Chapter 28 — Two Sides of an Argument

The main auditorium of the convention center, where the national finals would take place, was arranged completely differently from the smaller exam rooms of previous rounds. The capacity of nearly five hundred seats was almost full; harsh white stage lights shone straight down on two wooden platforms facing each other, and high above, a large screen projected live images to those sitting in the furthest row. Hạ Vy stood backstage, clearly feeling the sound of her heart pounding mixed with the noise of the audience settling into their seats.

"Have you seen it?" Việt Bách asked softly, standing next to her, eyes facing the third row from the top, the area for parents and teachers of the groups.

Hạ Vy followed his gaze and saw Mr. Trần Quốc Hùng, sitting straight in a familiar gray suit, his face still as stern as ever. But there was a small difference that only those who paid close attention would notice - he arrived nearly half an hour earlier than the appointment time, and in his hand was a small notebook, seemingly for taking notes, as he often did when attending court hearings or academic conferences.

"You're here," Hạ Vy said, trying to keep her voice calm even though a new pressure arose in her heart. "Are you okay?"

"It's okay," Việt Bách replied, taking a deep breath. "With you here, I realize I'm not as scared as before. I don't need to win to prove anything to you. I just want you to see me argue the way I believe is right."

Their opponents in the finals were the team from Đông Đô High School for the Gifted, Ho Chi Minh City — Nguyễn Anh Thư and Bùi Quang Vinh, a couple considered to have almost perfect technique, confident demeanor, and eloquent speech that made it difficult for listeners to find loopholes. They passed all previous rounds without losing any judges' points, a rare record for this year's tournament.

The five-member jury came out and sat at the table in front of the stage - including two university professors, a journalist specializing in education, a former national debate champion, and the main host who announced the theme of this year's finals amid the bustling applause of the auditorium.

"This year's National School Debate Championship final topic is: Should parents be the final decision makers about their children's future direction?"

A short silence spread across the stage. Hạ Vy glanced at Việt Bách and saw him close his eyes for half a second, as if he were bracing himself to face something bigger than the match. The results of the draw placed Chu Văn An's team in the opposing side - arguing that parents should not have the final decision, while Đông Đô's team stood in support.

"Are you okay, really?" Hạ Vy asked again, as they walked out to the competition podium.

"This is probably the only topic in the world that I don't need to rehearse in advance," Việt Bách replied, a smile flickering at the corner of his lips, both bitter and relieved. "Let's begin."

Nguyễn Anh Thư opened the support party with a coherent presentation, carefully rehearsed down to every hand gesture. "Parents are people who have spent their whole lives accumulating experience and understanding the risks of life that children at the age of eighteen cannot yet predict. According to a survey by the Ministry of Education this year, sixty-eight percent of students choose a career based on a temporary feeling and then regret it within the first three years of college. The final decision-making power belongs to parents, which is not an imposition, but a form of protection based on real life experience."

When it was her turn, Hạ Vy stepped up, took a deep breath, letting her mind drift to an image she had cherished for a long time, not someone else's story, but for the first time throughout the tournament, it was the story of her partner standing next to her right now.

"I want to tell a story, not about a stranger, but about a classmate sitting right next to me on the team today," she said, her voice shaking slightly with emotion but not weakening. "She was born into a family where every choice, from the sport she played to her future major, was planned out before she even knew what she liked. There was a time when she almost lost her own voice, forced to say things that weren't what she really believed, just to satisfy other people's expectations. What made her find herself again, was not the complete concession of her parents, but a real dialogue. — where he or she is listened to and respected as a person with independent thinking, not as a clone that needs to be programmed in the right direction."

The auditorium was absolutely silent. Hạ Vy could feel, even without turning her head to look, that Mr. Trần Quốc Hùng's eyes were glued to his son on stage.

Việt Bách continued right after, his voice steadier than she had ever heard. "The story Hạ Vy just told is not a rare exception. A long-term study by the University of Education published last year, following two thousand students for ten years, showed that the group of students whose career orientation was completely imposed by their parents had a job-satisfaction rate after ten years that was forty-two percent lower than the group whose parents advised them but still respected the child's right to make the final decision. Purely logically, if the parents' true goal is the long-term happiness of their children, the data itself shows that final decision-making power should not belong absolutely to the parents, but should be shared, with the parents acting as partners who provide experience, not as final judges."

