They reached home and found Granny crouched near the veranda, drying long strands of roots on a rope strung between two bamboo poles. The afternoon sun fell across her wrinkled hands as she tied the last bunch. Without looking up, she muttered, "Did you show him the whole village?"

Mala gave a sharp breath. "Those bastards came again… I'll take him after lunch."

Before the boy could speak, his gaze wandered toward the drying roots swaying gently in the breeze. Curiosity sparked. He plucked one from the rope and held it up. "Hey, these are drying up... what's this for? Medicine?"

Before he could sniff it, Mala snatched it away. "Put that back! Granny will skin you alive if she sees you playing with her roots." Her eyes widened in mock horror.

He quickly hung it where it belonged and asked again, "What's the use of this?"

Mala sighed and softened her voice. "Granny makes paste, balms, medicine, sometimes even a bitter liquid for fevers. We keep them safe and sold them, understand?"

He nodded silently and sat cross-legged on the soil yard, the earth still warm under the midday heat. Minutes passed, and the aroma of herbs mingled with the faint smell of fish from a nearby basket. Granny came with a steaming bowl, her voice cracking like dry wood. "Drink this when it cools."

He stared at the dark concoction, his reflection trembling on the surface. She left without waiting for an answer, and after ten long minutes of silence, he gulped it down in one go. The bitter taste lingered like old secrets.

Moments later, Mala returned, carrying a bamboo basket brimming with fresh greens—hinchey, lotus seeds, tender sajne leaves, mushrooms, and two bright lemons. A single large fish lay on top, its silver scales catching the sunlight like shards of a broken mirror. She smiled mischievously. "Why are you sitting there like a lost nitwit?"

"Waiting for my mother," he muttered.

"Oh? Then come inside and help me wash these—" Her words froze. From the corner of her eye, three bulky figures appeared at the gate, flanking a plump man with a cruel grin. The boy they had humiliated earlier trailed behind, his smirk sharper than any blade.

"Trouble just walked in," Mala whispered. "Granny! Come quick—fat pig brought his hounds."

The fat man pointed a stubby finger. "That's him. Take him."

The soldiers moved in like vultures. The boy stood still, heart pounding, watching their rough hands stretch toward him. But then—like a shadow melting from the earth—Granny appeared behind them, silent as the wind. In her hand glinted the curved edge of a boti. She pressed it against one soldier's throat so smoothly that his breath hitched.

"Touch him, and you'll leave without your head," her voice rasped, carrying the weight of storms.

One soldier sneered. "See? The old hag thinks she can scare us."

Before the words faded, another lunged with a spear. Granny's eyes flashed. "Little nitwit…"

A thorn flew from her fingers like lightning. It made a single spot on his throat with surgical precision and made him feint.

........

That boy felt his pulse pounding in his ears. He wasn't even sure what had happened just moments ago. One instant, the man lunged forward like a predator, and in the next, his body moved on its own. His hands had gripped the man's hand, his legs shot out, and the tip of his toes pressed precisely against a point on the man's body—just like he had seen granny do earlier without any hesitation. 

The man collapsed in an instant, stunned, eyes wide as though lightning had struck him. For a second, the entire yard froze in silence. Then he, suddenly realizing what he had done, scrambled backward like a frightened deer and hid behind granny's worn shawl. His small head peeked out from behind her side, eyes wide with confusion. He didn't understand what he had just done, but the fear on everyone's faces told him it was something serious.

The soldier who had come swaggering moments ago now lay sprawled on the dirt, groaning like the other man before him. Granny's sharp gaze flicked between the boy and the fallen men. Her thoughts whirled. What a talent… He just watched me once and copied it with his foot! No miss, no hesitation. Perfect pressure. That's no ordinary child.

The soldier's hands trembled as he pushed himself up, glaring at granny with a mix of anger and fear. But her voice sliced through the tension like a blade.
"Take your men and leave. If you come again, the thorn won't just sting—they'll be dipped in poison next time."

The man stiffened, swallowed hard, and nodded like a beaten dog. Even he could feel it—granny wasn't bluffing. He quickly slung the unconscious men over his shoulder, leaving behind the red-clothed boy they'd dragged along earlier. His footsteps thudded away faster than a rabbit escaping a wolf. And through it all, he stared down at his own hands, trembling slightly. 

Later that noon, as the simple clay plates of food were set out, granny broke the silence.
"Where did you learn those things?" she asked, her voice calm but laced with curiosity.

He blinked at her, chewing slowly, a grain of rice stuck to his lip. "What… things?"

She studied his innocent eyes for a moment and then exhaled softly. "Ah, forget it." So, it was instinct… she thought. Muscle memory, maybe. Humans forget their past, but instinct… instinct never dies.

Her thoughts were cut short by a deep, resonant sound echoing through the valley—a drum beating like a heart made of thunder.

BOOM… BOOM… BOOM…

His head shot up. "What is that sound?"

Granny rose slowly, her joints creaking. "An announcement," she muttered. "Eat first. Then we'll go."

