Chapter 13 — Two Sides of an Argument

In the second week, the practice routine became more and more dense. Teacher Sơn stopped by to check on progress several times a week, nodding with satisfaction at what his beloved student and new student had built, but also not forgetting to remind that Anh Khoa and Ngọc Hân were also practicing with equal intensity, and had even begun to invite an outside free debate coach to support their attack strategy.

Tuesday night, Hạ Vy and Việt Bách stayed in the club room later than usual, trying to complete their argument on the topic of whether or not the voting age in local elections should be lowered to sixteen — a complex topic, requiring both data on cognitive maturity levels and real stories about youth political participation. The clock on the wall showed just after half past eight when Việt Bách's phone vibrated on the table.

He glanced at the screen, and Hạ Vy saw his shoulders stiffen slightly, a reflex she had begun to recognize every time there was a call from a familiar phone number.

"My dad," he said shortly, then picked up the phone, his voice immediately taking on a different tone — more formal, more careful, as if every word was considered before it was uttered. "Yes, I'm here... Yes, I'm practicing at school... Yes, I know this time... Yes, I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you in advance." He glanced at his watch, then looked at Hạ Vy, a moment of confusion crossed his face. "Yes, dad, can you come pick me up? I'll be done in about fifteen minutes."

The call ended, Việt Bách put the phone down on the table, let out a long breath, his face showing the tiredness that he usually tried to hide.

"Is your dad coming to pick you up?" Hạ Vy asked, trying to keep her voice gentle, even though she sensed something was wrong in the tense atmosphere just now.

"Yes," Việt Bách replied, without looking at her, his hands began to tidy up the papers on the table faster than usual. "My dad had a meeting near the school today so he stopped by. Normally he doesn't..." He stopped mid-sentence, as if suddenly realizing he was about to say more than he intended, then shook his head. "Nothing. Can I continue with this argument?"

They tried to concentrate for another ten minutes, but Việt Bách's attention was clearly distracted, his answers were shorter and less sharp than usual. Just as Hạ Vy was in the middle of presenting a new opening paragraph, a knock on the door rang out, decisively, steadily — not the kind of timid knocking for permission, but the announcement of the presence of someone who was accustomed to always arriving on time and expects others to do the same.

The door opened before anyone could ask to come in. The man entered the room wearing a neat dark gray suit even though it was after working hours. His figure was tall and straight, his gray hair combed perfectly neatly. His eyes glanced around the room with sharp scrutiny, stopping at the pile of notes on the table, then at Hạ Vy, before finally looking at his son.

"Aren't you done yet?" he asked, his voice low, even, without any superfluous emotion, the kind of voice of someone who is used to giving orders and is used to being obeyed immediately.

"Yes, I'm sorry dad, I'm almost done." Việt Bách stood up, his posture suddenly became stiff, different from the relaxed, sharp person that Hạ Vy had become familiar with over the past two weeks. It was a transformation that made her feel heartbroken — as if he were shrinking himself to fit a certain mold.

Mr. Trần Quốc Hùng - because Hạ Vy immediately guessed that it must be him, even though Việt Bách had not yet introduced himself - took a few more steps into the room, his eyes once again stopped at the stack of notes on the table, where there were lines of Hạ Vy's handwriting outlining the story about the nine-year-old boy and the bottle of soft drink, mixed with columns of data Việt Bách had compiled.

"What is this?" he asked, not Việt Bách, but straight into the air, as if the question itself carried a judgment.

"Yes, this is Hạ Vy, a new member of the club. We are practicing together to prepare for the school qualifiers," Việt Bách replied quickly, his voice careful. "Dad, this is Hạ Vy."

"Hello, uncle," Hạ Vy said, standing up, trying to keep her voice polite even though inside she began to feel a coldness radiating from the man in front of her, a coldness unlike anything she had ever encountered, including Việt Bách's sharp calmness the first day they met.

Mr. Hùng looked at her for a moment, his eyes evaluating from head toe, not rude but not hiding either. "What grade are you in?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm in grade twelve, in the same class as Việt Bách," Hạ Vy replied.

"What is your academic ranking in school?" he continued asking, his voice still monotonous as if he was asking a normal question in an interview.

Hạ Vy paused for a second, not expecting the question to go in that direction. "Yes, I just transferred schools in the middle of the year so I don't have an official ranking yet, but my academic performance at my old school was at the top of the class."

