am.

He felt guilty towards her and fearful for his future. But the shame and the temptation of the virtual world were too great. It was like an opiate; once hooked, it was impossible to break free. He was trapped in a maze of his own making, a virtual maze with real consequences. And the door to university, the door to the future that he and his entire family had dreamed of, was slowly slamming shut before his eyes.

Chapter 5: The First Major Shock

The high school graduation and university entrance exams finally arrived, waiting for no one, not even a lost soul like Pip. He entered the examination room like a sleepwalker. The smell of new test papers, the solemn atmosphere of the room, and the tense faces around him seemed to belong to another world. In Pip's mind, the math formulas and chemistry equations he once knew by heart had been replaced by game maps, item names, and siege tactics.

He tried to concentrate, to pull the forgotten knowledge back from his subconscious. But it was useless. Staring at the exam paper, his mind was a blank. The letters and numbers danced, mocking him. He could only answer the easiest questions; for the rest, he had to guess blindly in utter helplessness. The three days of exams passed like a long nightmare. When the final bell rang, signaling the end of the last exam, Pip walked out of the room, his heart heavy. He knew he had failed miserably.

The days waiting for the results were the heaviest. Pip no longer dared to go to the net cafe. He returned home to Binh Phuoc, skulking around like a shadow. The whole house was shrouded in a suffocating silence. His parents didn't ask about the exams, but their silence was more terrifying than any scolding. They still worked, still talked, but the smiles had vanished from their faces. Family meals were filled only with the clinking of bowls and chopsticks. Pip felt like a criminal, someone who had stolen the joy and hope of his entire family.

And then, the fateful day came. The results slip arrived. The numbers on it were like daggers, stabbing at Pip's pride, stabbing at his parents' hearts. "Failed." It was an expected result, but it still couldn't prevent the pain.

Silence enveloped the house, thick and heavy. Pip didn't dare to look up. He heard his mother's weary sigh and the sound of a wooden chair being pushed back violently.

His father, a man of few words, shot to his feet. Without a word, he strode into the house, to the most honored corner where he hung all the family's pride.

He began to take them down. One certificate of merit at a time.

Seeing her husband's actions, Pip's mother rushed to intervene, her voice breaking into tears.

What are you doing? Stop it!

His father didn't reply, his calloused hands resolutely taking down the old achievements. The certificates for being a top student at the district and provincial levels... the things that were once the light of their humble home.

His mother sobbed, trying to snatch the pile of certificates from her husband's hands.

That's our family's treasure, our son's hard work! Please, he made a mistake once, forgive him...

Only then did his father turn around. His eyes were bloodshot, staring straight at his wife, his voice hoarse, each word forced out.

Hard work? Hard work to bring us this piece of paper now?

He held up the failure notice, crumpling it in his hand.

I don't need this kind of hard work anymore! It's better to have nothing than this fake honor!

With a terrifying resolve, he brutally pushed his wife's hand away. But he didn't stop there. He went back into the house, towards Pip's old study corner. He pulled out the worn-out sketchbook, the one he himself had scrimped and saved to buy for his son, along with the box of colored pencils. He gathered everything—the certificates and the drawings—took them out to the front yard, and lit a fire.

A sudden evening breeze fanned the flames, and they leaped up fiercely, licking at the words, the grades. Pip stood frozen, watching his pride, his family's pride, turn to ash. He saw the image of his younger self, the boy who crossed streams to go to school, the boy who stayed up all night to study, also burning in that fire.

But then, as the flames reached the pages of his drawings, another feeling, colder and more bitter, rose within him. He watched the fire consume his drawing of the hill behind their house, the drawing of the meandering Be River. It wasn't just paper. It was his soul, his passion. His father stood there, his back to Pip, no longer a lonely figure, but one of complete collapse. He wasn't just burning certificates; he was burning hope, and his son's inner world.

Pip couldn't cry. A lump formed in his throat. This shock was more painful than a thousand scoldings. He could understand why his father burned the certificates—it was disappointment. But why burn the drawings too? What crime had they committed? An overwhelming sense of injustice surged through him. He made a silent, chilling vow to himself:

I will never draw again.

The news that Pip, the pride of the entire commune, had failed his university entrance exams spread like wildfire. People gossiped. Some felt pity, others gloated.

I thought he was so smart, turns out he's just like that.

The thoughtless words were like needles, pricking at the family's pain. From a shining example, Pip instantly became a cautionary tale for parents to use on their children.

The pain was deepened by the joyful news pouring in from his classmates. Tung, the close friend who used to give him rides, got into the University of Technology. The group of girls—Tham, Hong, Trang—also got into the University of Science, the Banking University, the University of Economics, and the University of Agriculture and Forestry. The entire advanced class was now filled with new students of prestigious universities. Calls inviting him to celebration parties kept coming. Pip didn't dare to answer. He refused them all, making up excuses to avoid facing his friends' joy, a joy he should have shared. Each word of congratulations for a friend was another knife twisting in his own failure.

Pip locked himself in his room, drowning in self-reproach and regret. He hated the world of gaming, hated his own weakness. He realized that the glorious victories in the virtual world were worthless. They couldn't buy a future, couldn't erase the sadness in his mother's eyes, and certainly couldn't lighten the burden on his father's weary shoulders.

In his deepest despair, when Pip thought all doors had been slammed shut, a faint ray of light appeared. It was an acceptance letter from a College of Information Technology in Saigon. While filling out the application forms, he had randomly put the school's name down as his second choice, just to have something there. He never thought he would need it.

"College"—the word tasted bitter. But to Pip at that moment, it was no longer an insult, but a life raft. At the very least, it gave him a reason to leave this place, to escape the judgmental eyes, to start over.

