Chapter 11: Chapter 11 A Manufactured Legend — Ink on an Old Map

The Thống Nhất train carrying Lê An back to the capital seemed endless, like a slow-motion nightmare. Unlike the impulsive eagerness with which she had left ten days earlier, An returned to Hanoi burdened by the anxiety of someone carrying a time bomb capable of leveling an entire system. Her backpack contained broken ceramics, a tarnished silver bracelet, a cold stone tablet, and yellowed letters—but also the lives, blood, tears, and honor of hundreds of people buried under Đan Trầm's red basalt mud. All the way, An clutched it to her chest, afraid that a moment's carelessness would let the valuable evidence be stolen.

As soon as she stepped off the Hàng Cỏ station platform at dawn, amid fog and noisy sales pitches, An did not return to her motel. With the sharp intuition of someone who worked with secrets and understood how the system worked, she realized that her small, shabby room was no longer safe. She quickly hailed a taxi, kept looking back through the window for pursuing cars, and asked the driver to circle a few deserted streets before going straight to Nam's apartment.

Nam welcomed her with dark circles around his eyes from staying up all night. He didn't ask much when he saw his best friend's haggard, dirty appearance and eyes streaked with red blood from exhaustion. The two quickly walked inside, locked the door with three layers of mechanical and magnetic locks, and pulled all the window curtains. On the glass table in the middle of the living room, An carefully laid out all the physical evidence she had collected from the dead.

Nam, with the professionalism and caution of a technology expert working with sensitive data, immediately set up a high-res scanner connected to a computer completely isolated from the Internet.

They worked in absolute silence for three hours. Every page of village chief Lê Văn Thiện's torn, tear-stained letter, every Hán-Nôm character on the tablet, every corner of the distorted bronze pipe, and the broken-toothed horn comb was meticulously digitized, illuminating every detail. Nam then used AES-256 military-grade encryption, compressed the data into a single file, and set a random 64-character password. He plugged in a satellite-capable USB stick and uploaded it to cloud servers in countries with no extradition or information-sharing treaties. Finally, he wrapped the original evidence in layers of moisture-proof plastic and stored it in a fireproof, drill-proof safe hidden behind a landscape painting.

"Now... even if the worst happens to us, or this safe is destroyed with a mine, the truth about the Đan Trầm massacre cannot be erased a second time," Nam breathed a sigh of relief, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead. He lit a cigarette, his hands shaking slightly. "What are you going to do next, An? You're not going to grab these things and throw them right in the board of directors' faces, are you? They'll crush you before you can say a word."

"I'm not that stupid," An replied, taking a sip of thick coffee without sugar. The bitter taste helped her wake up. "I have to go back to the Archives Center. I need to collect more internal information. I want to know how the country's archives have molded and recorded the name Trần Văn Định and the so-called X-14 campaign for so many years. I want to see with my own eyes how they weaved a legend, turning a bandit and serial killer into a national hero."

The next morning, An wore her familiar office uniform, combed her hair neatly, swiped her employee card, and walked through the security gate of the National Archives Center. Everything around her still moved with its normal, boring rhythm: central air conditioners hummed, high heels clacked on the shiny marble floor, and the characteristic smell of old paper wafted through the air.

But in An's eyes, this familiar working space suddenly became stuffy and disgustingly fake. She glanced towards the traditional lobby area, where a bronze bust portrait of Trần Văn Định was solemnly placed on a marble pedestal under a glorious golden light. That bronze face exuded majesty and dignity, but in An's eyes, it looked exactly like a bloodsucking demon smirking at the unjust souls at the bottom of the Hòn Sương valley. A wave of nausea rose up in her chest. It took a lot of control for her not to rush forward and knock the statue down.

Returning to his desk in the hidden corner of the classification room in basement number 3, An pretended to be diligently continuing to classify the backlog of QK5-1968 maps before taking leave. Around her are stacks of musty documents. However, on the second computer screen, which she adjusted the angle to avoid security cameras, she logged into a secure internal database system with level 2 expert access. She typed in the keyword "Trần Văn Định" combined with the phrase "Operation X-14".

The system immediately returns thousands of results, with amazingly fast retrieval speed. An patiently skimmed through every biographical summary, every military achievement report, and every praising article on official history pages archived over the past decades.

