A boy walked down the hill before the sun had fully risen, the earth cold beneath his feet.
As dawn bled into the sky, a green and murky light, it offered no beauty to him.
Slowly, cold bit deep, as fog rolled between trees and stone houses, clinging to the slopes.
The mountains stood in the distance, dark, shapeless giants with hidden peaks, their presence felt more than seen.
Everything was tinted green and gray, damp grass bending underfoot, roofs slick with dew.
The boy moved through it alone.
Red cloth wrapped his head and face, layered tightly, leaving only his mouth and nose exposed; nothing else offered to the world's gaze.
On his back was a large conical basket woven from bamboo strips, tied securely across his forehead and shoulders. The villagers called it a doko.
It was full of iron ore, chopped wood, and tools wrapped in cloth.
Each step sank into the mud, the weight enormous for someone his size. His legs strained, back bent, but his breathing remained steady.
Even grown men struggled beneath such weight.
Yet the boy walked.
But walking was never quite the right word for it.
His steps shortened. His body turned slightly with each one, shoulders aligning, hips following, each movement precise in a way that didn't belong to a child. The doko's rope pulled against his forehead, and he leaned into it, lowered his center, one foot pressing down harder than the other.
The weight shifted.
And somewhere in that shift, it stopped feeling like a burden, as if the pull of the world halted.
His thoughts went quiet.
His feet had found something.
One step struck a little firmer.
The next turned sharper than needed.
Then he stopped, then he moved again.
To him, this was just a habit.
A dance.
These were the movements his body instinctively knew. It was some time ago that he realized these movements gave him the strength he needed.
No matter the situation.
These movements were nothing short of a miracle.
But his trance was short-lived as, without warning, his thoughts came anyway.
He wondered if his father was awake yet.
If the forge would be lit when he returned.
If his mother had slept… or if the pain didn't let her.
His grip tightened against the rope of the doko.
I should get more coal.
Nights are getting colder. Mom'll need it.
As he descended, he glanced at the sky.
He raised his hand, briefly.
Without thinking much, as if he was trying to grasp the horizon.
For some reason, it felt like a cage.
Up the hill. Down the hill.
Again and again, without pause or rest.
By the time faint light began to bleed through the fog, the village was awake.
Doors creaked open. Smoke rose from chimneys. People noticed him as he passed.
And they watched him with soft expressions.
"There he goes again," someone murmured.
"That child works harder than grown men."
"Such a good boy."
A woman offered him water. Another pressed a wrapped piece of bread into his hands. Others simply watched with expressions that bordered on reverence.
The boy stopped for each of them. He joined his palms together politely and bowed his head.
"Thank you," he said, his voice clear and gentle. "Thank you for your kindness."
They could only see his lips, but when he smiled, it was enough. Bright. Earnest. Disarming.
Some villagers even woke early just to catch a glimpse of him.
Near the center of the village, the Village Chief stood outside his home, arms folded inside his robe. He nodded once as the boy passed. Beside him, his wife clasped her hands together.
"Such a hard-working young man," she said warmly.
The boy bowed again, greeted them, and continued on his way.
They adored him.
Every adult did.
His home stood slightly apart from the others.
A blacksmith's house.
It was built low and heavy, its walls packed with red mud and straw, cracked by age. The slate roof was dark with moss and rain, as if the house had risen from the earth rather than been built upon it. Inside, a forge rested near the back wall. It was cold at this hour, its embers long burned to ash, but warmth still lingered in the room, careful and deliberate.
The boy entered quietly.
"Baba," he called.
A man looked up from his workbench.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, hands scarred and rough from years of shaping metal. His dark hair was tied back loosely, his brown eyes gentle despite the strength in his frame. He was respected for his skill, but his occupation carried quiet discrimination. Blacksmiths were needed, but rarely celebrated like warriors or soldiers.
Still…
when he saw Adam set the doko down carefully… making sure nothing spilled…
and then step forward, not to speak, not to boast, but simply to hug him first.
something in the man's chest tightened.
Not once, he thought.
Not once has this child complained.
The man rested a hand on Adam's head, a little firmer than usual.
There was pride.
But there was something else beneath it.
Something that almost hurt.
"You're back already," the man said. "Adam."
Adam unstrapped the doko and carefully set the ore, tools, and wood on the floor. Then he stepped forward and hugged his father without hesitation.
"I brought everything you asked for."