His parents, after days of grief, were the ones who pulled him up.

Go to school, son,

his father said, his voice less angry, now just weary.

Go down there, try to study hard and become a good person. Don't let your mother and me be disappointed again.

The decision was made. Pip packed his bags and left, leaving behind the hilly region that had been his home throughout his school years. He left with the shame of a failure, with his father's admonition and his mother's sad eyes. The glamorous Saigon he had once dreamed of now welcomed him in a completely different way. He wasn't coming to conquer, but to start again, from zero.

Part 3: Rebuilding

Chapter 6: The Turn of the Keyboard

Saigon did not welcome Pip with tree-lined boulevards or sparkling skyscrapers. It greeted him with the oppressive air of a crowded bus station, with a scorching wind that slapped his face with a mixture of smog, sweat, and the shame of a failure. But Pip would not let himself be defeated. The fire his father had lit that night, burning his certificates, had not incinerated his will. On the contrary, it had forged a determination to start over, to prove his worth through a different path.

The financial burden meant he couldn't just study. Pip looked for a part-time job, not with his brawn, but with his brain. He became a tutor for a chubby little boy, the son of a wealthy merchant family in the Ba Hom market area. Ironically, his young student was living a "stolen childhood" with a packed schedule: public school in the morning, private school in the afternoon, and tutoring at night. The parents wanted someone to help the boy review his lessons early in the morning before class.

This job suited Pip in a strangely familiar way. He once again began his journeys at 4:30 AM, cycling through the sleepy streets of Saigon to his student's house, teaching from 5 to 6 AM, and then rushing to his own college. It was as if he was reliving his past, only this time he was the one sowing knowledge, not seeking it.

Alongside tutoring, Pip threw himself into his studies with a frenzy. Information Technology, the major he had chosen by chance, turned out to be fertile ground for his mind. His early exposure to computers from gaming, combined with the self-study skills honed during his high school years, gave him an advantage. Pip's era was the era of online forums. He tinkered, wrote his own code, and created a forum for his own college.

Initially, it was just a place to share materials, but the forum quickly became popular. High school students started visiting to ask about the major and job opportunities. Pip's private college, which used to spend a lot on advertising each year, suddenly had a natural and effective recruitment channel. Pip, as the Admin, became an influential figure, favored by the school. He was given the flexibility to study and work. For some subjects, he was allowed to work during office hours, only needing to show up for exams, and the teachers would message him in advance.

That opportunity opened a path for Pip that no other student had. At the end of his second year, with the confidence built from managing an online community and a solid foundation in programming, Pip did something audacious. He took a bus to the front gate of the Vietnam Institute of Computing, one of the major tech entities at the time, and asked for a meeting to present a project he could undertake.

With the confidence and passion of youth, he succeeded. The first contract, worth 50 million VND, was signed. It was a colossal sum for a second-year college student at the time.

The first thing Pip did after receiving the advance payment was not to celebrate, but to run to a motorcycle shop. He paid in full for a red and black Yamaha Nouvo LX, the most fashionable scooter of that era. He had set very clear goals for his life: buy a Nouvo, get married, buy a house. And that day, sitting on his brand-new bike, Pip told himself he had achieved his first goal. The first stumble of his life had taken away his university dream, but it had given him back maturity, a resilient will, and a new path—a path he had created himself with a keyboard and his mind.

Part 4: The Peak and the Abyss

Chapter 7: Two Laptops and the Brink of Despair

The first 50-million-VND contract was a major turning point. It not only brought Pip the trendy Nouvo LX but also served as a resounding validation of his talent. With the remaining money and his soaring confidence, Pip decided to leave his cramped rented room. He and a colleague from the company rented a small house in an alley off Pham Van Hai street in Tan Binh district to have a more comfortable workspace.

Life seemed to be smiling on him. During the day, Pip still attended classes and tutored; at night, he would be hunched over his newly bought laptop, writing line after line of code for the biggest project of his life. But disaster never announces its arrival.

One afternoon, returning from class, Pip froze when he saw the lock on his door had been broken. He rushed into his room to a scene of chaos. The worst had happened: his laptop, his most valuable asset, his tool for earning a living, had vanished. Everything in Pip's mind exploded. Losing the laptop wasn't just losing money; it was losing everything. The entire source code for the project, all his sleepless nights, was gone with it.

He frantically called Mr. Tai, the project owner, his voice trembling with fear and anxiety. He braced himself for scolding, perhaps even the cancellation of the contract. But on the other end of the line, Mr. Tai's voice was calm. He simply asked about the situation and then said something Pip would never forget: "Calm down. Possessions can be replaced. The important thing is that you're okay. The project can be redone, but you are what matters most."

Mr. Tai's generosity only strengthened Pip's resolve. He gathered all his remaining money, borrowed more from friends, and bought another laptop. Then he threw himself into work like a madman. He worked day and night, forgetting to eat or sleep, with a single goal: to rewrite the entire project from scratch and meet the promised deadline. The familiar lines of code, coupled with his extraordinary memory, helped him miraculously recreate his work.

But fate seemed determined to test his resilience to its very limit. Exactly one month later, the tragedy repeated itself. Pip had a habit of working late into the night and would sometimes, out of exhaustion, fall asleep at his desk. That morning, he woke to sunlight on his face. He stretched and habitually reached for his laptop. But there was only a cold, empty space. He was stunned, rubbing his eyes several times, hoping he was still dreaming. But no, the second laptop was gone. A thief had snuck in through the second-floor balcony while he was sound asleep.

A terrifying emptiness washed over Pip. He didn't scream, didn't panic. In a daze, he ran straight from the second floor to the ground floor. His heart pounded. He had only one thought:

Please, not that.

