Chapter 2: The Debt Upon the Altar
Hai
Long Estate stood at the foot of a hill, connected to the highway by a concrete
road lined with casuarina trees.
By
six twenty, the front courtyard was already packed with cars.
Khai
recognized a seven seat vehicle from the Bac Cang branch, its license plates
from another province conspicuous among the others. It had been left sideways
across the path, as though its owner considered the estate his own private
courtyard.
Mr. Tuong
stood on the front steps.
When
he saw Khai and Vy enter, he said nothing. He merely clasped his hands once at
his chest, then let them fall.
Vy
walked past her father without daring to meet his eyes.
She
did not stop.
Duc
Duy stood in the courtyard, exactly where Vy had said he would be.
He
was soaked through. His hair clung to his forehead, and his legs trembled in
short, uncontrollable bursts.
Still,
he forced himself to remain upright.
“Go
inside and wash your face,” Khai ordered.
“I
can stand a while longer, Young Master.”
“I
said go inside.”
Khai’s
shout cracked across the courtyard.
Duy
finally obeyed.
Khai
remained outside, letting the wind lash at his clothes while noise spilled from
the main hall like the roar of a crowded marketplace.
Then
the entire hall fell silent.
Lam
Bach Lan stepped into the doorway.
She
was not tall. She did not raise her voice or move with any particular haste.
Even
so, the crowd parted around her without being told.
She
stood at the top of the steps and looked down at her son for exactly three
seconds.
“Come
inside.”
She
did not ask where he had been.
In
28 years, she had never once asked him that question.
The
ancestral room lay in the deepest part of the estate, separated from the main
house by a narrow corridor.
Bach
Lan closed the door behind them.
The
noise outside vanished.
Incense
smoke hovered at eye level, shrouding the room in a pale haze.
At
the center of the altar, between two burning candles, stood a portrait of Vu
Huy Hoang.
The
man appeared to be in his forties, with a square jaw and narrow eyes fixed
directly on the camera. His mouth held no trace of a smile.
Khai
had stared at that portrait since before he was tall enough to reach the altar
table.
Even
now, he had no idea what his father had looked like when he smiled.
A
shallow wooden box rested to the right of the portrait.
To
the left lay a thick ledger with a faded cover.
Bach
Lan opened it.
“Your
father died 28 years ago tonight. Must I tell you the story again, or do you
still remember?”
“I
remember.”
“Then
repeat it.”
Khai
lowered his gaze to the base of the altar.
“My
father was cornered on the roof of the cold storage warehouse.”
“The
man leading the operation was Tran Duc Minh. He was a captain at the time.”
“He
forced my father all the way to the edge.”
Khai’s
throat tightened.
“Then
he pushed him.”
“How?”
“Mother,
do not make me repeat that part.”
“How
did he push him, Khai?”
Khai’s
fingers curled against his palms.
“He
shoved my father in the chest.”
“My
father fell from the fifth floor onto the concrete yard.”
“He
died before the ambulance arrived.”
Bach
Lan listened without saying a word.
She
turned to a page that had already been left blank, laid the ledger on the
altar, then opened the drawer beneath it and took out a small knife.
“Give
me your hand.”
Khai
held out his right hand.
A
pale scar crossed the tip of his index finger, buried beneath so many older
cuts that it was impossible to count them.
Ever
since he was ten, Bach Lan had cut the same place on the same night every year.
The
blade traced a short line across his skin.
Khai
did not flinch.
He
knew that pain better than he knew the smell of food in his own home.
Bach
Lan took hold of his finger and pressed it against the page. She kept it there
for another heartbeat before letting go.
Beneath
the sentence written in black ink, a fresh red fingerprint overlapped the older
marks that had darkened into brown.
I
am Vu Khai, son of Vu Huy Hoang.
As
long as Tran Duc Minh lives, the Vu family’s debt remains unpaid.
Bach
Lan blew gently across the page to dry the blood.
“Tonight,
you will receive the seal.”
“From
tomorrow onward, you will stand at the head of the Vu family and answer for
everyone beneath it.”
Her
voice remained calm.
“But
the shares, the proxy authorizations, the money in the accounts, and every
signature at the bank will remain under my control.”
“Do
you understand?”
“I
understand.”
“What
exactly do you understand?”
Khai
met her eyes.
“I
will hold the seal so people can call me Young Master, but the real power will
remain with you.”
Bach
Lan stared at him through the incense smoke.
Her
fingers rested against the cover of the ledger.
“You
have learned to sharpen your tongue.”
Khai
opened his mouth, then closed it again.
A
question had been lodged in his throat since that afternoon.
It
sat there like a stone. Every time he tried to swallow it, it rose again.
He
did not know why he wanted so desperately to ask it tonight.
“Mother,
may I ask you something?”
“Ask.”
“For
28 years, you have told me how my father died more times than I can count.”
“I
remember every word.”
“I
remember how many steps Tran Duc Minh stood from him. I remember whether it
rained that night. I even remember what he was wearing.”
Khai
raised his head.
“But
why have you never told me how my father lived?”
The
candle on the right gave a sharp pop.
“What
did he like to eat?”
“Did
he laugh often?”
“Did
he ever hold me?”
Khai’s
voice turned rough.
“I
am 28 years old.”
“I
know exactly how my father died, but I do not know what kind of man he was.”
“Tell
me one thing.”
“Just
one happy memory.”
Bach
Lan closed the ledger with deliberate slowness. Her fingers smoothed the worn
edge of the cover twice.
“The
Vu family does not live on memories.”
“We
live on debts.”
“A
blood debt must be paid in blood. There is no other path.”
“I
am not asking about the debt.”
Khai’s
voice cracked.
“I
am asking about my father.”
“That
debt is all that remains of your father.”
She
returned the ledger to its place, aligning it carefully with the edge of the
altar.
“It
is the only thing he left behind in this world.”
“Settle
it. Only then will you have a father.”
With
that, she turned and walked out.
She
opened the door without looking back.
Khai
remained alone in the ancestral room.
Blood
continued to bead at the tip of his finger.
One
round drop struck the tiled floor.
He
stared at it and thought how absurd it was.
He
had spent the entire afternoon waiting to hear one sentence from her.
Not
a sentence about a dead man.
Just
one simple sentence.
I
need you to stay because you are my son.
The
words never came.
Not
once from the time he was ten until now.
People
said a parent’s tears always flowed toward their children.
In
this house, every tear flowed upward.
They
climbed the altar and disappeared into the portrait of a man who had been dead
for 28 years.
Not
one drop remained for the son who was still alive.
Three
knocks sounded against the wooden door.
It was time.
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