Chapter 1 — Swept into the Wave of Love

The morning wind blows in from the sea, bringing with it the familiar taste of salt and the coolness of July on Ghenh Rang beach. Chieu Viet Khoi stood on the sand, his hands on his hips, his eyes looking out at the waves rolling up in the distance, long and even as if the sea was also warming up for a new season. He took a deep breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs, then bent down to pick up the surfboard standing next to him.

That board had followed him through three consecutive seasons, the ivory white paint was now worn in some places, the scratches were like a map recording every match he had gone through. On the nose of the board was a small inscription that he carved himself when he was eighteen years old: "Waves wait for no one." That was the saying his father kept repeating every time he took him to the sea since he was in elementary school, when he was a fisherman rowing a basket boat every morning and teaching his son to swim before teaching him to read.

Viet Khoi grew up in Van Chai Rang Dong hamlet, a small hamlet nestled behind a coconut grove, where the sound of waves crashing at night can be heard more clearly than the sound of the television in the house. At that time, no one thought that a child like him who spent all day rolling in the ocean waves would later become the champion of an international surfing tournament held right on his hometown beach. But he did it. For three consecutive seasons, the Mui Ne Golden Wave trophy was solemnly placed in the glass cabinet of Uncle Dam Viet Long's house, the uncle and coach who guided him from the first training sessions.

Few people in the young surfing world today remember that, before becoming a quiet fisherman who went out to sea every morning, Viet Khoi's father was a famous surfer in the whole region. He was almost selected for the provincial team if he hadn't been caught up in a movement tournament one year, when the referee gave blatantly biased scores to the son of a local official right in front of hundreds of onlookers and no one dared to speak up. His father did not sue, nor did he argue, just quietly hung the board on the wall, got into the basket boat to do fishing, and never mentioned it again, as if he wanted to bury his resentment to the bottom of the deep sea. Viet Khoi only happened to hear that story from Uncle Long's mouth when he was fifteen years old, on a rare drunken night when he accidentally said something, and from then on, something silently took root in his heart: if one day he stood on the podium of glory, he would never let himself get involved in anything shady, and would never turn a blind eye to an injustice he had the ability to prevent.

"Are you still standing there looking at the romantic sea?" Uncle Long's voice rang out behind him, hoarse from smoking since he was young but still full of the weight of someone who once stood at the top of the surfing village. "Today's waves aren't bad. Get in the water and do a few sets, tomorrow the qualifying round starts."

Viet Khoi turned around and smiled. "You woke up at five in the morning to come out here, do you think I'm just standing there admiring the scenery for fun?"

"I'm just asking. You've been standing there staring blankly at the ocean longer than usual lately." Dam Viet Long stepped forward, put his hand on his nephew's shoulder, his eyes searching. "The pressure of defending the championship?"

Viet Khoi did not respond immediately. He looked out at the horizon, where the sea was turning from silver gray to pale blue as the sun rose. There was pressure, but not the type of pressure that causes him to lose sleep. Standing on the top podium for three consecutive years, he knew that feeling well - pride mixed with a vague fear that one day his performance will decline, that people will say he was just lucky. But this year something was different. Perhaps the feeling was so familiar that he wondered if winning was still as meaningful as the first days.

"It's not pressure," he said, his voice casual. "I'm just thinking, after three seasons, I still haven't met an opponent that really makes me give my all."

Dam Viet Long burst out laughing, his laughter echoing crisply in the sea breeze. "Watch out for that curse on you. This sea is full of strange things, you know that."

His words were like an idle prophecy, but at that time Viet Khoi just considered it an innocuous joke. He carried his board and strode down to the water's edge, letting the first waves lick his bare feet. The feeling of sea water touching his skin always makes him unusually alert, as if all his worries on the shore were washed away by the waves.

He paddled out, feeling the familiar rocking rhythm under the board, eyes following the horizon to choose the right wave. This is a morning ritual he never misses, rain or shine, tournament or not. For Viet Khoi, surfing is not simply a sport he pursues to earn fame. It was the first language he learned, even before full Vietnamese.

A moderately high wave rolled in, he stood up on the board with one decisive movement, his legs spread wide, his center of gravity lowered. His body tilted along the wave, gliding at a speed that made the wind whistle in his ears. He cut the board in a soft S shape, then made a small aerial shot right before the wave broke, his body flying out of the water for a split second before responding smoothly. It's the move that has helped him score the highest points for three consecutive seasons, a technical signature that the sports media calls "the swing of a champion."

On the shore, a few fishermen from the fishing village who were preparing their nets also stopped and looked out, letting out a few familiar words of admiration. To them, Viet Khoi was not only a famous athlete, he was also the pride of this poor coastal hamlet. Since the day he won the first championship, more tourists started coming, the beachside restaurants were more crowded, and even the kids in the neighborhood started practicing surfing in the hope of one day being like him.