Thankfully, his Nouvo LX was still there, standing silently in the corner. But even that couldn't soothe his pain.

In the following days, Pip wandered the streets of Saigon like a ghost. He didn't know where to go. What now? The second laptop was all he had, the result of a month of grueling work to salvage the project. Now it was gone too. How could he explain this to Mr. Tai? How could he start over? The money was gone, and now he was in debt.

He stood on a bridge, looking down at the dark, murky water flowing slowly below. The wind howled past, whispering temptations of surrender into his ear. His thoughts were as dark as the water.

Maybe I should just end it all here? Jump, and all the burdens, all the debts, all the failures will disappear. I won't have to face anyone's disappointment anymore.

He closed his eyes, and the image of his parents, the image of the fire burning his certificates and his drawings, flashed before him. He had failed them once, and now he was just another burden. Helplessness and despair felt like an invisible hand, squeezing his heart.

Just as Pip was sinking into his darkest thoughts, his phone vibrated. It was Mr. Tai. Pip hesitated, not daring to answer. But then, he took a deep breath, pressed the answer button, and prepared for the storm.

Hello, Pip? I haven't been able to reach you for a few days.

Mr. Tai's voice was still calm, without a trace of anger. Pip mumbled, his voice cracking.

I... I'm so sorry, sir... I... lost the laptop again.

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Pip thought it was the calm before the storm. But it wasn't.

Lost it again? Alright. Where are you? Come to the company and see me right now.

Pip went to the Vietnam Institute of Computing feeling like a condemned man. But Mr. Tai didn't scold him. He looked at Pip, who had grown thin and gaunt after days of wandering, and patted his shoulder.

I told you, people are the most important thing. You have talent, I believe in you. But you can't live like this.

He handed Pip some money.

Take this, buy another machine. But this time, don't go back to that house. Pack your things and move in here. Live and work at the company. We have security, we have brothers here, it's safer. You just need to focus on finishing the project. I'll take care of the rest.

Pip stood frozen, unable to believe his ears. He looked at the man before him, who was just a business partner, yet treated him with such trust and forgiveness. He couldn't say a word. He just bowed his head, and for the first time since the shock of failing his university exams, he cried. Tears of gratitude, of relief. Mr. Tai's hand had pulled him back from the very brink of despair.

Chapter 8: Life at the Institute

Life at the Vietnam Institute of Computing opened a new chapter for Pip, a chapter of isolation and ultimate dedication. Mr. Tai arranged a small workspace and a folding cot for him in a large room on the second floor. The room was originally a communal meeting room, vast and spacious, its white-painted walls yellowed with age, adorned with a few old whiteboards covered in notes and system diagrams. During the day, the room was filled with the sound of typing and colleagues discussing work. But when night fell and the hallway lights went out, only Pip remained, with the lonely blue glow from his laptop screen casting his shadow onto the large wall, making him look even smaller and more solitary.

The room was notorious within the company for its "ghost" stories. On some days, when everyone had gone home and the space was completely silent, the heavy wooden door would slam shut with a powerful "BAM," even though there was no wind. The room was on the second floor with no windows, so there couldn't possibly be a draft strong enough to do that.

People often teased Pip. One afternoon, as he was diligently coding, a colleague tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey Pip, aren't you scared of ghosts staying here alone at night? This room is haunted, you know," the colleague said, half-joking.

A woman sitting nearby chimed in.

"I heard someone who worked late here once saw a ghost. An unrested soul, super creepy," she teased.

Pip just looked up and smiled gently. For him, the greatest fear was failure, disappointing Mr. Tai's trust, not some unseen entity.

"I'm only afraid of my code not running and missing deadlines," Pip replied calmly.

He was a man who believed only in logic and science. He explained the phenomenon to himself using principles of physics: the air pressure difference between the air-conditioned room and the hotter hallway, combined with the structure of the old building, created a sudden convection current strong enough to push the door, which was no longer perfectly sealed. The fear of ghosts was irrelevant.

However, there was one time his rational fortress was shaken. After a night of grinding on the project until almost dawn, he collapsed from exhaustion and fell asleep right on the carpeted floor. In a state between dream and reality, he felt his entire body become paralyzed, as stiff as a log. He was aware of everything around him: the pale yellow streetlights filtering through the door cracks, the clanging of the garbage truck outside, the ticking of the wall clock. But he couldn't move, couldn't open his eyes, couldn't even make a sound. An overwhelming panic seized him, as if a heavy, invisible shadow was pressing down on his chest, making it impossible to breathe. He struggled with all his might, trying to flex his arms and legs, but it was all in vain. The internal struggle felt like an eternity, until he finally jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat, his heart pounding like a drum.

Sitting up in the silent room, Pip gasped for air. The fear was still there, chilling him to the bone. But a few minutes later, once he had calmed down, his scientific mind began to analyze.

"The body was too tired," he told himself. "The brain woke up, but the muscles hadn't. The air-conditioned, sealed room caused a temporary lack of oxygen. It's just sleep paralysis."

He explained it all rationally, but the feeling of an unseen presence in that room that night haunted him for some time.

Mr. Tai's trust in Pip grew. Occasionally, he would drive Pip to his house on Huynh Tan Phat street in District 7 to house-sit for him. It was a large townhouse, tucked away in a quiet alley, a stark contrast to the noisy, dusty main road. Sometimes Mr. Tai would just drop Pip off and immediately leave on business.

"Look after the house for me for a few days, okay? I have to go to the province on urgent business. Make yourself at home," Mr. Tai would say hurriedly, patting Pip's shoulder.

"Yes, sir. Travel safely," Pip would nod.

