I’m Loc, and tonight, I’m afraid that the brother bond between me and Quan had to come to an end.
Because, he had challenge me to a death or alive battle.
The wind howled through the small apartment as moonlight sliced across the floor like silver blades.
Quan stood on the edge of the bed, shirt billowing dramatically, an old metal ruler gripped tightly in his right hand like a peerless immortal sword. His eyes burned with righteous fury.
“Demon Lord Loc!” he roared, voice deep and resonant. “Your reign of laziness has poisoned this land for far too long! Today, this young master shall sever your chains of sloth and drag you into the path of Husband Material!”
He leaped forward in a flawless mid-air spin, the ceiling fan spinning wildly behind him like a sacred formation, creating gusts of wind that made his hair whip about heroically.
“Take this! Heavenly Reform Slash!”
I narrowed my eyes, slowly rising from the mattress. The umbrella in my hand opened with a sharp click, its black canopy unfolding like the wings of a dark sovereign.
“Hmph,” I sneered coldly, channeling every wuxia final boss I had ever seen. “Insolent junior. You dare challenge this emperor? For twenty-six years I have ruled this domain from my throne of cushions. Your pathetic attempts at reform are nothing but the buzzing of a summer mosquito.”
We clashed.
Quan attacked with a flurry of ridiculous but surprisingly fast sword forms, yelling technique names with full commitment:
“Morning Exercise Palm!”
“Anti-Sloth Finger Technique!”
I parried lazily with the umbrella, countering with exaggerated villain energy:
“Eternal Nap Domain!”
“Zero Effort Domain Expansion!”
We jumped over the couch, ducked under the spinning fan, nearly knocked over the rice cooker, and shouted lines at each other like we were filming a low-budget cultivation drama. For a solid minute, the tiny apartment transformed into an epic battlefield between a lazy Demon Lord and a righteous Young Master.
Until I couldn’t keep a straight face anymore.
Right as Quan leaped toward me with a final dramatic strike, yelling “Husband Material Ultimate Strike!!!”, I dropped the umbrella, grinned demonically, and tackled him onto the bed.
“Got you, little shit!”
My fingers immediately went for his waist — his ultimate weakness. I tickled him mercilessly while he screamed and laughed uncontrollably.
“Bro! Hahaha— stop! This is not how a final boss fights— HAHAHAHA!”
“This is payback for turning the whole building into my marriage cult last week, you little traitor!” I let out an evil laugh, refusing to let him escape. “You wanted husband material? Here’s your emotional damage!”
Quan writhed and begged for mercy between bursts of laughter.
Those kinds of ridiculous nights became the highlight of Quan’s “Husband Material Boot Camp” in my apartment.
During the day, Quan was relentless but strangely dedicated. He woke me up with increasingly creative methods: one morning he played a recording of my own voice howling ballad songs. Another morning he literally grabbed me off the bed and yanked me hard on the floor.
Every afternoon at 4 PM sharp, he would drag me out for “Endurance Training” — which was just a fancy name for running.
“Loc, a good husband must have stamina!” he declared while tying my old sneakers for me like I was a child. The first day I barely made it 200 meters before collapsing on a bench, gasping for air. Quan jogged in place beside me, full of energy.
“Look at the bright side. At least you’re sweating. That means toxins are leaving your body… and maybe your laziness too.”
I glared at him while wheezing. “The only thing leaving my body is my will to live.”
Still, I kept going every day. Not because I wanted to become husband material, but because watching Quan get genuinely excited every time I ran an extra 50 meters felt… nice. He even started cheering for me like I was running a marathon, yelling “Go future husband! Make those aunties proud!” loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. I wanted to die, but I also couldn’t stop laughing.
Cooking sessions were even worse. Quan turned my tiny kitchen into a battlefield. He bought matching aprons (mine said “Sloth Chef”, his said “Master Trainer”). He forced me to learn how to cook proper meals instead of instant noodles.
One evening he made me cook sour fish soup. Every time I did something “wrong” — like adding too much tamarind — he would dramatically clutch his chest and act like a cheated wife.
“Honey! I can’t see any compassion in your soup! You don’t love me no more, do you? No no no. You’ve clearly got someone else who you’re willing to pour your heart out to make a perfectly seasoned soup everyday!”
I stirred the pot with the most deadpan face possible and said, “This fish died for our sins. May its soul rest in peace. Is this enough compassion?”
Quan burst out laughing so hard he dropped the ladle.
He also made me practice “gentle husband compliments” while we cooked. I had to say nice things to him as if he were my imaginary wife.
“You… chopped the vegetables quite adequately today,” I muttered.
“Terrible delivery! Again!” he yelled, waving a spatula like a conductor.
By the end of the week, I could cook decent fried rice while sarcastically complimenting Quan’s “beautiful knife skills” without cracking a smile. He considered that massive progress.
Between the forced jogging, terrible cooking lessons, and Quan’s endless point system (I once lost 30 points for “looking too dead inside”), the apartment slowly became cleaner, my stomach became fuller, and — annoyingly — I became slightly less of a sloth.
That’s when Quan declared that we need to move to Phase 2 of Operation: Save my Pathetic Brother.
