Jaban Uncle leaned back against the veranda post, a crooked smile tugging his lips. "Alright then, boy. Come here."
Granny, who had been watching silently until now, let out a sharp scoff. "Mala, come here. This bastard is speaking nonsense again. I think the rain's entered his brain. Bring food, quickly."
Mala stepped out from the kitchen corner with a steaming plate in her hands. The smell of rice and lentils drifted through the damp evening air. She set it down in front of Arnesh with mock kindness. "Here, fool. Eat before it gets cold."
Arnesh looked at her once, his face still streaked with mud and exhaustion. Then, to her surprise, he gave a faint smile and shook his head. "I'm not hungry anymore."
That single line snapped something inside her. She slammed the plate down, food spilling at the edges, and snatched up the charred stick leaning against the wall. Her eyes flashed. "You punk! I made this food with difficulty, and now you don't even want it?"
Jaban Uncle chuckled, clearly amused. "Boy, now it is your test, don't underestimate her, I have taught her personally. She will beat the shit out of you but if you don't want that then take this stick and protect yourself from her. Let's see what you've got." Uncle threw a stick towards him.
Arnesh hesitated, but before his fingers could even reach for it, Mala struck. The burnt stick whistled down toward his hand. He jerked back just in time, the blow grazing his knuckles. Another came towards his leg. He twisted away, stumbling into the mud. More strikes followed, her movements fuelled by irritation and mischief.
Arnesh dodged frantically, rolling on the ground, tumbling like a monkey avoiding a farmer's cane. His bare feet kicked up clumps of wet soil as he scrambled left and right. His chest heaved with laughter and fear at once.
"Grab the stick, fool!" Jaban Uncle barked, still grinning like a teacher watching his pupil's first lesson.
Mala's voice rang above the clash. "Last chance! Are you going to eat or not?"
Arnesh said nothing. His eyes, however, locked onto the stick that lay just within reach, half-buried in mud. He rolled again, crawling low, arms shielding his head from her furious strikes. She swung fast, but he kept slipping away, until at last, just as her foot pressed close, he scooped a fistful of soil and flung it into her face.
She gasped, blinking against the grit stinging her eyes. In that heartbeat of distraction, Arnesh snatched the stick and jumped back, gripping it tight with both hands.
"Well done," Jaban Uncle laughed, clapping once. "1/20 incense-stick's worth of time. Good boy. You surpassed her, well done!"
Arnesh turned toward him, panting, a small smile breaking through. But before he could savour the victory, his body moved on its own. Instinct surged through his arms. The stick shot up, blocking a sudden strike from Mala. The sound cracked in the air.
He looked at her in shock, but she only smiled back. The gleam in her eyes had changed with more fierce.
Jaban's voice carried from the doorway. "Finish it quickly, Mala, or his food will be cold."
Jaban Uncle raised his hand, making the challenge clear. "From here on, listen well. If the stick falls from one hand, the other wins. That's the rule. Now—fight!"
The boy barely had time to nod before Mala lunged forward. He shoved against her stick, the force surprising even himself, and rolled backward into the mud. She steadied her stance, lifting her veil in one hand and wrapping it around her stick like a cover.
"Food time, little boy," she teased, twirling the stick once. "I'll finish you quickly."
She darted forward, veil fluttering. At the last instant, she flicked the cloth into his line of sight, blinding him, and thrust the stick straight toward his chest.
Arnesh's world went dark beneath the veil.
The strike was coming—he felt it.
And in that fleeting second, the real battle began.
With a whirl, the veil snapped back, and from its folds her wooden sword shot forward, thrusting with all the speed. Arnesh barely had time to raise his stick. He turned, spinning once, and flung the edge of the veil she had cast aside back toward her body, using it as a makeshift shield.
The clash was raw and awkward, yet precise, each time she thrust, he answered, putting his stick in exactly the right place to parry. They circled, movements echoing like reflections in water. But after two tight turns, his stick grazed too sharp against her cloth and tore the veil. She stopped attacking.
Everything froze.
Mala's eyes widened. Then narrowed. She snatched up the torn veil, her chest rising with fury. "You—" she hissed, her voice low and trembling. Her glare could have cut deeper than her stick.
Arnesh blinked, confused, lowering his guard for a heartbeat too long.
She shifted her stance, legs coiled like springs, her grip changing on the stick. Without warning, she exploded forward. Her sword swept flat across the air at horizon-level, a strike aimed to cleave him sideways.