The heavy iron gate would close, leaving Pip alone in the vast, silent space, so quiet he could hear the clock ticking. In the middle of the living room, on the grand ancestral altar, was a portrait of his late mother, a woman who had passed away young. She had a very bright and gentle smile. But it was that very smile and her eyes that, under the dim yellow light of the evening, created a strange feeling. No matter where Pip stood in the room, he felt as if the eyes in the photo were following him. The smile seemed both benevolent and yet somehow mysterious, judgmental. In those moments, despite his attempts at rationalization, Pip couldn't escape fleeting moments of fear. He wondered if the trust Mr. Tai placed in him was being paid for with these lonely nights and vague fears. Was it worth it?

Chapter 9: The Bitter Truth

For nearly two years, Pip's world shrank to the four walls of the Institute and the house in District 7. He had almost no personal life. But during that time, his project was completed with outstanding success, laying a solid foundation for his future career.

Throughout those months, the questions about his two stolen laptops still lingered in his mind. He couldn't forget the feeling of helplessness and the unbelievable coincidence.

One weekend, Pip returned to his old rented house to pack up his remaining belongings. While cleaning under the bed, he suddenly remembered something. It was an old computer CPU, a component he had planned to save for his younger brother back home. He searched everywhere but couldn't find it. He called Su, his old roommate.

"Brother Su, have you seen the CPU I left under the bed?" Pip asked, trying to keep his voice normal.

There was a moment of silence on the other end, then Su replied, his voice slightly hesitant.

"Oh... that thing... I saw it was old, thought you'd thrown it out, so I sold it to the scrap collector. Got a few tens of thousands for it. We'll grab coffee sometime," Su said.

Hearing this, Pip's heart skipped a beat. A cold premonition ran down his spine. He knew Su, Nguyen Trong Su, a man he had once greatly admired for his success, eloquence, and superior demeanor. But he also knew that recently, due to the economic downturn, Su had fallen into debt and was scrambling for money.

Pip hung up, his mind in turmoil. He thought back to their time as roommates. Why was he the only one in the house who had things stolen? Why could a thief get into the house so easily, twice? And why would Su sell a computer component without asking him first?

The disparate pieces began to connect, forming a terrifying picture. Pip decided he had to get to the bottom of it. That evening, he arranged to meet Su at a quiet cafe.

Pip looked straight into the eyes of the man he had once respected.

"That CPU, who did you sell it to, and where?" Pip asked, his voice firm.

Su seemed flustered by the direct question.

"Well... I sold it to the scrap lady at the end of the alley. It was only a few tens of thousands, what's the big deal?" Su stammered.

Pip gave a bitter, humorless laugh.

"A Core 2 Duo chip and you only got a few tens of thousands for it? You think I'm an idiot?" Pip said.

Su started to sweat, avoiding Pip's gaze.

"Well... I'm not familiar with these things," Su mumbled.

Pip's voice hardened, emphasizing each word.

You're not familiar, but you knew it was mine. You're not familiar, but you knew how to stage a robbery to take my laptop, didn't you?

Pip's words struck like a hammer. Su froze, his face pale. His silence was the answer.

The truth was out, but Pip felt no satisfaction. He only felt an immense sadness and regret for the character of a man. He thought of the name "Nguyen Trong Su." What hopes did his parents have for their son when they gave him a name that meant "mission"? And now, he had shattered his own mission with his own hands.

Pip stood up, without another word. It was all in the past. He didn't want to look back, didn't want to pursue it. He just felt pity.

Another image flashed in his mind. The image of Diep, a friend from distant Sapa. Diep's name sounded feminine, but he was a boy with fair skin and a gentle smile. Having heard of Pip's reputation, Diep had traveled all the way to Saigon and stayed with him for several months just to learn programming from him.

And Diep had also been caught in the crossfire. His laptop, the most valuable asset his family had saved up for his education, had also disappeared in the second theft. Those were also Diep's last days in Saigon. Pip would never forget the image of Diep sitting in a corner, miserably downing a bottle of liquor, then passing out on the cold floor. Diep's pain was no less than Pip's.

Thinking of Diep, Pip's heart clenched. Su's betrayal had not only stolen his property but had also destroyed the future and trust of another friend. This shock was more painful than losing two laptops. It made him realize that the world was more complicated than he thought, and the human heart, sometimes, was deeper than any abyss.

Chapter 10: The Peak and the Price

After nearly two years of living and working in near isolation from the outside world, Pip had paid back his debt of gratitude to Mr. Tai. The project was a resounding success, opening up many new opportunities for him. One day, he decided to ride his scooter out onto the streets himself after a long time of only using Mr. Tai's car or walking around the Institute.

And a harsh reality hit him, quite literally. Everything before his eyes suddenly became blurry. The signs, the street names, the text in the distance that he used to be able to read clearly were now just fuzzy streaks of color. Pip was shocked and pulled over, squinting to see. He realized that during the two years he had buried his head in his computer, his nearsightedness had worsened significantly without him even noticing. It was the first sign, a silent warning from his body that he, in his intoxication with work and success, had inadvertently ignored.

The following years were a period where Pip felt like he was living in a dream. With talent, an almost insane work ethic, and a bit of luck, his career progressed at a dizzying pace. From a fresh graduate programmer, he quickly became a key player in the company. He changed jobs a few times, each time moving to a higher position with a more attractive salary.

Soon, Pip became the team lead of a software development team in a reputable tech company. At the age of 22, he had what many people his age, and even older, could only dream of: a decent amount of savings and a trendy scooter, a symbol that every young person of that era coveted.

During this time, his parents decided to leave Binh Phuoc and return to their hometown in Dong Nai. Pip immediately sent a large portion of his savings to his parents to rebuild their old, dilapidated house and buy necessary furniture. On the day the new house was inaugurated, although he couldn't be there, hearing his mother's choked-up voice of happiness over the phone made Pip feel that all his efforts were worthwhile. The dream of the young cowherd from years ago, the dream of giving his parents a better life, had finally come true. He had become the pride not only of his family but of his entire clan.