The man rested a hand on Adam's head. "Thank you, son."
He knelt to inspect the materials, nodding once. "Good quality."
Then his expression changed.
He placed both hands on Adam's shoulders. "You shouldn't push yourself like this."
Adam shook his head. "I'm fine, Baba."
"I want to be strong like you; this is nothing."
His father didn't speak right away.
He reached for Adam's hands and turned them over slowly, palm up. The softness that had been there a year ago was gone. In its place was a rough skin, cracked at the knuckles, darkened with coal at the creases.
Ganesh looked at them for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he walked Adam to the tap without a word and began washing his hands himself, working the soap in gently.
Adam watched him. "Baba?"
"Hmm.."
"…You're not saying anything."
Ganesh didn't answer immediately. He kept his eyes on Adam's hands.
"Most people think strength means carrying more," he said finally. His voice was quiet. Unhurried. "Lifting more. Enduring more."
He paused. Turned Adam's hand over and worked the soap into his palm.
"You see men in this village who think that. Who never stops. Never rest." A breath. "Some of them I knew when they were your age."
Adam waited.
"They're not strong anymore."
He rinsed Adam's hands, dried them with the cloth at his waist, and held them for a moment before letting go.
"Real strength," he said slowly, "is knowing when you've carried enough."
Adam frowned slightly. "…Then what do I do when there's still more to carry?"
Ganesh looked at him.
For a brief moment, a flash of something old and painful crossed his face.
"Then you rest," he said.
"Because if you don't…"
His voice dropped, quieter now.
"…one day, you won't be able to carry anything at all."
From the next room came a faint sound.
Breathing.
The man turned at once. "Your mother is awake."
Adam was already moving.
She lay on a specially crafted bed, wood and metal joined in careful mechanisms. The air around the bed felt different, lighter, steadier, as if gravity itself had been carefully adjusted by hands far more skilled than this village should have known.
She was pale. Thin. Half of her face was covered in burn injury, and her weak body couldn't handle this land's weight.
When she saw Adam, her eyes softened.
"My child," she whispered.
Adam knelt beside her. "Mamu."
She reached out weakly, her fingers brushing the cloth wrapped around his face. "You work too hard," she said.
Adam shook his head. "It's nothing."
Her gaze lingered on him. "You carry more than you should."
She pitied him.
More than herself.
The father watched from the doorway, silent.
He didn't move.
From the doorway, he watched the two of them.
His son kneeling beside the bed, his wife barely able to lift her hand.
This was not the life he had imagined for them.
Not this village.
Not this hiding.
Not this… waiting.
His jaw tightened slightly.
There had been a time when Angali stood taller than him, when her laughter filled entire halls, when even the air bent subtly around her without effort.
Now she struggled to breathe in a world that rejected her.
His gaze shifted to Adam.
The boy carried burdens he did not understand.
Not yet, Ganesh thought.
I need more time.
For a brief moment, a look of worry flickered on his face.
Then it was gone.
He stepped forward and cleared his throat.
"Adam," he said gently. "You can rest now. Or… you could go play with the others."
"They don't like me," Adam said simply. "They call me weird."
"Children say foolish things, son," father replied.
Adam continued. "They say my name is strange. They say adults favor me because I bewitched them."
He hesitated.
"They say I'm cursed."
The room went still.
Adam's fingers curled around the edge of his bandage. "Baba," he asked quietly. "Am I cursed?"
The man froze.
Not enough for a child to notice.
But for a single, fragile moment—
He didn't answer.
His eyes flickered toward his wife.
Before, they never realized how much Adam was suffering.
Not something a ten-year-old should be going through.
His parents both instinctively moved at once, pulling him into their arms.
"No," his father said firmly.
His mother said nothing. She couldn't bring herself to speak.
"You are a blessing," his father continued. "Your name is perfect. Me and your mother chose it."
"But you must keep the bandages on. For now," he said quietly. "It's for your safety."
"Will you trust us?"
Adam looked at them, he felt their emotion, the worries they tried to hide, but the love they couldn't.
"I will," he said.
His father smiled faintly. "Good boy. Now go eat. Momo should be ready."
Adam's voice lifted. "Really?"
His father chuckled. "Really."
Adam rushed into the kitchen.
Steam rose from the pot as he opened it. He piled a plate high with soft, pale dumplings, their wrappers glistening as the aroma filled the room.