After finishing his morning workout, Viet Khoi returned to the shore, sat down on the sand, and let Mr. Long rub oil on his shoulders as was his habit after every heavy workout. From his seat, he could see the entire scene of Ghenh Rang beach being cleaned and prepared for the tournament. Temporary steel stood were being erected along the sandy shore, banners with pictures of previous season's champions were hung, including many pictures of himself, holding the trophy high, smiling brightly in the sunlight.

"This year, there are more registered athletes than ever before," Mr. Long said, looking at Viet Khoi's hand pointing towards the stands. "The organizers said there is a whole group of quite interesting rookies. Some even registered to compete anonymously."

"Anonymous?" Viet Khoi frowned. "Is there such a rule?"

"There is a special clause, rarely used. Athletes with legitimate personal safety reasons can register under a nickname, without publishing photos, without disclosing full personal information. This year's organizing committee approved one case, I heard that they competed under a name with only one word."

Viet Khoi laughed, more out of curiosity than suspicion. "Sounds thrilling. Probably just a media stunt."

"Maybe," Uncle Long shrugged, "but I heard Chairman Lu personally approved that file, not handing it over to his subordinates like usual. That's strange."

The name Lu Khac Bon briefly made Viet Khoi frown slightly. He is the Chairman of the Organizing Committee of the tournament and represents Hai Mien Group, the main sponsor who has poured money into the tournament for many years. Viet Khoi did not like the way he always appeared in front of the camera with a warm smile but cold eyes, the way he talked about "the honor of the tournament" while always trying to add sponsorship clauses beneficial to his corporation into every contract. But that is the matter of the organizers, not the matter of an athlete like him.

"Never mind, anonymous or not, you have to fight to know your true strength," Viet Khoi stood up, brushing the sand from his thighs. "I still have to go to the board repair shop to get a new fin. There's a press conference before the tournament this afternoon, remember?"

"Remember? You're the defending champion, it's your turn to give the opening speech no matter what." Dam Viet Long patted his nephew's shoulder, his eyes filled with undisguised pride. "Try to keep your cool, don't let your mind wander."

Viet Khoi nodded, carried his board and walked along the sandy beach, his footprints were left and then immediately erased by the waves, like a familiar loop of the sea. That afternoon, he stopped by the tournament registration area to see the list of participating athletes, most of whom were familiar faces, opponents he had encountered many times in previous seasons. But at the end of the list, a brief line made him pause longer than usual: "Khue — No detailed information published."

No photos, no hometown, no previous competition records. Just one word, like a silent challenge thrown among the names that have established positions on the international rankings. Viet Khoi stood looking at that name for a long time, a strange feeling rising in his heart, not quite worry, not quite simple curiosity, but like the premonition of a long-time seafarer, feeling a big wave silently forming far offshore, not yet visible but definitely coming.

He didn't know that just a few hours later, at a small seaside bar called Vong Trieu, he would meet a girl wearing a hat, with a soft and attractive husky voice, and that meeting would turn his whole life, and the position he held, in a completely different direction. In the afternoon, Mui Ne was still sunny and bright as usual, the wind was still blowing through the coconut trees, the sea was still blue and clear as if it had never known a storm. But under that layer of calm waves, an old story from sixteen years ago was waiting to be awakened, and Viet Khoi, without knowing it, was standing right on its threshold.

The press conference that afternoon went smoothly as usual. Viet Khoi sat on the podium with several other veteran athletes, answering familiar questions about tactics, emotions before the tournament, and the pressure of defending the title. He answered fluently, the confident smile never leaving his tanned face, but in his heart, the name "Khue" still lingered somewhere, like a small grain of sand in a shoe, not painful but enough to make people unforgettable.

At the end of the press conference, Lu Khac Bon stepped up to give the official opening speech, his deep, authoritative voice was familiar to someone who had sat in the leadership position of the tournament for many years. He talked about the tradition of the tournament, about sports honor, and about the spirit of fair play that the Organizing Committee always upholds. Viet Khoi sat listening, nodding politely, but his eyes accidentally caught a very short moment: when a reporter asked about the newly registered anonymous athlete, Lu Khac Bon's face stiffened for exactly one second, before the familiar smile immediately returned as if nothing had ever happened.

Just one second. But Viet Khoi, who spent his youth learning how to read the smallest signs on the wave face before it turns into a big wave, cannot easily ignore such a signal. He didn't think much about it at that time, just put it in a corner of his mind, the way he still remembers the shape of every wave he's ever ridden. Tonight, after many days of preparation, he just wanted to go to the beach again, sit and watch the sunset, then maybe stop by Vong Trieu restaurant for a drink to relieve stress before the official competition day.

Little did he know that seemingly normal decision would become the beginning of everything.