To achieve that success, Pip had paid a steep price. He threw himself into work like a moth to a flame. His life revolved around his job. A day for Pip began with coffee and ended with lines of code. He was often the first to arrive at the office and the last to leave. Sleepless nights to meet project deadlines, hasty meals at his desk, and long, stressful meetings became an essential part of his life.

Pip was proud of his diligence. He believed that youth was for dedication, for working one's hardest. He scorned fatigue and brushed aside his body's warning signs. The fleeting headaches, the stomach pains, the chronic insomnia... he ignored them all, telling himself they were minor issues, the necessary price of success. He was confident in his youth, believing he could endure anything.

Pip's world was now one of projects, numbers, and goals to be met. He was respected by his colleagues and trusted by his superiors. He was an efficient work machine, an excellent problem solver. But because of this, he gradually became distant from everything else. He had no time for friends, no romantic relationships. Even the time he spent with his parents dwindled. Although the distance from his home in Dong Nai to Saigon was just over a hundred kilometers, he had spent some lonely New Year holidays away from home because of unfinished projects.

His parents, though happy with his success, couldn't help but feel sorry for him. His mother often advised him to rest and eat properly.

Work is for a lifetime, but health is the most important thing, son

she would often say. Pip would just smile and nod dismissively. He thought his parents were old and didn't understand the fierce competition of the outside world. He had to run, run as fast as he could, or he would be left behind.

Pip was standing at the peak of his career, a peak he had climbed by trading his youth and health. He was drunk on victory, on the feeling of conquest. The wind on the summit of glory was sharp and cold, but he didn't notice. He had no idea that at the foot of that mountain, a deep abyss was silently opening, waiting to swallow him whole. And the first storm of his life, a real storm that would attack the very thing he had always disdained—his health—was beginning to form.

Chapter 11: The First Storm

The storm struck without warning, beginning with very ordinary signs that a workaholic like Pip would easily dismiss. First came the dull headaches, appearing at the end of the day. Pip simply thought it was due to stress, from staring at a computer screen for too long. He would take a painkiller, drink a can of Sting, and dive back into his work.

The headaches grew more frequent and more brutal. They were no longer dull aches but sharp, throbbing pains, as if someone were splitting his head with an axe. Then he started running fevers. The fevers would spike in the afternoons, making his body burn up while he felt chills deep inside. He lost weight rapidly, his eyes became sunken, and his once energetic, confident demeanor was replaced by exhaustion and listlessness.

The breaking point came on a Monday morning. Pip forced himself to get up for work after a nearly sleepless night from the splitting headache. As he stepped out of his room, the world started to spin, and his vision went black. He collapsed onto the floor.

When Pip regained consciousness, the strong smell of antiseptic filled his nostrils. He was in a stark white room, surrounded by unfamiliar medical equipment. His mother was sitting by his side, her eyes red and swollen. His father stood in the corner, his face gaunt and filled with worry. He knew something was terribly wrong.

After a few days in the hospital and a series of tests, the head of the department, a middle-aged doctor with a stern face, called Pip and his parents into his office. The air was thick with tension. Pip had prepared for the worst.

The doctor looked at the file, then looked directly at Pip, his eyes a mixture of sternness and sympathy.

Congratulations, all your test results are normal. You have no tumor, no infection, no signs of any serious illness.

Pip and his parents were stunned. His mother quickly asked, her voice trembling.

Doctor, then why is my son in this state? He fainted, had high fevers, a relentless headache...

The doctor sighed and put the file down on his desk. He looked at Pip, his voice low.

He is not sick, but he is destroying himself. To put it simply, his body has gone on strike. It has been wrung dry of its last drop of energy. This is a case of nervous exhaustion and physical burnout at a red-alert level.

He turned to Pip.

Young man, you treat your body like a machine, don't you? But you forget that even machines need rest, need maintenance. How long have you been running at full throttle? Do you get enough sleep? Do you eat proper meals? Or do you just pump chemicals into your body and stay up all night?

Each of the doctor's questions was like a needle piercing Pip's conscience. He bowed his head, unable to say a word.

The doctor continued, his voice firm.

My prescription for you is not a pill, but a single word: 'Rest.' You must quit your job. For at least six months. No computer, no projects, no overexertion. You have to relearn how to live like a normal person: eat, sleep, and breathe. If you don't do that, the next time you come back here, I might not be able to say 'congratulations' again.

The doctor's words were like a hammer blow, not to his hope, but to Pip's arrogance. He wasn't facing death, but he was facing a harsher reality: he himself had pushed him to the brink.

Leaving the doctor's office, a heavy silence fell over them. His mother walked beside him, gently taking his hand. She didn't cry, but Pip could feel the trembling in her hand.

That night, lying in his hospital bed, Pip couldn't sleep. He stared at the blank white ceiling. He saw his mother quietly enter and place a bowl of hot porridge on the table.

Try to eat a little to get your strength back. I was so happy when the doctor said you were okay.

Pip sat up and looked at his mother, whose hair had more silver strands now. He felt his heart clench.

Mom... I'm sorry. I've made you and Dad suffer because of me again.

His mother sat down on the bed, gently stroking his messy hair.

What are you talking about? You're our son. When you hurt, we hurt ten times more. I don't need you to be some big shot. I just need you to be healthy and safe. If money is gone, we can earn it back. But if you lose your health, no amount of money can buy it back, son.

She paused for a moment, her voice choking up.

Listen to the doctor, son. Rest for a while. You can always go back to work later. We have our whole lives, what's the rush?