By the time his father checked on him, five empty plates were stacked neatly beside him.
"Thank you, Baba," Adam said, satisfied. "It was delicious."
He cleaned the dishes without being asked.
Later, Adam retrieved a kite from the corner of his room. Made from white paper and bamboo straws, attached with rice as glue.
He sat carefully and drew a circle at its center, his movements precise, practiced, almost ritualistic.
"I'm going to fly my kite," he said.
"Be careful," his father replied.
As Adam stood to leave, his mother's voice came faintly from the other room.
"Did you finish your homework?"
Adam paused. "…No."
Silence.
"…when will you do it?"
Adam hesitated. "After I return, mamu."
From the bedroom, a weak but amused breath escaped her.
"When will this kid focus on his studies?" she murmured.
His father chuckled under his breath.
Adam frowned slightly. "… I'm sorry mamu."
"Mm," she said softly. "Make sure to come back on time."
Adam blinked.
Adam rushed to her room and gave her a soft hug. "Thank you, mamu," he said with a big smile.
That made her smile, too.
He still hugged the same way he always had, a sudden, warm, and full hug. When he was smaller, it had knocked the breath from her. Now he was careful with her. Gentle in a way that children his age don't care about.She wondered when he had learned it.
She couldn't remember.
That bothered her more than she showed.
She watched him go, still smiling faintly.
Adam stepped outside and rushed towards the hills.
After he was gone, the father returned to the bedroom.
His wife shed tears quietly.
"He's only ten," she said. "How can we do this to him?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Her fingers tightened into the blanket.
"He smiles like nothing is wrong," she continued, voice breaking. "He thanks people… bows to them… carries that weight every day like it's nothing."
She turned her head slightly.
"He thinks this is normal."
Silence stretched between them.
"We haven't failed him," the man said at last. "Not yet."
"Not yet?" she whispered. "Ganesh… what happens when he finds out?"
He didn't respond.
That was her answer.
"They will come," she said. "You know they will."
His arms wrapped around her gently.
"Then we'll be ready."
She shook her head weakly.
"No… you will be ready."
"He won't be."
***
Outside, fog swallowed the path as Adam climbed the hill once more.
Near the edge of the village, laughter drifted through the fog.
Children were already playing.
They stood in a loose, uneven circle on damp ground, feet shifting, bodies alert. At the center was a small, dark object, 'chungi'. Not a ball. A tight knot of around a hundred rubber bands, layered over and over until it formed a dense bundle no bigger than a fist.
Worn.
Heavy.
Painful if it strikes with force.
But little souls are too drunk on fun to feel the sting.
"Bomb blast!" A child shouts as the game begins.
The chungi shot upward.
One child picked it up and, with a kick, sent it spinning. Another jumped and dodged it. The game was simple: You can throw it however you want, don't let it strike you, and fall. When it's thrown, catch it to eliminate the thrower. The rules were simple, but the children bent them as easily as they bent the air around them.
A boy got the chungi and started juggling it with his foot.
Then he looked around and struck the chungi with his feet. A strong wind blew on it, and the chungi changed direction midair.
Another child slid forward, his hands started gathering sand, and he formed a big earthy glove, catching it.
OUT
They screamed.
One boy got eliminated, and they continued.
They were careful with it. None of them pushed too far. Because not all of them had awakened powers.
Adam tried to ignore them as he walked past.
One day, I will get my own chungi.
"Oi!"
The shout snapped Adam out of his thoughts.
He turned just as the Chungi flew toward him.
It had landed at his feet.
"Throw it here!" someone called.
Adam stared down at it.
He had never touched a chungi before.
The bands were tied tightly, overlapping again and again, circles folded into circles, tension held perfectly in shape. He could feel it. Its form.
A boy stepped forward from the center of the circle.
"Hurry up."
He was taller than the others, clothes cleaner, stance relaxed in a way that didn't come from practice. Confidence clung to him like an inheritance.
Aakash.
Adam recognized him instantly.
That's the chief's grandson.
Aakash folded his arms, annoyed. "What? Can't you even throw it?"
Adam hesitated.
Then he bent down and picked it up.
The moment his fingers closed around the chungi, something subtle shifted in Adam. The tight loops pressed against his palm, dozens of circles, bands layered together.
Adam didn't think much. He set his kite aside.
He threw.
The chungi spun.
Not wildly.
