Chapter 12 — Two Sides of an Argument

The following days passed at a pace that Hạ Vy had never experienced before, even during the most intense training days at her old school. The club activities room, which usually closes at five o'clock in the afternoon, was now lit until seven or eight o'clock in the evening, sometimes later, when the security guard had to stop by to remind the two students who were still hunched over a stack of notes that the school was about to lock the gate.

The third practice session after Mr. Sơn's announcement, Việt Bách brought a topic that he had just picked up from the practice question bank: "Should the state apply a policy of higher taxes on sugary drinks to reduce the rate of obesity in children?" After he finished reading the question, his face immediately changed into a familiar state - intense concentration, his eyes began to glance over the numbers he remembered in his head.

“Obesity rates among urban children have nearly doubled in the past ten years,” he said, typing quickly on the keyboard to find the exact figures. "Many countries have introduced sugar taxes and recorded significant consumption reductions, ranging from ten to twenty percent, after just the first year of implementation."

"Okay," Hạ Vy said, sitting across from him, holding a pen and tapping lightly on the edge of the table. "But if you just present it like that, it's just a dry data presentation. Who cares about how much obesity rates increase, if they don't have a feel for what that means for any particular child?"

Việt Bách looked up, frowning slightly, a familiar reaction whenever he feels his logic is being challenged. "The data itself has weight. A rational listener will understand the meaning of those numbers."

"Not everyone is like that," Hạ Vy shook her head, patiently. "Why do you think the judges, even though they are highly educated people, still scored my emotional presentation in the internal selection round? It's not because they lack reason. It's because people, no matter how smart, still need an emotional anchor to remember why that number is important." She leaned forward. "Think about it — instead of starting with percentages, I started with a specific child. A nine-year-old boy, whose mother bought him a bottle of soda every day after school as a reward, because that was the only way the busy family could show love in the few minutes they had with him. Then five years later, that boy was diagnosed with prediabetes at the age of fourteen."

Việt Bách was silent for a moment, his fingers lightly tapping the keyboard but not typing any words. "Is that story true?"

"No," Hạ Vy admitted, "but it's based on a real trend, something your numbers prove. I'm not making up feelings out of thin air. I'm just giving your numbers a face."

There was something in the way she said it that made Việt Bách really stop, not stop to refute, but stop to think. He was used to seeing emotions as a confounding variable, something that needed to be eliminated from the equation to reach the most accurate conclusion. But the way Hạ Vy expressed it — giving the number a face — was a perspective he had never considered.

"Okay," he said finally, his voice slow, as if he were testing an unfamiliar idea. "So if I opened the policy argument with the image of that child, then turned to the data to prove that this is not an isolated case but a widespread alarming trend — would that be okay?"

"That's exactly right," Hạ Vy smiled, a truly satisfied smile. "You learn quickly."

"I'm just applying logic," Việt Bách replied, but the corner of his mouth also slightly curled up, a rare sign of humor he rarely showed.

Subsequent training sessions gradually formed a unique rhythm. Every time Việt Bách prepares a dry data-oriented, policy-oriented argument, Hạ Vy will sit next to him, listen and find the human moment hidden beneath the numbers — a hypothetical but true story, a specific image that can anchor in the listener's mind longer than any statistic. On the contrary, every time Hạ Vy outlines a story, Việt Bách will quietly ask difficult questions — "How will anyone refute this?", "Does this story represent the majority, or will the opponent immediately call it a special case?", "If asked back, do you have any data to defend this thesis?" — forced her to build a solid logical framework underneath each story, so that it not only touched the emotions but also stood up to all criticism.

One evening, when the two were practicing until nearly nine o'clock, Hạ Vy was re-presenting her introduction to another topic - about whether high school students should be forced to participate in community service or not - she told about a girl who used to hate community service sessions until she realized the true meaning behind it. But when she reached the climax, she suddenly stopped, realizing she was repeating almost the entire story she had used in a previous topic, only changing a few details.