The words displayed on the screen paint a flawless portrait. According to the official records system, Trần Văn Định is an outstandingly talented strategist, a strategic, decisive and courageous political commissar, who made great contributions in protecting and establishing the vital logistics routes of Military Region V during the most difficult years of the war.

An clicked on a decoded top secret document, titled: "Summary report of Operation X-14, dry season 1968 - Military Region V".

The content of the report is written in a sharp, strong, and praising tone. It describes Operation The report especially praises the strategic vision and wise decision of Commander Trần Văn Định when directly directing the engineer force to use dozens of tons of explosives to "destroy natural caves that are at risk of becoming enemy bunkers", and "level the entire valley to build the T-9 Logistics Station, protecting traffic arteries".

There is not a single word, not a single line mentioning innocent people. There is no name for Đan Trầm village. There was no blood, no tears, no giant natural agarwood vault being plundered. They silenced witnesses, burned the scene, and then played the role of heroes themselves. An entire brutal, infamous massacre due to personal greed was twisted, painted, and magically transformed by pens into a glorious national strategic victory.

And on the foundation of that bloody victory, Trần Văn Định advanced continuously on the high road, becoming a powerful figure, leaving a legacy of fame and huge protection for his son - Director Trần Văn Bình, who is currently sitting in the most powerful chair of the national memory preservation industry.

That's a fake myth. A perfect play, with no loopholes, created by cruel victors who hold the power to kill both the living and the dead, controlling both the past and the present.

The feeling of anger rose up in An's mind, causing her to unconsciously squeeze the computer mouse so tightly that her knuckles turned white and her joints cracked. This lie is so shameless.

At that moment, a dark shadow fell on An's computer screen, covering up the light from the tube light on the ceiling. She was startled and turned around.

Chief Khang was standing right behind her, his hands clasped behind his back, his spine straight like a ruler. His cold, searching eyes penetrated through the old glass, scanning straight across the computer screen displaying secret files about Trần Văn Định. Normally, Mr. Khang rarely steps foot down into this damp underground classification room. He only manages work through the internal communication system or calls staff to the room. His sudden appearance here carries a bad omen.

"Good morning, Ms. An. Your ten-day personal leave to deal with family matters seems to have brought about a very remarkable research effect," Mr. Khang said in a monotone voice, not carrying any anger, but each word contained sharp sarcasm, implying that he had known her whereabouts in the past few days.

An quickly pressed the key combination to minimize the working window, trying to regulate her breathing and keep her face as calm as possible. "Yes, yes, Chief. I'm taking the time to review some old documents to cross-reference information for the previous batch of QK5 maps, preparing to complete the handover report."

"Cross-reference?" Mr. Khang smiled faintly, his eyes sharp as a scalpel piercing through the young girl's clumsy lie. "Cross-referencing the personal biography and combat reports of the late Political Commissar Trần Văn Định seems to be beyond the duties of a preliminary map classification officer, Ms. An. At this Center, those things are not under your jurisdiction. Curiosity can sometimes kill a person, or kill a career."

"I just accidentally..." An was about to speak up to clarify the situation, but Mr. Khang raised his hand and slashed into the air, decisively interrupting her.

"You don't need to waste your time explaining to me," Mr. Khang said, turned around and walked a few steps then stopped, turned his head and looked at An with eyes that carried a clear warning. "There is someone else who wants to hear your explanation more than me. Director Binh asks you to go to his office on the top floor immediately. Right now, Ms. An."

An felt his stomach tighten strongly, a sour feeling rising up his throat. The name Director Trần Văn Bình uttered from Mr. Khang's mouth carried a huge invisible pressure. They knew. Maybe they didn't know exactly what physical evidence she had found at the bottom of that deadly Hòn Sương valley, but certainly her sneaky access to top secret files related to the Director's identity had set off an alarm bell on the Center's network security system.

The inevitable, uncompromising confrontation had come sooner than she had planned. Her plan to collect evidence secretly had been exposed. An took a deep breath, turned off the computer, stood up, and adjusted the collar of her uniform. Her heart pounded with fear, but her eyes shone with iron determination. The villain might have all the power, but she held the truth. She walked out of the cold sorting room toward the elevator to the top floor, where someone capable of rewriting history was waiting to determine her fate—and that of Đan Trầm village.