Pip held his mother's hand tightly, tears streaming down his gaunt cheeks.

I understand now, Mom. I was wrong. From now on, I won't dare to take my health for granted anymore.

This shock was not the fear of death, but an awakening to the value of life. Money, status, career—all the things he once considered most important—now seemed fleeting in the face of his body's stern warning.

The next day, Pip made the hardest decision of his career. He called his boss.

Sir, I... I'd like to resign.

There was a moment of silence on the other end, followed by a sigh.

I understand. Take care of your health. Your position at the company... I'll keep it for you. Come back when you're well.

Pip smiled sadly.

Thank you, sir. But perhaps... I need a new beginning.

He knew he couldn't go back to the old grind. The storm had passed, not taking his life, but it had swept away the old him, the ambitious and arrogant Pip. It left behind a vast emptiness, a frightening silence. He had to learn to face it, to learn to fill it with something else.

Chapter 12: An Interlude and a Turn Towards Love

After leaving his job, Pip entered a phase he had never experienced before: a true interlude. No deadlines, no projects, no pressure. Just him and the vast expanse of time before him. Instead of sinking into depression, Pip decided to use this break to do things he never had time for: travel, and visit old friends.

He packed a backpack and set off, occasionally stopping by the student dormitory in Saigon where some of his college friends were living. It was a typical student dorm, noisy, lively, and always fragrant with the smell of food from different rooms. It was here, during one of his visits, that he met her.

She was a pharmacy student, living in the same dorm as his friend. She was tall, with long hair and a charming smile. The first time he saw her, struggling to hang her laundry in the courtyard, Pip's heart skipped a beat. He saw her many times after that, sometimes studying at the communal stone table, sometimes cooking in the kitchen. He felt an attraction, a genuine flutter he hadn't felt in a long time. But his reserved, quiet nature kept him from making a move. He just watched her silently, occasionally nodding a shy greeting when they happened to cross paths.

Until one afternoon, when Pip came to visit again. He saw her sitting alone at the stone table, her shoulders trembling slightly, her hand clutching a crumpled grade report. Pip's friend walked by and whispered, "She failed a subject, been upset all morning."

Seeing her disappointment, Pip suddenly saw an image of his younger self. The feeling of helplessness, the feeling that the whole world was collapsing because of one failure. He had been there. And perhaps it was that empathy that gave him the courage. He walked over, pulled up a chair, and sat down opposite her.

The girl looked up, her eyes red, surprised to see the familiar stranger. Pip scratched his head, his voice a little awkward.

I... I failed my university entrance exam once too.

His opening line was nothing like a word of comfort, but it struck a chord with her. She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

Pip continued, his voice more natural now.

At that time, I felt like the most useless person in the world. I felt guilty towards my parents, ashamed in front of my friends. You probably feel the same way right now, don't you?

The girl nodded slightly, her eyes welling up with tears.

Pip smiled gently.

But then I realized, one stumble doesn't mean it's over. It's just a test. Fail this subject, you retake it. Fail this exam, you try again next time. The important thing is not to give up. You're young, you have so many opportunities.

He said the words that someone should have said to him all those years ago. He found it strange how he, a typically dry and logical guy, could say something so empathetic. Perhaps his own painful experiences had forged a different person inside him, a person who knew how to understand.

That conversation broke the ice between them. They talked more. Pip learned her name was Thuy. In the following days, phone calls and text messages began, growing more frequent. Pip had a reason to travel back and forth between Dong Nai and Saigon constantly. Not for work, but for a girl.

Pip's mother was the first to notice the change in her son. She saw him smiling to himself while looking at his phone. She saw him dress more carefully whenever he said, "I have to go to Saigon for something." She didn't ask, just watched quietly, her heart filled with an unspoken joy. One evening, seeing Pip just off the phone, his face beaming, she brought him a plate of fruit and asked softly.

Is there something good happening lately, son?

Pip was a bit embarrassed but couldn't hide his happiness.

Well... it's nothing, Mom.

She smiled her gentle, knowing smile, her eyes sparkling.

A grown man should have someone to love. I just hope you find someone who makes you happy. Seeing you smile more is all I could ask for.

Their love grew, naturally and sincerely. Until one day, while they were out for a walk, Pip suddenly stopped and looked straight into Thuy's eyes. He still had the somewhat rough, dry demeanor of an "IT guy."

Thuy...

Thuy looked up at him, waiting.

Don't be mad at what I'm about to say. I don't have time for casual dating, for getting to know someone superficially. I'm serious about our relationship. I want to marry you.

Thuy was a bit stunned by this unconventional "confession." Pip continued, his voice sincere.

Actually, I have to thank that time I got sick. If it weren't for that, I'd probably still be buried in my computer, and I wouldn't have had the time to go out and meet you. I'd probably still be single. So... will you marry a guy who almost died, is currently unemployed, but promises to try his best to make you happy?

Thuy burst out laughing at Pip's blunt yet incredibly genuine proposal. She didn't answer right away, just nodded slightly, her eyes sparkling with laughter and tears of happiness.

Their love culminated in a warm, cozy wedding. Pip's interlude had ended, but it had opened a new chapter in his life, a chapter of love and responsibility.

Chapter 13: The Cycle of Fate

After the wedding, with his wife's encouragement, Pip returned to work. He no longer worked with the same frantic intensity, but his intelligence and experience still helped him quickly find a good position. Their life gradually stabilized. The couple worked hard together, and before long, they were able to buy a house, a true home of their own.

It seemed that life would be peaceful from then on. But fate seemed to want to test Pip again. When he entered his thirties, an age when both his career and family were maturing, the storm struck once more. This time, it was even more terrifying and ruthless...