"I'm stuck," she admitted, resting her head on the table, sounding a little frustrated. "I can't keep using the formula 'a specific child' for every topic. It would sound fake."

Việt Bách looked at her for a moment, then, instead of giving a logical criticism like he usually did, he closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair. “Then stop thinking about the formula,” he said. "Think about why you chose to debate in the first place."

Hạ Vy raised her head, a bit surprised by the question.

"I noticed," Việt Bách continued, his voice slow, as if he was also discovering what he was about to say, "every time you told a real story — not a hypothetical story you came up with to illustrate the data, but your own real story, like the day you told me about your grandfather's lung disease due to air pollution at the first training session I heard from Mỹ Duyên — your voice was different. It was no longer a storytelling technique. It was real."

"Well," Hạ Vy hesitated a bit, not expecting Việt Bách to pay attention to that detail. "But not every topic has a real story to tell."

"It doesn't have to be about you," Việt Bách said. "It just needs to be something you really believe in. I think the problem is not that you run out of stories to tell, but that you're trying to tell the story according to the formula, instead of telling the story you really care about."

Hạ Vy remained silent, letting those words sink into her. There was a truth in it that surprised her a little — that the person who had told her, in her very first training session, that "emotions alone would not be enough to win", was now the person who understood best when her emotions were real and when they were just a technical facade.

"You know," she said quietly, "a few weeks ago, I didn't think you'd be the one to tell me this."

"I don't think so either," Việt Bách admitted, a hint of confusion passing through his voice. "But practicing with you forced me to look again at how I define a 'solid' argument. Before, I always thought solid meant no loopholes for rebuttal. But perhaps solid also means strong enough to stay in the listener's mind long after the battle is over. My data trumps reason. But your real story beats memory."

It was one of their longest nights of practice. When the security guard knocked on the door to remind them a second time, they were startled to realize that it was almost ten o'clock at night, and they had missed dinner without realizing it. Việt Bách insisted on taking Hạ Vy to the school gate by bicycle, even though the distance was only a few hundred meters long, citing "it's dark, it's not safe to walk alone", causing Hạ Vy to suppress a smile at his clumsy, unnatural concern.

The following days continued in that rhythm — studying in the morning, practicing with the group in the afternoon, and late at night the two of them stayed alone, honing every argument, every story, every possible criticism. Mỹ Duyên began teasing Hạ Vy mercilessly every time she saw her coming home late with dark circles under her eyes but a smile she couldn't hide on her lips. Tuấn Kiệt just shook his head and smiled every time he saw Việt Bách, who always calculated every minute of his tight schedule, willing to stay in the practice room until the school was almost deserted.

By the end of the first week, they had built a complete strategic framework for the three most popular topics likely to appear in the qualifying rounds, each with a carefully selected story opening, backed by solid data, and a back-up system for arguments that opponents might make. But what makes Hạ Vy most proud was not that strategic framework, but the way she and Việt Bách could now complete each other's unfinished sentences, could look at each other to understand what the other was thinking, a chemistry that just two weeks ago, when they were direct opponents competing for a single exam spot, she could not have imagined.

One Friday evening, when the two were cleaning up the table and chairs before leaving, Việt Bách suddenly asked, his voice seemed natural but his eyes avoided looking directly at her. "Have you ever thought that if Mr. Sơn hadn't paired us up, I would still think that debate is just about data and logic?"

Hạ Vy stopped and looked at him. "What about you? Do you think if it weren't for you, I would have never learned how to build a logical framework strong enough so that my story wouldn't break halfway?"

Việt Bách laughed softly, a rare, gentle laugh. "Maybe we should just owe each other a thank you," he said, "but I think I still owe more."

Hạ Vy did not answer, just smiled, feeling a strange warmth rising in her heart, a feeling of being seen and understood that she had never felt since the finals last year. On the bike ride home that evening, the cool wind blowing through her hair, she found herself looking forward to the next practice session, not because of the pressure of the upcoming qualifying round, but simply because she wanted to sit across from Việt Bách one more time, honing arguments together that would take both of them further than either of them could go alone.