Chapter 6 — Daughter of the Martial Arts Dojo

I already told you over the phone. I looked straight at him.

You do not need to apologize. You simply made the wrong choice. Everyone makes wrong choices. Standing before a closed door and hammering on it after making a mistake is utterly meaningless.

He remained frozen in place, his fingers gripping his car keys so tightly that his knuckles turned white. I walked through the grand gates without once looking back. His phone began to ring inside his pocket. Even from two meters away, I could clearly read the name glowing on the screen: Luc Niam Sanh. He silenced it instantly, his thumb jabbing the button as if the device had burned his flesh.

That weekend, Luc Thua Vien summoned me to his private study. A set of formal documents lay spread across the dark mahogany desk—a share transfer contract granting five percent of the entire Luc Corporation conglomerate to Ki Tri Ninh.

This is not compensation, Luc Thua Vien said, his voice level. You are my flesh and blood. A share of this company has always belonged to you.

I opened the document, scanned through the dense legal clauses from beginning to end, and closed it deliberately.

I can accept this, I said. But I have one condition.

He raised his eyes to meet mine.

I want to be transferred to the regional branch. The branch office located in the county.

He froze in utter astonishment. The corporation maintained a minor subsidiary in a distant southern county, far from its roots, handling local markets with a staff of barely several dozen people, situated hundreds of kilometers away from the northern capital headquarters.

You wish to return down south?

Are you going to forbid me?

He fell silent for a long moment. Reaching out, he flipped the contract to the final signature page and tapped a finger firmly against the designated line.

You shall be the general manager of the branch. You will lead them yourself. Succeed, and you may return to take over the headquarters. Fail...

If I fail, you may fire me.

I picked up the fountain pen and signed my name. Ki Tri Ninh. Three characters, written with careful, deliberate strokes. Luc Thua Vien stared at the signature for a long time.

You do not simply want to go back, he murmured. You want to build that market into something massive. You want to prove to your adoptive father that you never brought shame upon him.

I offered no reply, the corners of my mouth tightening into a faint line.

On the day I assumed my new post at the branch, my suitcase contained only the exact items I had brought with me. Not a single thing had been added. When I pulled open the bedroom wardrobe, the expensive new garments that To Uyen Thanh had hung there still bore their price tags. I kept a single modest set and neatly folded the rest upon the mattress, leaving behind a brief note: Thank you. I simply cannot carry so much with me.

Luc Thua Vien stood waiting downstairs, the buttons of his tailored suit jacket fastened immaculately.

If any trouble arises at the branch, make a phone call, he instructed. Do not come looking for me. Contact your senior martial brother Han instead; his own subsidiary operates right in that region.

To Uyen Thanh busied herself stuffing provisions into my cloth travel bag—a package of homemade snacks, a jar of spicy chili paste she had specially requested from my hometown, and a thick envelope containing both a bank card and a letter.

The letter I tried to give you last time remained unread, she said softly. This one is different. Take it with you. Whether you choose to read it or leave it is entirely up to your own heart.

I accepted the parcel. The envelope felt significantly heavier than expected. Luc Nghien Ninh leaned against the doorframe, quietly slipping a small scrap of paper into my palm.

Little sister, that is my personal phone number, he said. If anything happens, make sure you reach out to me.

I folded the paper and tucked it securely into the inner pocket of my canvas bag. Passing the second-floor landing, I noticed the door to Luc Niam Sanh’s room stood wide open. The interior was completely desolate. The mattress was rolled up and propped against the bare wall, the wardrobe doors gaped open, and empty hangers littered the floor. Two painters were busy rolling fresh white paint over the walls, burying the original colors beneath a blank, sterile layer. I paused for two seconds before continuing down the stairs.

The train rolled steadily southward. Row upon row of towering urban skyscrapers gradually shrank and vanished, leaving behind an increasingly vast and open sky. I tilted my seat back and closed my eyes.

A soft chime signaled a new incoming message on my phone. It was from Doan Lang.

Leaving already? You should have told me in advance next time. We never finished shooting at that shooting range.

I replied with a single word: Agreed.

Another alert buzzed immediately. It was from Luc Nghien Ninh.

She came by to pack her things today.

Mother refused to see her. Father refused as well.

The housekeeper simply left her luggage by the front door, and she loaded it into her car by herself.

I replied with a single letter: Understood.

A moment later, another text arrived.

She asked where you went. I refused to tell her.

I flipped my phone over, face down. I opened the chat window with my adoptive father—pinned permanently to the very top, where it would always remain. I held down the record button and sent a voice message:

Father. I have boarded the train.

The reply came back within seconds, his booming voice erupting instantly from the phone speaker.

The pork ribs have been stewing for ages!

Your Uncle Doan has hauled another entire crate of liquor over here, saying we are going to throw a proper feast the moment you step through the door!

Your senior brother Han called me just a while ago, saying you never disgraced our household up in the capital!

Listening to his boisterous words, a genuine smile finally touched my lips.

The train arrived at the platform. Near the exit barriers, my adoptive father stood right at the front of the welcoming crowd, clad in his familiar, worn-out jacket. In his hands, he held a large piece of cardboard with four uneven, hastily scribbled words written in thick black marker:

Welcome Home.

Standing right beside him was a lean, wiry middle-aged man with an upright, military posture that instantly gave away his decades of service. Uncle Doan.

My adoptive father snatched the suitcase from my hand with one arm while wrapping the other tightly around my shoulders, exerting enough force as if he meant to press my entire body straight into his chest.

Let us go! Back home!

His thunderous voice echoed joyfully across the bustling station hall.

Your father has been stewing those ribs all afternoon just waiting for you! Wait, what happened to your arm?

It is nothing. Just a minor scratch.

A minor scratch? How many stitches? Who dared to do this?

Father. We can talk about it once we get home.

Fine. Let us head back first. You can tell me everything over dinner.

He pulled me forward by the hand, refusing to let go. Behind us, the railway tracks stretched endlessly northward, vanishing gradually into the distance. I did not look back.

Less than half a month later, a visitor appeared. Old Zhao knocked softly on my office door.

Director Ki, there is someone standing across the street. They have been standing out there for two whole hours now.

I walked over to the window. Beneath the amber glow of the streetlamp, a lone figure stood leaning against a utility pole. She had lost a noticeable amount of weight, making her clothes hang loosely off her frame.

Let her stand there.

At nine-thirty, I shut down my computer and headed downstairs, crossing the quiet asphalt street. As I approached, she straightened her posture instantly, her lips parting slightly.

If you dare call me sister one more time, I will turn around and walk away this very second.

She swallowed the words back down into her throat.