It was the First Day of the Lunar New Year.
Though life in Dinh Quang Town was harsh and weary, the townsfolk still flocked to the spring festival, cherishing it as a rare moment of joy after long, grinding months of toil.
At that time, Lam Chau was busy helping his mother prepare soybean dishes to sell to passing travelers.
Though thin and frail, the boy was surprisingly quick and lively — washing bowls with deft movements, counting coins neatly — all of which made his mother quietly proud of her youngest child.
Yet, within that pride hid a trace of sorrow.
Her son had no close friends. While other children slipped away from their parents to play and laugh, Lam Chau stayed silently by her side, alone in the crowd.
As the day went on, the festival grew ever more bustling. The air buzzed with chatter and laughter. Mother and son, though exhausted, continued to work diligently.
Then — a sudden, sharp crash shattered the air.
Startled, Lam Chau looked up. Murmurs rippled through the crowd as people began gathering toward a commotion in the distance.
Curiosity burning within him, the boy dropped what he was doing and ran off, ignoring his mother's voice calling after him.
Small as he was, he squeezed through the legs of adults packed tightly together. When he finally lifted his head to see — before him lay a stall reduced to rubble.
Amid the wreckage knelt a woman and a girl about his age, bowing and crying before a group of men wielding clubs.
"Please! I beg you, sirs!" the woman wailed. "I don't even know what I did wrong. Please don't destroy our stall — it's all we have to survive!"
The leader didn't even glance at her. With cold cruelty, he smashed what was left.
"Do you know the rules here?!" he roared. "You break my laws — you pay for it!"
The woman could only kneel, trembling, pleading between sobs.
Lam Chau froze. The injustice seared into his eyes — and what infuriated him even more was that none of the adults around so much as lifted a finger.
He, too, dared not move.
His chest thudded painfully; anger and helplessness tangled inside him like a tightening knot.
Then — a familiar hand grabbed his arm and pulled him away.
It was his mother.
Without a word, she led him back to their stall.
But Lam Chau couldn't hold it in.
"Mother… why were they bullying that woman?" he asked, still glancing toward the crowd.
His mother sighed softly. "Those men are bullies. If you don't pay them, they'll destroy everything you have."
Her words twisted painfully inside him.
"Then… do we have to pay them too?"
She squeezed his small hand — tightly, almost trembling. "Don't worry. I've already paid. They won't trouble us."
Through that grip, Lam Chau could feel the silent bitterness buried deep in his mother's heart.
Still, he couldn't stop himself from asking again, voice shaking:
"But we already pay taxes to the officials… why pay them too?"
"Because those officials," she said with a weary sigh, "are no better than the thugs themselves."
Hearing that, Lam Chau fell silent.
In his ears, the faint cries of the woman and her daughter still echoed — cutting deep, like a blade. His chest burned with fury… but above all, with shame — shame for being too small, too powerless…
To do nothing in the face of injustice.
By dusk, mother and son packed up their goods and began the walk home.
Along the empty road, Lam Chau's thoughts wandered back to the woman and her child.
The more he thought, the heavier his heart grew. Gathering a handful of leftover soybeans and a few coins he had saved, he hurried to where their stall had been.
But when he arrived, only broken wood and scattered debris remained. The two were gone.
He could only stand there, quietly, before trudging home in silence.
The twilight was fading, painting the road in hues of dull gold.
Lam Chau walked with his head down, lost in thought — until he suddenly bumped into someone.
Looking up, he saw Old Tu.
"Hey, little Chau," the old man chuckled, patting his head. "Why the long face? Did your mother scold you again?"
Unable to hold back, Lam Chau poured out everything that had happened.
Old Tu listened, sighing deeply, his eyes clouded with sorrow as he watched the boy's burning expression.
"We are common folk," he said slowly. "Weak, poor, without power. To be bullied by the wicked… it's something we cannot avoid."
Those words struck Lam Chau like a stone to the heart.
"So… the fate of the weak is just to endure?"
Old Tu looked toward the crimson sky of dusk, stroking his white beard. After a pause, his tone grew firm:
"The world, by nature, belongs to the strong.
But…"
He turned back, his gaze sharp as steel.
"The weak can become strong.
And the truly strong… are those who choose to protect justice, not trample upon it."
Something blazed in Lam Chau's eyes — a spark, bright and fierce.
Old Tu smiled faintly, resting a hand on the boy's head.
"In my long life, I've met many people. Those who fight for what's right are often mocked as fools. But they're the ones who truly hold up this world.
If justice is crushed, the world rots. When that happens, even the strong become weak — and the weak, weaker still. The ones who think themselves powerful are only sinking deeper into the mire they've made."
Then, under the dying light, Old Tu raised his voice — loud and clear:
"To bully the weak isn't strength! It's the cowardice of the weak-hearted!"
His words carved themselves deep into Lam Chau's soul.
In that moment, something ignited within him — a fire that burned bright and unyielding.
"I want to become strong."