A boy walked down the hill before the sun had fully risen, the earth cold beneath his feet.
As dawn bled into the sky, his eyes followed the light upward, beyond where the clouds ended, toward something only he seemed to hear calling.
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.
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 looked at the boy, there was only pride.
"You're back already," the man said. "Adam."
Adam unstrapped the doko and carefully set the ore, tools, and woods 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."
"I'm fine, Baba," Adam replied easily.
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.
After a moment, he 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."
Adam continued. "They say my name is strange. They say I'm favored by adults 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?"
His parents moved at once, pulling him into their arms.
"No," his father said firmly. "Never."
His mother said nothing. She couldn't bring herself to speak.
"You are perfect," 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, at the worry they tried to hide, at the love they couldn't.
"I will," he said.
His father smiled faintly. "Good boy. Now go eat. The 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 together 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.
Adam nodded and stepped outside.
When he was gone, the father returned to the bedroom.
His wife was crying quietly.
"He's only ten," she said. "How can we do this to him?"
"We haven't failed him," the man said softly. "Not yet."
"How long can we hide?" she asked.
He held her gently. "As long as we must."
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.
Perfect for pain if it struck wrong.
"Bomb blast!"
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: keep it in the air unless you are throwing, 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 slowed as he walked past.
"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, unimpressed. "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.
Nothing answered him.
The throw went wide.
Sloppy.
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. "You really thought you were cool or something?"
Adam clenched his fists.
He didn't answer.
Aakash 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."
He stepped back. "Whatever. Not worth it."
He turned away, calling over his shoulder, "Next time, don't even come near us, you freak."
The children hesitated, but then followed him.
The fog swallowed their voices.
Adam stood alone.
Adam 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?
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.
Adam planted his feet.
He pulled the kite from his pack.
Simple.
Handmade.
A circle drawn carefully at its center.
He raised it.
"Usually," he murmured, "you need two people."
The kite trembled.
There was no wind.
"But I don't."
The string tightened.
Slowly, unnaturally, the kite lifted.
Higher.
Higher.
Then the wind came.
Sudden.
Fierce.
As if it had been waiting.
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.
Fog rolled beneath him like a sea.
Adam didn't notice the sky change.
But it did.
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 did not fly.
He simply existed.
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.
Confirming.
He hadn't intended to stop.
Then something tugged at his attention.
Not power.
Not energy.
Something misaligned.
Below, on a lonely hill swallowed by fog, a kite climbed where it shouldn't.
Because of the heavy gravity, no wind should have carried it.
The man descended slightly.
His gaze sharpened.
A boy stood alone.
Small.
Wrapped in Red cloth.
Balanced beneath a pull that should have dragged him forward.
The kite responded to him.
Not as an object.
As if it listened and obeyed.
The man tilted his head.
"How interesting."
Adam felt it.
Pressure.
Not fear, but weight. 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.
Descending.
Calmly.
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.
Floating without wind.
The man glanced at Adam.
"So," he said mildly, "you are what caught my eye."
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?"
"I am Adam G. Drake."
"Drake, you say?" Cheon Ma-je Smiled.
"Interesting."
Pressure returned, gentle, crushing, inevitable.
"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. Staying meant danger. He had to run.
Adam turned and ran with his kite.
Down the hill.
Through the fog.
Heart screaming.
Cheon Ma-je didn't follow.
He watched.
"This Nation, Nepal," he murmured, "It truly is the land of gods."
The fog closed in.
And somewhere beneath it, an anomaly was noticed.