This was the moment Hạ Vy most clearly realized what she and Việt Bách had built over the past year. Her story, which might have been dismissed as a single touching anecdote, now stood on a foundation of data that could not be easily dismissed. And Việt Bách's numbers, which could become dry and distant if standing alone, now had a specific face, a true story, making the audience not only understand with their minds but also feel with their hearts.

Bùi Quang Vinh counterattacked fiercely. "But not all parents are as extreme in their imposition as the story is told. Most parents make their final decisions based on love and the best wishes for their children, not arbitrary control."

"I don't deny that," Việt Bách replied immediately, without any hesitation. "But your argument assumes that good intentions always lead to good outcomes, which the data I just cited contradicts. The issue is not whether parents love their children — of course they do. The issue is the power structure: when the final decision always belongs to one side, even the most sincere love can unintentionally become a form of imposition, simply because the other side has no space to speak up."

Hạ Vy continued, her voice now soft but full of weight. "And the most encouraging thing is that when parents choose to listen instead of imposing, they do not lose their role. The friend I just mentioned still received support from her family in the end, not because her family became completely permissive, but because both sides learned how to truly dialogue with each other. That is not parents giving up their rights. It is parents choosing a more mature form of love—trusting their children enough to let them take responsibility for their own choices and choose for themselves."

The final response was intense, all four took turned giving sharp arguments, but clearly, the combined style of Hạ Vy and Việt Bách created something that the Đông Đô team, no matter how technically perfect, could not copy - an argument that was both logically rigorous and touched the listener's true emotions, two seemingly opposing things were now blended into one, inseparable.

When the competition ended and both teams retreated backstage to wait for the results, Hạ Vy held Việt Bách's hand tightly, clearly feeling that he was also trembling slightly, not because of fear, but because he had just experienced something greater than a normal match.

The jury deliberated for nearly twenty minutes, the longest time Hạ Vy had ever experienced in her life. Finally, the host walked out, holding the results card in his hand.

"With a narrow score of three out of five votes, this year's National School Debate Championship team belongs to Đông Đô High School for the Gifted, Ho Chi Minh City."

A round of applause rang out. Hạ Vy felt a small emptiness in her chest, but strangely, it was not the familiar pain of previous failures. Before she could process her emotions, one of the five judges, a former national champion, stood up and took the microphone.

"The jury wants to say one more thing," he said, his deep voice echoing throughout the auditorium. "Today's vote difference is only three out of five, almost the closest result I have ever seen in a national final. The Chu Văn An High School team demonstrated a style of debate that I personally believe will reshape the way we train school debate in the coming years - a real, not fake, combination of reason and emotion. Today's runner-up fully deserves to stand on par with the champion team."

The applause for them was no less enthusiastic, and when Hạ Vy turned to look at Việt Bách, she saw that his eyes were red, even though he was trying to smile. This was the first time in the school's history that Chu Văn An High School Debate Club reached the national runner-up position - a milestone that no one, including Mr. Sơn, ever dared to achieve when the school year began.

While everyone rushed onto the stage to congratulate and take photos, Hạ Vy happened to glance towards the third row, where Mr. Trần Quốc Hùng was still sitting still. She witnessed a moment that perhaps not many other people noticed - he raised his hand, briefly touched the corner of his eye, then squeezed the notebook he was holding so tightly that his knuckles turned slightly white. He did not stand up and cheer like other parents. He just sat there, quietly, but his eyes, as he watched his son smiling among his friends on stage, carried a light that Hạ Vy had never seen in that man before.

After the award ceremony, when Chu Văn An's group gathered in the hallway to prepare to take souvenir photos, Mr. Hùng walked up, his gait still straight and stern as always. Việt Bách stiffened slightly, following old reflexes, mentally preparing to receive a familiar harsh comment.

But Mr. Hùng did not say anything about strategy, did not mention the score of three out of five, did not ask why he did not win absolutely. He just stood in front of his son for a long moment, silent in his own unique way, then reached out and placed his hand awkwardly and unfamiliarly on Việt Bách's shoulder, as if this was a gesture he had never practiced in his life.

“You speak well,” he said, and that was all, his voice unusually hoarse. Then he turned to Hạ Vy, nodded slightly, a short but clear nod, different from the cold eyes he had given her at practice last year. "Me too. The story you told... was very convincing."

It was not a long speech, not a complete change of character for a man who had lived by strict principles all his life. But to Hạ Vy, and she was sure to Việt Bách, that was something more precious than any gold medal they could bring home - a small, honest, gap of recognition, opening from the very person who once made them both think they could never reach it.