He barely managed to bring his stick downward, parrying with desperate strength. The impact rang through his arms, bending his total body backward in U shape, boots skidding in the mud. The sheer power of her legs and swing shocked him, this was no play fight.
Before he could recover, she lunged upward from below, her stick tracing a violent arc toward his chest. He planted his front foot hard, swung his stick down from over his head, and met her in the middle. The clash resounded, wood on wood, his spade-trained arms straining against her fury.
But Mala pressed harder. Her strikes came again and again, wild and pattern less, thrusts like a serpent's tongue flicking from every direction. Some slid past his guard and smacked into his shoulder, his ribs, grazing his arms. Each sting made him grit his teeth, but he refused to fall.
Then one strike landed true, her stick rapped sharply against his hand joint. Pain shot up his arm, and his grip betrayed him. His sword clattered to the ground.
Before Jaban uncle could open his mouth to intervene, Mala's stick was already raining down. "How dare you tear my veil!" she shouted, her voice breaking into a fury that was half pride, half sibling rage. "Today you're dead meat!"
Arnesh yelped, throwing up his arms to shield his head. He ducked, twisted, tried to grab the stick. She slammed him across the shoulder, across the thigh.
Desperation sparked something reckless in him. He lunged and bit her hand. Hard.
"Ow! You dog!" she shrieked, her grip faltering. The stick fell loose, clattering aside.
For a heartbeat there was silence. Then chaos.
She punched him square in the jaw. He punched back, clumsy but firm. She kicked his shin, he kicked hers. Soon they were grappling, biting, scratching, headbutting like two wild animals. Dust flew. Shouts and yells filled the yard. It stopped looking like training and started looking like the oldest kind of fight. Siblings battling with every limb they had.
And on the side, Jaban uncle leaned against a tree, laughing so hard he nearly dropped his pipe. His shoulders shook, his laughter booming across the yard.
That was, until Granny arrived.
With one swift motion, she cracked her foot across all three of them, Arnesh, Mala, and even Jaban, who had been laughing too loud. The thud silenced everything.
"Jaban!" she barked, her voice sharp as lightning. "I told you to teach him seriously. Look at this! Instead of training, you're watching them tear each other apart like goats in a pen."
Arnesh rubbed his sore head, Mala clutched her side, and even Jaban winced, chuckling under his breath.
Granny pointed at Arnesh, her eyes still blazing. "And you, see how quickly he copies her movements? Teach him properly. Don't waste his strength with nonsense."
Jaban sighed, wiping his grin but not the spark in his eyes. "Fine, fine. But admit it, it was funny."
Granny's glare cut him down. "Funny or not, his path is being carved here. Now stop laughing and start teaching."
Arnesh sat in the dirt, breathing heavy, sweat and mud clinging to his skin.
Jaban stood in the yard, arms crossed, waiting.
"Go eat first, then come," he ordered in his usual stern way.
Arnesh opened his mouth to protest, to say no, I want to train first, but before the words could come out, Mala was already there, grabbing the back of his head. With no patience at all, she spooned rice into his mouth as if he were a toddler.
He gagged, chewing reluctantly. "Bad sister, I'm not eating anymore!"
"Shut up and swallow," she scolded, pushing another bite in.
Jaban chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Now wear those things."
Arnesh looked around and saw stones bound with ropes scattered across the yard. They weren't small pebbles either, each was the size of his arm, much bigger and heavier than those what he had worn previous day, tied crudely to his body. Jaban's voice came again, sharp as a whip:
"Attach them to your body. Then start sitting down and standing up. Quickly."
Arnesh hesitated but obeyed. He fastened one across his chest, another on his back, then around his thighs and arms. As the last rope tightened, he felt like he'd been wrapped in rock itself. His steps turned heavy, every joint protesting.
The first squat was easy enough also he sat down with surprising smoothness. But when he tried to stand, his knees trembled like reeds in the wind. His breath caught, his face burned, and he barely rose before collapsing back into the dirt....
Jaban barked, "Stand up, little boy! That was only thirty. Don't tell me you're done already. This is only the beginning. Welcome to Hellish training session."
The next moment a sharp smack landed on Arnesh's backside. He yelped, startled, but Jaban's glare left no room for complaint.
"Up!"
He said "do you know Hellish training meaning little boy?" He still running through the ground, with broken will. Jaban said "well, then let me tell you.... ahnnn.... It should feel like this:
The food is laid before you, steaming and rich, yet you cannot eat.