This time, the migraines returned to haunt Pip, but they were no longer fleeting. They were persistent, lasting for months, gnawing away at his spirit and body day after day. After his work situation had improved and their finances were more stable, Pip decided to get a check-up at an international clinic. The wailing siren of an ambulance tore through the crowded traffic, taking him from the clinic to an international neurology hospital in Tan Phu district. The whole process was surprisingly fast.

The feeling of having money for premium services was pleasant, but that feeling quickly vanished as Pip sat in the ambulance and then stepped into the hospital. All around him were confused elderly people, their eyes vacant and lifeless. An invisible fear gripped his heart. Pip's spirit plummeted.

His despair deepened when he had to change into the loose, white patient gown. The rules for the MRI room were strict; no metal objects were allowed. Stripping off all his personal belongings, Pip felt as if he were shedding his very life and pride. He lay there, in the cold room with the giant machine about to swallow him, and another raw truth dawned on him: when you have a lot of money, you still can't buy health.

What if... what if there's a tumor in my head?

The thought was a knife stabbing into his mind.

Will I die? Die at this age? I have so much left to do, my wife, my family...

The fear of death mixed with overwhelming despair enveloped him. He thought about the sleepless nights for work, the hasty meals, the invisible pressures he had placed on himself. What was it all for? To end up here, surrendering his fate to a machine and a series of black-and-white films?

A nurse entered, her voice gentle.

Mr. Pip, please get ready. Just lie still and breathe evenly.

Pip nodded mechanically, but inside, he was screaming.

The wait for the results felt like an eternity. Pip sat stunned on the waiting bench, his hands clasped tightly. His wife sat beside him, holding his cold hand. She said nothing, just silently transmitting her warmth to him.

Finally, the old doctor came out, his glasses perched on his nose. He looked at the results and smiled kindly.

Congratulations, sir. There are no tumors or any abnormalities in your brain.

Pip shot up, his ears ringing.

Really... are you sure?

The doctor nodded.

Your headaches are caused by prolonged nervous tension, or what we call stress. Your brain has been overloaded.

A wave of relief like nothing he had ever felt washed over Pip. He felt reborn. The fear vanished, replaced by infinite gratitude.

On the way home, Pip truly found the formula for balance in his life. He understood that the nature of his work, requiring constant thought and late nights, meant his brain never truly rested. Even when he slept, it was like a machine running in the background, processing unfinished ideas. Over time, it became exhausted and caused the headaches.

Pip began to learn how to "shut down." He changed. Manual tasks like fixing the electricity or plumbing, which Pip had never touched before, he now did himself. He used to think that in the time it took to do those things, he could earn more money to hire a professional. But now, he did it all himself. He tinkered, learned, sometimes spending an entire afternoon just to replace a faucet. But strangely, when his hands were busy, his mind was freed from its tangled thoughts. The physical exhaustion made it easier for him to fall into a deep sleep each night.

Near Pip's house lived a neighbor who was also a DIY enthusiast. Seeing Pip fumbling with his work, Mr. Son would often come over to chat.

You're into this stuff too, huh?

Pip laughed, his hands still struggling to tighten a screw.

I'm just starting out, sir. Never knew anything about this before.

The neighbor clapped him on the shoulder.

Just keep doing it, and you'll get the hang of it. If you need any help, just give me a shout. This stuff is fun. The satisfaction of making something with your own hands is much better than just buying it.

And so, Pip made a new friend, a new teacher. He learned how to weld, how to cut wood, how to mix cement. Each new skill opened up a new world, a simple joy he had never known.

Then COVID-19 hit. Pip's company switched to remote work. Trapped within four walls all day, Pip felt the full weight of the cramped, stuffy townhouse. One evening, he turned to his wife and said:

Honey, what if... we renovate the house?

His wife was surprised, then smiled.

Are you serious? You're really going to do it?

Pip nodded firmly.

I'm serious! I'll do it myself. Do you trust me?

And so, a major project began. Tearing down walls, rebuilding, rewiring, painting... Pip was doing almost all of it for the first time. There were failures, times when they had to tear down and start over, but the couple was never discouraged. They worked together, laughed together, and together, they transformed their living space into something more beautiful and cozy.

After the pandemic, Pip's profession underwent a major shift; a physical office was no longer required. That's when a more audacious decision was made.

Let's leave the city and go back to the countryside, honey.

Pip said to his wife over dinner. She wasn't surprised. She just asked:

Have you thought it through?

Pip took her hand.

I've thought about it very carefully. We'll build our own house, our own garden. We'll do it all ourselves. Life just needs to be 'enough,' my love. The fatigue of the muscles will be exchanged for peace for the soul.

Pip's life had only spanned 36 years, a journey of walking against the wind. A few times, the wind had made him stagger. But now, no matter which way the wind blew, Pip had found tranquility in his soul. He had calculations, clear plans for the future, but no desperate rush. He looked out at the expanse of his garden, at the gently swaying branches. They stood without fear, still reaching high for the sun and the wind.

Chapter 14: The Brother's Shadow

Fate has its ironic cycles, but they don't always yield the same result. Pip had waded through the swamp of gaming and managed to stand up, but his youngest brother, Thao, was not so lucky.

Thao was living proof of a harsh truth: circumstances don't just forge a person; sometimes, they erode their will. He was also intelligent, bright, and had been an excellent student for many years, the family's next great hope. But Thao grew up in a completely different context. When Pip's family moved from Binh Phuoc back to Dong Nai, their financial situation had improved significantly. Poverty was no longer a constant specter. His parents, after years of hardship, wanted to compensate their youngest son.

And then, just like Pip before him, Thao fell into gaming. But this time, Pip's father reacted differently. He was no longer strict, no longer angry. Watching Thao glued to the computer, he would just sigh and say to his wife, "Let him be. Pip was the same way back then, and he turned out fine. They're grown up now; they'll figure it out."

