In the misty lowlands of southern Vietnam, where the lotus fields shimmered like scattered stars across the water, lived a man named Ameyan. To the villagers of Bạch Liên, he was a humble gardener—quiet, solitary, always seen at dawn tending the sacred lotus blooms with reverence. His hands, though calloused, moved with the grace of a poet. Children whispered that he spoke to the flowers, and the elders nodded, believing he carried the spirit of the land. But when the sun dipped behind the hills and the shadows grew long, Ameyan became something else entirely. By night, he was a phantom. A protector. A reckoning. American mercenaries—rogue agents sent under the veil of secrecy—had begun to stalk the countryside, targeting innocent Vietnamese civilians in a campaign of terror. They moved like ghosts, but Ameyan was the wind that hunted ghosts. No one knew how he tracked them. No one saw him strike. But one by one, the mercenaries vanished—swallowed by th...