It rotated with terrifying precision, accelerating as if it were drilling against the air. The air hissed as it cut through the fog.
Aakash's eyes widened.
Water surged up instinctively, thin, hurried, forming a curved shield in front of him.
The chungi didn't slow.
It slipped past the water like it wasn't there, threading through the weakest point of the curve, missing Aakash's shoulder by less than a finger's width, and buried itself in the dirt behind him.
Silence.
Aakash turned slowly.
The water collapsed back into the ground.
"…Huh."
A few of the children exchanged glances.
Aakash laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. "What was that?"
Adam said nothing.
"Lucky throw."
Aakash kicked the chungi back toward Adam. "Come on," he said, grin returning. "Try again."
Adam hesitated, but he still stepped forward.
Adam tried to repeat it.
He focused on the loops, the shape, the way the bands curved and overlapped.
He threw it with all his might.
But nothing happened.
The throw went straight.
Strong throw.
But Normal.
The chungi hit the ground and rolled uselessly.
Aakash snorted. "That's it?"
Another round.
Adam tried again.
Nothing.
The chungi got stuck on Akash's shield this time, and he caught it easily.
Laughter broke out.
"I knew it was a fluke."
Aakash stepped closer, looming. "Blacksmith's son playing with us? You are no less than those untouchables."
Adam clenched his fists.
He didn't answer.
Aakash glanced at the others, making sure they were watching.
With a smirk, he stood in front of Adam, towering over him.
"Covered face, weird tricks," he mocked. "How can you even see?"
"You really are a freak."
The words stung more than anything.
For a moment, Aakash looked ready to do more.
Then he stopped.
His jaw tightened.
"Tch."
Adam felt it, the children's emotions.
Some were wary, and some were alarmed, but one emotion stood out.
Jealousy.
The bully stepped back. "Whatever. Not worth it."
He turned away, calling over his shoulder, "Next time, don't even come near us, you freak."
"Go away!"
The children gave Adam unwelcoming looks.
Adam felt the collective glare, so he simply turned around and left the field.
Jealousy? What do I have… for them to envy?
Adam quietly picked up his kite and walked on.
Behind him, the game resumed.
The fog swallowed their voices as Adam disappeared down the path, leaving the children behind.
***
Somewhere deep inside, Adam tried to quietly remember what he did.
How did I do that? Did my ability affect Chungi?
Was it because of the shape of the rubber? Circular?
The hill rose beyond the village.
Adam climbed it alone.
The fog thinned as he ascended, wind whispering through tall grass. When he reached the top, the land opened wide, mountains stretching endlessly beneath a gray, unmoving sky.
Lost in thought, he reached the top before he could realize.
Adam planted his feet and took a deep breath.
He put all the weight of his worry aside and finally relaxed, looking at the view. It was foggy everywhere, but it was still his village.
He took out lattai, a bamboo wooden handle used for holding and controlling a kite, from his pocket and tied its string with the kite's string.
Simple.
Handmade.
A circle drawn carefully at the kite's center.
He put the kite in his palm while grabbing the lattai in the other hand.
"You cannot fly a kite without a strong wind," he grinned, " but I can do this without any."
The kite in his palm trembled.
There was no wind.
The string tightened.
Slowly, unnaturally, the kite lifted.
Higher and higher
A wave of relief swept through him. Adam felt weightless, no longer a boy holding a string, but the kite itself.
Adam began to dance.
With one hand on the lattai, he moved.
Not chasing the kite but matching its flow.
His steps became faster, deliberate, precise, his body turning in sharp arcs, as if he had done this thousands of times.
Adam laughed under his breath and stepped into motion, his feet tracing patterns in the dirt, sharp turns, sudden stillness, then motion again.
A small body showing such movements felt almost strange.
Above him, the kite followed every shift.
As if it were part of the same motion.
The kite was free and soaring into the endless sky, and so was the boy.
Adam came here every day to experience this feeling.
The feeling of grasping the horizon.
Suddenly, a fierce wind came.
As if it had been waiting for the boy.
The kite surged upward, paper snapping sharply as it caught the current. Adam leaned back, feet digging into the ground, hands steady despite the pull.
Why is the wind so strong today?
Fog rolled beneath him like a sea.
Adam didn't notice the sky change.
Far above the mountains, the clouds parted, not scattered, but pressed aside. The air folded inward with a calm flow that carried no sound.
A man drifted there.
He was not floating.