It was a mistaken belief. Pip's father didn't understand that his own harshness, the very fire that had consumed the certificates years ago, had been a shock strong enough to wake Pip up. Thao, on the other hand, had no such shock. He only had indulgence and a belief that he would eventually become like his older brother.

The result was a long, downward slide. Thao dropped out of school in the 12th grade, just a few months before the crucial final exams. The family was stunned. Pip, now stable and successful, felt a heavy sense of responsibility. He couldn't let his brother follow in his footsteps—or rather, a worse version of them.

He brought Thao to the city. With all his love and expectations, Pip poured money into sending his brother to FPT Aptech, a prestigious school with expensive tuition. He and his second sister provided Thao with a comfortable life: a nice place to live, a new motorcycle, and plenty of spending money. Pip thought that by giving his brother everything he himself had lacked, Thao could focus on his studies.

But Pip was wrong. That careful sheltering inadvertently stripped Thao of the most important thing: the motivation to fight. Thao didn't have to wade through streams to get to school, didn't have to eat meals with tears, didn't have to face contempt. His life was too comfortable, and he couldn't understand the value of what he had.

And then, the real difficulties hit. The curriculum at Aptech was mostly in English. With a weak foundation in the language due to years of gaming, Thao quickly felt overwhelmed. He couldn't understand the lessons, couldn't keep up with his peers. A sense of inferiority began to creep in. But instead of facing it, he chose to run away, back to the familiar world of gaming where he was a general, a hero.

He started lying, skipping classes, and using the money his siblings gave him to top up his game account. Pip, despite being busy, gradually noticed something was wrong. He went to the school and was devastated to learn that his brother had been absent for nearly a month.

The conversation between the two brothers took place in Thao's rented room. There was no anger, only a deep disappointment in Pip's eyes.

Why, Thao? I gave you the best of everything.

Thao looked down, his voice a mumble.

I... I can't keep up. It's all in English, I don't understand.

Pip sighed.

If you don't understand, you have to ask, you have to study more. Why give up? Do you know how hard our family and I had to work for you to have all this?

Thao was silent. He knew, but he didn't truly feel it. He only felt like he was living in the massive shadow of his successful older brother. Everyone always compared him to Pip. That pressure, combined with his own insecurity about his abilities, had crushed him.

In the end, all of his siblings' arrangements came to nothing. Thao decided to go back to the countryside. He didn't want to be a burden, nor did he want to face anyone's expectations anymore. He got a job as a factory worker in an industrial park near his home.

Pip watched his brother's silhouette as he boarded the bus home, his heart aching. Where had he gone wrong? He realized that he had tried to pave a path of roses for his brother, and it was those very petals that had caused him to slip. He had tried to shield him from the contrary winds, only to find that without him, even a gentle breeze was enough to knock him down.

Every person has their own destiny, their own path. Not everyone is a Pip, and not every headwind forges a resilient person. Sometimes, it simply blows everything away. That was the most bitter lesson Pip learned, not from his own failure, but from the failure of the person he loved.

Epilogue: The Wind at My Back (Imagined)

Many years later...

Pip's garden was no longer an empty plot of land. It had become a miniature world, shaded by fruit trees, vibrant with flowers, and filled with the sound of laughter. Pip, no longer the scrawny boy or the gaunt man, but a robust man, his skin tanned by the sun and wind, his hands calloused from holding a hoe and hammer more often than a computer mouse.

One weekend afternoon, he and his young son were busy mending a wooden fence. The boy was small and thin, just like his father used to be. He looked curiously at the old scars on his father's hands.

Dad, why do you have so many scars on your hands?

Pip stopped working and smiled at his son. He didn't talk about the falls, the sleepless nights, or the pain he had endured. He just ruffled his son's hair, his voice warm and deep.

These are traces of the times I learned to get back up, son. Every scar is a lesson. It reminds me that it's okay to fall, but you have to learn to stand up on your own.

Thuy came out of the house with a plate of fresh guavas from their garden, smiling as she watched the two of them.

Getting philosophical with the boy again

she teased.

Pip laughed, a gentle, peaceful smile. He looked at his wife, his son, and then out at the garden. He suddenly thought of the name 'Pip'. There was a time when he hated it, was ashamed of it. There was a time when it symbolized weakness and lack. But now, he was grateful for it.

It was because he was 'scrawny' that he had to work twice, three times as hard as others. It was because he was 'scrawny' that he learned to walk against the wind, not with resentful struggle, but with the perseverance of a tree root digging deep into the earth. The wind still blew, it never stopped, but it was no longer a brutal headwind. It was now a tailwind, lifting him from behind.

Occasionally, old friends would visit. Tung from the University of Technology, now a successful senior engineer. The group of girls from his youth, now all successful women with fulfilling careers and families. They would sit in Pip's garden, reminiscing about the old days. No one mentioned the failure of the past. They just looked at Pip with genuine admiration.

I never would have believed you could build all this with your own hands,

Tung said, biting into a crisp guava.

Pip just smiled.

I never would have believed it either. Perhaps failing my university exams was a blessing in disguise. At least it stopped me from getting complacent after so many years of being a top student.

Pip's story doesn't end here. It continues in every tree he plants, every brick he lays, and in the clear eyes of his son. It's no longer a story about struggling against the wind. It's a story about learning to live with the wind, turning resistance into momentum, and transforming scars into a map that leads to peace.

And the warning whistle of the past has now turned into the cheerful chirping of birds in the garden, into the sound of a child's bright laughter. A sound no longer meant to warn, but to remind that happiness is sometimes not found at the destination, but on the very path we had the courage to walk.