---
“Big bro, foundation is done,” he announced one evening, eyes shining with the kind of madness only a younger brother could possess. “Now we begin Legendary Reputation Protocol and turn you into the Most Beloved Sloth in Saigon.”
He pulled out a thick notebook titled “How To Make My Brother Universally Liked (Even If He Doesn’t Deserve It).” Inside were colorful mind maps, stickers, and terrifyingly detailed plans.
The first stage was “The Gift of Tiny Miracles.”
Every morning, Quan made me perform one anonymous good deed for someone in the building. Not normal good deeds. They had to be strangely specific and memorable.
Day 1: I had to leave a perfectly peeled orange in front of Mr. Huy’s door because Quan discovered he was secretly sad about his divorce.
Day 2: I slipped a handwritten note into Auntie Mai’s mailbox saying “Your laughter last week made the whole hallway brighter” — Quan even made me change the handwriting style to look mysterious.
Day 3: I replaced the dead batteries in the remote control of the grumpy old man on the 6th floor while he was sleeping.
At first, I thought it was harmless. But Quan kept escalating.
He created “The Whisper Network.” We spent one whole night writing dozens of anonymous compliments about random residents and slipped them under doors.
The next morning, the entire district woke up to mysterious praise. People started smiling at each other in the elevator and on the street. Someone cried happy tears in the hallway because they received a note saying their terrible singing actually comforted their neighbor during insomnia.
Quan was glowing. “See? You’re becoming a legend without even trying!”
Then he went full creative.
Every time someone said something positive about me — even something small like “Loc didn’t slam the door today” — Quan would reward me with points. With those points, I could “unlock” ridiculous titles he printed on fancy paper:
- 50 points: “The Quietly Reliable Neighbor”
- 150 points: “The Man Who Makes Ordinary Days Feel Special”
- 300 points: “Saint of Small Kindnesses”
I hit 300 points faster than expected because the anonymous notes kept working. People started waving at me. Some even brought food “just because.” A group of aunties began calling me Kind Loc instead of the usual Lazy Loc.
One evening, Quan pushed the plan further.
“Big bro, today’s mission is special,” he whispered like a secret agent. “Tram on the 3rd floor forgot her umbrella this morning and got caught in the rain. She’s probably still wet and cold. Go leave this warm ginger tea and a towel at her door without being seen. Anonymous hero move!”
I sighed but still took the thermos. Deep down, I knew I was doing it more for myself than for Quân’s ridiculous protocol.
I quietly placed the tea and a clean towel in front of Tram’s door, knocked softly twice, then immediately turned to escape.
I only made it three steps.
The door opened behind me.
“Loc?”
I froze mid-step like a thief caught in the act.
Tram stood there with slightly damp hair, holding the thermos. She looked at the towel, then at me, one eyebrow raised in amusement.
“…You know, most people just say ‘hi’ instead of doing ninja delivery service.”
I scratched the back of my neck, trying to keep my usual deadpan face.
“Wasn’t me. Must have been… a very considerate ghost.”
She smiled — that same sharp, knowing smile from high school.
“Right. The ghost who still smells like ginger and has the same lazy walking posture as you.” She paused, then added softly, “Thanks though. I was freezing.”
For a second, neither of us said anything. The hallway felt strangely quiet.
Then Quan’s voice suddenly echoed from the stairwell above:
“Loc! Did you complete the mission yet? Did she like it? Should I prepare the next legend story—?”
I closed my eyes in despair.
Tram let out a soft laugh.
“Tell your little brother his secret agent skills need work.”
She raised the thermos slightly like a toast before closing the door.
I stood there for a moment longer, then muttered to myself:
“…Great. Another story for Quan’s legend book.”
Quan’s imagination refused to stop.
He next created “The Storyteller Project.” Every few days, he would casually tell one slightly exaggerated positive story about me to different people in the city. The stories grew more ridiculous each time:
- Version 1: “My brother once stayed up all night helping a stray cat give birth.” (Completely made up)
- Version 3: “Loc once returned a wallet with 20 million dong inside without taking a single cent… and he didn’t even brag about it.”
- Version 5: “They say Loc can make plants grow faster just by looking at them with his tired eyes.”
By the end of the week, the district had constructed an entire mythical version of me. I became the quiet, mysterious, kind-hearted older brother who carried hidden depths and gentle wisdom. People started asking me for advice on life, love, and even lottery numbers.
I confronted Quan on the balcony one night.
“Bro, they think I’m some kind of urban sage now. Ms Lan asked me for marriage advice yesterday. I’ve never even touched a girl before!”
Quan beamed with pride. “Exactly! Your reputation is soaring. Soon the entire Saigon will know you as the guy everyone wants to be friends with.”
I stared at him, exhausted but unable to stay mad.
“You turned me into a urban legend using nothing but lies and oranges.”
Quan laughed and patted my shoulder.
“Best part is… some of those stories are starting to feel almost true, right?”
I looked away, refusing to admit that walking through the building and receiving warm greetings from people who used to ignore me… actually felt pretty good.
But deep down, I already had a bad feeling about this mess that my brother was building up.