He simply existed mid-air like a statue.
Robes dark as shadow, edges faintly trimmed in royal purple. His hair fell loose, unmoved by the wind that howled everywhere else. The sky itself seemed to make way for his arrival.
He had come for his own reasons.
Passing through.
Observing.
He hadn't intended to stop, but something tugged at his attention.
Something misaligned.
Below, on a lonely hill swallowed by fog, a kite climbed where it shouldn't.
Because of the heavy gravity, flying a kite was almost impossible.
The man descended slightly.
His gaze sharpened as he glanced below.
A little boy stood alone.
Wrapped in Red cloth, struggling to balance beneath a pull of wind that should have dragged the boy forward.
The man tilted his head.
"How interesting."
Adam felt it.
A heavy gaze and pressure.
The air thickened; his presence was heavy in a way gravity couldn't explain.
Then, suddenly string in his hands vibrated faintly, humming like a warning.
Wind tore across the sky violently.
The kite was about to fly away.
Adam stumbled back a step, gripping tighter as the string burned against his palms.
The kite slipped free.
Then—
Silence.
The pressure vanished.
The wind died.
Adam froze.
Someone stood in the air ahead of him.
Calmly descending.
As if stepping down invisible stairs.
The man's presence filled the hill without effort. Not killing intent. But an absolute presence, sharpened by curiosity.
Before Adam could react, the man reached out.
Two fingers closed around the string.
The kite in his hand.
The man glanced at Adam.
"Hello, child," he said mildly, "is this your kite?"
Adam's heart thundered.
I have to run! But I have a feeling I can't escape.
"Why is your face hidden?" he asked casually.
Adam swallowed.
"I am not allowed to talk with strangers," he said. "My parents say it's for my own safety."
The man smiled.
"How about this?" he said lightly. "Answer my questions, and I will not harm you."
Adam knew he had no escape, so he reluctantly agreed.
The man asked, " Can you see with your eyes covered?"
Adam answered, "Yes."
Amused.
The man gave the boy his kite back.
"I am Cheon Ma-je," he said lightly. "And you are?"
Adam didn't hesitate.
"Arwin."
Silence.
The man tilted his head slightly.
Just one glance and it was enough.
"Lie," he said.
That word settled into the air like a dropped weight.
Adam's fingers tightened around the string.
Cheon Ma-je's gaze didn't leave him.
"Names are strange things," he continued mildly.
"Most people reflect their names."
"But yours didn't."
The air felt heavier.
"Once more," he said softly.
This time, it wasn't a question.
Adam swallowed.
Running wasn't an option.
Lying didn't work.
"…Adam," he said.
"Adam G. Drake."
Cheon Ma-je smiled.
"Drake, you say?"
A name that he would never expect from such a remote land.
"Interesting."
"How did you fly this kite? Despite such intense gravity," he asked.
Adam answered, "It's my ability."
Cheon Ma-je then asked, "What is your Ability?"
Adam didn't answer. He was reluctant.
I shouldn't say it.
His father's voice surfaced faintly in his mind.
Don't show your face ever in front of strangers or your ability.
Adam's fingers tightened slightly around the string.
He couldn't lie as the man will notice.
And the boy could sense it.
The terrible and pressing feeling the man gave off.
It sent him shivers down his spine.
"…I don't exactly know," he said at last.
A small safe truth.
He hesitated but continued.
"A year ago… I was drawing a full moon."
His voice slowed, careful now.
"And I was so focused on my drawing that I moved the paper."
"Since then… I was able to move light things."
"…if they have a circle drawn on them."
"Circle?", Cheon Ma-je replied.
"That's an odd ability."
"It's very fascinating."
Pressure returned, gentle yet crushing.
"Child, come with me," Cheon Ma-je said. "Become my disciple."
Adam didn't hesitate.
"No."
Cheon Ma-je blinked.
Then he laughed.
For the first time, he got rejected.
His laughter grew louder and louder.
Adam's instincts screamed. How powerless he was in front of this man. He had to run.
Without hesitation, he ran with his kite.
Down the hill.
Through the fog.
Heart screaming.
Cheon Ma-je didn't follow.
He watched as the boy ran.
"This was an unexpected encounter."
"Quite the anomaly," he spoke to himself as he smiled.
As he floated in the sky again, he glanced at the horizon.
"The land of Gods, Nepal," he murmured, "It truly is amusing."