The water glitters within arm's reach, cool and clear, yet your lips cannot touch it.
Your muscles will tear, your lungs will burn, your bones will beg to break.
Every moment tempts you with relief, yet denies you.
Only in that torment does the body remember hunger, only in that starvation does the will sharpen, and only through that hell does the spirit carve itself into strength. That is called hellish training."
Groaning, straining, Arnesh pushed himself upright again with the nonsense of Jaban uncle. Sweat poured down his temples, his breath ragged, but at last he managed to rise. Jaban nodded.
"Good job. Now take this."
He placed a wooden sword in Arnesh's hand. "Downward strike. Again and again until your arms forget how to stop."
So it went. Hour after hour, Arnesh's world became nothing but the weight of stone and the rhythm of the sword. Downward or he sat down and stand up. He began to move like a machine but in jerk, pained, still determined. When he dared add another stone for extra weight, Jaban silently removed it, muttering, "Don't run before you crawl."
By afternoon, Arnesh collapsed onto his back, body refusing to rise. His arms twitched weakly, his legs numb. He could not even lift a finger. The sky above him spun.
Mala crouched beside him, her long hair sticking to her cheeks from sweat and steam. She tilted her head, watching him like one would watch a broken toy. "Good boy," she teased, her tone half-mocking, half-proud. "Go bathe and eat."
Arnesh, voice muffled and slow, whispered, "Feed me."
She smacked his forehead lightly. "I'm not your mother. I'm your elder sister."
"Okay… then mother, feed me food."
She gasped, then burst into laughter, punching his head once more before spooning rice and vegetables into his mouth. He ate quietly this time, staring at her face. Finally, he asked the question that had been nagging him all day:
"Why do you all take care of me?"
The words silenced everything. Mala froze, the spoon still in her hand. Even Granny, busy grinding roots at the corner, stopped. For a moment, only the sound of flies and wind filled the yard.
Granny broke the silence at last. "Well... time... heaven...fate...hell...."
Mala placed the bowl aside, muttering almost to herself, "Don't worry. It won't take long." Granny glanced at Jaban. "Go home. Come tomorrow. He won't wake again today."
Jaban stretched and yawned, gathering his things. "True. Let the boy sleep. He's fought enough for a first day." He left with a grunt, leaving the yard quiet again.
......................................
But later, near dusk, Arnesh stirred. Fever still pressed on him, but his body refused to rest. He pushed himself upright, eyes hazy. The hut was empty except for Mala, crouched near the fire, stirring a pot. This time there were no pills, only food.
He crept closer, trying to surprise her. But she didn't even turn her head. "Go, bad boy. Get some wood."
He scratched his head, caught like a thief, but went out and returned with an armful of sticks.
"Wash yourself and come," she said.
"I will practice now," he muttered stubbornly.
She turned, eyes narrowing, a knowing smile on her lips. "Do you even have strength to lift something?"
Arnesh said nothing. He simply walked outside, tied the stones around his body again, and began. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Jumps. Downward strikes. His screamed sometime, but in grit he continued. The yard filled once more with the sound of sword's slashing, of stones hitting mud, of breath ragged but steady.
By nightfall, he stumbled back, bathed quickly, washed his own clothes, then ate whatever Mala put before him without complaint. His body was swollen with pain.
Before lying down, Mala asked gently, "Shall I put oil on your body? It will help."
Arnesh shook his head. "No need. I can do it without."
And with that, he turned over and slept.
.................................
The sky was still dark, the sun's light hidden somewhere beyond the far horizon, when the sound of spade striking the trunk echoed through the yard. Granny, her bones stiff with years but ears sharp as ever, stepped outside. She squinted, and there he was, the boy, half-bent, sweat already darkening his shirt, stabbing the ground with the spade as though trying to pierce through the soil itself.
She sighed and shook her head. "This child will break himself before the day begins."
Still, a small smile tugged at her lips. She raised the conch shell to her mouth and blew. The deep, hollow note spread through the quiet dawn, rolling across the fields and then many same sounds started to come out from nearby places. But the boy did not even flinch. He kept at it, digging into the soil.
Granny turned back to the house. "Mala!" she called.
From inside came a muffled grumble. "What now? I'm sleeping."
"Sleeping?" Granny's brows knotted. "Look at him out there, while you curl like a lazy cat. Up! Do the chores."
"I said let him do it! I'm tired."