"Pretty good," Mr. Hùng repeated, one corner of his mouth curling up slightly, not a smile, but almost a suppressed sarcasm. He turned to look at the stack of notes on the table again, then picked up one and glanced at the part Hạ Vy wrote about the story of the boy and the bottle of soft drink. "Việt Bách, explain to me, what is this," he held up the piece of paper, "is it?"

"That's the emotional introduction to the argument about the sugar tax policy," Việt Bách replied, his voice beginning to tremble a little, something Hạ Vy had never heard from him in any tense debate. "We're trying a combination of..."

"I know what kind of argument this is," Mr. Hùng interrupted, placing the paper on the table with a decisive movement. "Dad has sat on the jury chair many times. This type of argument is based on a fabricated story about 'a certain nine-year-old boy' to appeal to the listener's emotions, instead of seriously presenting the objective truth." He looked at Hạ Vy, his eyes cold. "Is this your style?"

"Yes, I..." Hạ Vy felt a lump in her throat, a painfully familiar feeling rushing back, almost identical to the feeling she had when standing on stage last year, listening to the judge publicly judge in front of the entire auditorium. "I believe that a convincing argument needs both human elements and data, sir. Stories are not a substitute for data, they only help the data become more meaningful to the listener."

"Useless," Mr. Hùng said, concisely, without any hesitation, as if he were pronouncing a long-considered verdict, not a spontaneous judgment. "Emotion in debate is just a tool to hide the lack of real argument. Those who are not capable of building a coherent logical argument have to resort to telling tales to sway the listener's pity." He turned to his son, his voice becoming much sterner. "Việt Bách, the past two years you have been at the top of the school thanks to your sharp, data-based arguments, not thanks touching stories like this. I don't understand why you wasted two precious weeks before an important competition studying such an unserious debating style. Do you think your application for early admission to the Law major will be highly appreciated because you are good at telling touching stories?"

"Dad, this is the team's strategy, not—" Việt Bách began to argue, but his voice was weaker than she had ever heard, as if there was a part of him that, even though he didn't want to, still believed that his father was right.

"Team or no team, you are still responsible for the final result," Mr. Hùng interrupted, not looking at his son but looking straight at Hạ Vy again, his eyes like a wordless warning. "I hope you understand, this style may be suitable for some movement competitions, but in the real arena, where influential people really evaluate your abilities, emotions cannot get anyone into a good university." He glanced at his watch. "Việt Bách, pack your things, dad still has work to do tonight."

Việt Bách nodded, bent down to collect his books with hasty movements, without any trace of the calm confidence she saw in him every day. Before going out the door, he turned back to look at Hạ Vy, his eyes filled with something half-apology, half-embarrassment, a hurt that he had never shown in front of her.

"Sorry," he said softly, loud enough for only her to hear. "See you tomorrow."

Then he walked out of the room, following his father's straight, cold back, the door closed, leaving Hạ Vy standing alone in the middle of the quiet clubroom, still holding the note about the nine-year-old boy and the bottle of soft drink, which now suddenly became strangely heavy.

She sat down on the chair, her heart still beating fast from the sudden dizziness she had just experienced. Mr. Hùng's words — "useless", "movement", "emotions don't get anyone into a good university" - kept echoing in her head, recalling the exact feeling of rejection that she had tried to bury all year. But this time, mixed with that pain was a new feeling, a slow understanding spreading in her heart.

She thought about everything Tuấn Kiệt had cautiously revealed — about a strict father, about the academic pressure that always weighed on Việt Bách. But hearing about it was one thing, but seeing it with your own eyes was a completely different story. She understood, in that short moment, why Việt Bách always required solid evidence for every argument to an almost obsessive level, why he initially considered emotions a weakness that needed to be eliminated — because he grew up in a house where every expression of emotion, every small mistake, was graded strictly like a test that could never achieve a perfect score.

She also understood something else, more heartbreaking — that behind the near-perfect confidence of the school's number one debater, was a boy struggling under the weight of a name, an expectation so great that he never dared to ask whether he really wanted to carry it or not.

On the bike ride home that night, Hạ Vy couldn't stop thinking about Việt Bách's eyes before he walked out of the room - the eyes of someone who was both exposed in front of someone he trusted, and helpless to defend what he believed was right. She promised herself, even though she didn't know what to do, that she would not let this evening become the reason why Việt Bách turned his back on what they had built together over the past two weeks. There were battles one must fight on the debate stage, and there were much more silent battles, taking place right in one's own home — and for the first time, she realized that the second part was probably much more difficult than the first.