They finished the meal in haste and set out toward the source of the sound. Mala walked beside him, her steps brisk, but her mind somewhere far away. She kept glancing at him, lips pressed tight like she was holding in a secret.

Finally, he tilted his head, curiosity sparking. "What?"

She stopped for a second, looking straight into his eyes. "Your name will be Arnesh," she declared softly, almost as if sealing a promise. "Alright?"

He hesitated, then nodded. Arnesh… The name tasted strange yet comforting in his mind.

When they reached the gathering spot, it was already buzzing with people—the same faces from the morning, murmuring among themselves. Jaban Uncle, the tall man with the loud laugh, spotted them and waved.

"What's going on?" Mala asked, her tone guarded.

"They're recruiting young ones," Jaban replied. "Looking to make martial artists out of them."

"Just like every year," she muttered.

"Yes," he grinned, eyeing Arnesh. "Hey, boy—"

"Not boy!" she snapped before he could finish. "His name is Arnesh. I gave it to him." She puffed her chest a little, like a mother tiger shielding her cub.

Jaban chuckled, and the others laughed too, though not unkindly. Arnesh shifted awkwardly.

Then a voice cut through the noise, a voice like autumn wind, crisp and cool. Everyone turned.

A girl stepped onto the platform, and for a moment, time slowed. Her presence was like a painting come alive—bright yet serene, strength veiled beneath grace. Men who had spent years tilling fields and carrying loads stared with open mouths.

"We are here," she said, her voice ringing clear, "to find the talented among you. Children who can be trained… who can endure and rise."

Her gaze swept over the crowd, eyes sharp as an eagle's. Then she asked, "But before that… can anyone here truly work hard?"

A murmur of voices rose instantly. One man barked, "What are you saying? We work hard every day! You think we're lazy? If not for us, you wouldn't even have food!"

The girl's faint smile never wavered. "I'm not asking about that hard work," she replied calmly. "I'm talking about the kind that will strip you bare. That will make you unable to walk, unable to talk, barely able to eat. The kind that will break you a hundred times… and still demand that you stand. Can you do that?"

Silence fell like a heavy curtain. The murmurs died. Not a single voice rose to answer.

Her smile softened, almost sad. "I understand," she said quietly. "If anyone still wishes to learn… your names can be added there." She pointed to a wooden board where a few names were already scrawled.

The crowd exchanged uneasy glances. Feet shuffled.

To be continued...

......................................

Two Mouths of Fate

A white face said: "All is written." Every breath you take, every stumble on the road, every triumph in the dark—all of it carved long before you were born. You are nothing but an actor, repeating lines on a stage whose ending has already been decided. You may shout, you may resist, but the river drags you forward regardless. This is the black mouth of fate, swallowing freedom whole.

A black face said: "Nothing is written." Each choice splits the world into a thousand possible futures. With every step, you redraw the map; with every thought, you cut new threads into the tapestry. Fate is not a chain but a canvas, and your will is the brush. This is the white mouth of freedom, painting possibility where certainty once stood.

A white face said: "The world is a river, and you are but a leaf. You may catch on a rock, you may swirl in a small eddy, but the current's pull is constant. You will always end up where the river ends."

A black face said: "The world is a canvas, and you are the painter. Each stroke, no matter how small, changes the image. What others see as a finished portrait, you see as a work in progress, waiting for the next layer."

A white face said: "History is not a story that you write, it is a story you uncover. All the twists and turns you think are your own are simply the reveal of what was always there."

A black face said: "The past is a phantom, a story told differently by every person who lived it. The future is an uncarved block of stone, and every day you wield the chisel."

A white face said: "Do not mourn your losses. They were never yours to keep. The joy and the pain, the light and the shadow—each was placed in your path for a purpose you cannot yet see. The plan is perfect; your understanding is simply incomplete."

A black face said: "Do not fear your pain. It is the kiln that hardens you, the fire that forges new paths where none existed. Every wound you heal is a new freedom won, a testament to your power to mend what was broken."

A white face said: "Your life is a scroll that has already been unrolled. The path is set from birth to death, a continuous line without a break. To believe you can change it is to believe you can walk back up a waterfall."

A black face said: "Your life is a story with every page blank. Each morning is a new inkwell, each moment a word written in your own hand. To believe in a single, pre-written path is to refuse the pen."

A white face said: "Regret is a foolish emotion. It is to wish for a different outcome in a world where only one outcome was ever possible. Let go of the illusion that you could have chosen differently."

A black face said: "Regret is a sacred emotion. It is a signpost pointing to the path you did not take, a whisper of the infinite possibilities that still exist just beyond your reach. It is the fuel for your next choice."

And between them—the silence.

Perhaps fate writes the music, but we decide how to dance. Perhaps the truth is not in the mouths, black or white, but in the echo that lingers between them. Perhaps fate is the paper—blank or marked—and choice is the hand that trembles as it writes.

To be continued...