Granny had heard enough. She snatched the coconut broom, marched to the mat, and swept it sharply across Mala's face. "Ow!" Mala yelped, jerking upright.
She blinked the sleep away, rubbing her cheek. Then she noticed through the doorway—the boy had even folded away his bedding neatly before practice, his space clean, nothing left undone. Curiosity tugged her up.
When she stepped outside, she saw him hauling two buckets of water from the river, sweat dripping from his chin. He poured them into a hole he had dug, slowly shaping it into a pond. Then again he went, shoulders straining, bringing more water as the eastern sky faintly blushed. By the time the sun's edge glimmered at last, the hole was a shallow pool reflecting the dawn.
Without hesitation, he jumped into it. The water rose to his waist, rippling as he raised his stick like a sword. He thrust downward, again and again, his body trembling against the drag of water.
"It's hard to keep balance in water," he muttered through clenched teeth. Each strike slowed him, each step demanded more from his legs. Soon his arms quivered, his breath heavy. He pressed on until his muscles refused.
Finally, he dragged himself out and collapsed under the shade of a tree. His chest rose and fell like bellows, his face slick with sweat. For a while he sat there, silent, staring at nothing.
When he had enough strength to walk again, he went to where Granny sat husking rice. He lowered himself to the ground beside her, still breathing hard, eyes distant.
"Training complete?" she asked without looking at him.
He shook his head. "No. Just a little rest. I'll go again."
Granny's hands paused on the rice. She studied him, her eyes narrowing. "Why do you want to learn martial arts, boy?"
He hesitated, then spoke softly. "I don't know how to explain it, Granny… it's like something deep inside keeps calling me. When I'm holding the stick, when I'm moving, it feels as if I'm remembering instead of learning. Like my hands already know, but my body hasn't caught up yet. I can't sit still. If I don't follow it, it feels like I'll lose a part of myself—something important, something I can't even name."
She leaned forward. "Do you know that voice?"
He frowned. "It feels familiar. But… I can't say who it belongs to."
"Then why follow it?"
"Because it feels… true. Like if I don't, I'll lose something important."
Granny was quiet. The wind stirred the husks. Finally, she spoke, her tone heavy. "Do you know what martial art truly is?"
He shook his head.
She continued, her voice low and deliberate. "Martial art is not just fists and blades, boy. It is discipline carved into flesh, patience burned into bone. It is a way of binding chaos, not unleashing it. To outsiders it looks like fighting, but in truth it is a mirror, you face yourself before you ever face another. Every strike you throw is a question: are you ruled by anger, or do you rule it? Every stance you take is a promise: will you stand to destroy, or stand to protect? Remember this, martial art is not meant to conquer others. It is meant to conquer the self. Without that, all skill is just violence."
He stared at her blankly. "I don't understand."
"But remember this, boy—reaching the peak is never the end. Every summit only reveals another mountain beyond it. Keep climbing. Keep striving. The moment you choose comfort over struggle, the path ends, and with it, your growth."
The boy bowed his head, drinking in her words though they weighed heavy on him. Then he rose and went back to the pool. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Squats. His young body trembled, but his eyes held a quiet fire.
By the time he was halfway through, Jaban uncle appeared. The man carried something bulky across his shoulders, pieces of old armour, dented but sturdy.
"Here," Jaban said, tossing them down. "Wear these. Do not take them off until you went into a difficult situation."
The boy bent, lifted the first piece, and slipped it on. The weight pressed him down at once. Piece by piece, he strapped them across his chest, arms, and shoulders. Finally came the leg pieces—rectangular slabs of iron strapped like shackles.
He tried to step forward. His legs barely moved. The iron was heavier than the stones he used to carry. He gritted his teeth, sweat already beading. He also grabbed his stick, by which he was slashing like sword.
Mala stood nearby, arms folded, watching. A mischievous smile spread across her lips. She grabbed his sword from where it leaned. "Come on, little warrior. Fight me now."
But Jaban lifted his hand. "No. Let him first master the weight. Then you can fight him."
The boy did not answer. He simply forced one foot ahead, then the other, dragging himself around the pond. Each step shook him. Each breath burned. Yet he kept going, circling the pool under the rising sun, the heavy slabs clanking with every movement.
Granny, Mala, and Jaban watched. His body seemed on the edge of breaking, but still there was a will, burning inside his body continuously to make him even push forward.
The boy stumbled but caught himself, lifting his head. The training had only begun.
To be continued…