Mannat had a nightmare. In it, he walked upon an endless dirt road in a barren wasteland. He was excited at first then grew tired, bored, and in the end, he was sick of walking. He wanted to sit down and relax, but that was not the option. He had to keep walking, or he might miss his destination; as to what or where his destination was… he had no idea.

He was not under watch or external pressure, but he was stressed and mentally exhausted. No one chased or threatened him, yet he couldn’t stop. He didn’t remember why he was walking but knew he’d forget himself if he ever stopped.

Suddenly, he had an out-of-body experience. His spirit floated away from his body, and he watched his tired self repeating the meaningless action. He felt the oddest sensation of danger upon realizing that even after pouring so much effort, sweat, and emotions into the meaningless task, he actually hadn’t walked a single step forward!

That was the end.

Mannat woke up from the nightmare, heaving and drenched in a cold sweat. He sat straight on his bed in a daze for a while before a semblance of intelligence returned to his eyes. Finally, after a long while, he exhaled a deep breath of relief. Just a nightmare —he told himself and stood up pushing the blanket off his thin, but muscular hairy legs. He got off the bed and hissed when his bare feet touched the cold wooden floor.

He pulled his legs back up the bed.

A small voice in his head told him to go back to sleep, but the dream had hit too close to home. He didn’t feel comfortable closing his eyes again, for the time being, fearing another confrontation with the nightmare.

He looked for his brown leather slippers under the bed and heaved to his feet. The first thing he saw upon standing was the large hammer hanging upside down on the wall. Its head was as big as his fist. The hammer was his father’s gift to him. A reminder of his goal, and the reason behind all the pain he had suffered recklessly training for the past year. That morning, however, the hammer only reminded him of the nightmare and nothing else.

He looked out the window to see the time and let out a groan. The sky was grey and cloudy. Amusingly, he was up early, and as a result, would be sleepy later in the day. Well, at least he could have something to eat before his father dragged him out to practice. This was what he wanted, but it surely was not easy.

He watched his father flexing his bare, hard muscles in the backyard for a while, then picked his plain faded brown shirt and wore it. There was a time when he had vied to match his father in strength, but these days he simply wanted to hit the bare threshold of his stats so they could move on to practical training.

As always, Mannat made his bed, noticed the damp spot in the middle of the white sheet, and decided to pull it off the bed. He’d wash it later. He found his mother up and working. She was sitting on the lobby table, cutting vegetables with a knife his father had made especially for her, years ago. She had slender hands, so he had been careful about the handle material and used some kind of horn. However, the knife was old, and though still sharp —thanks to his father’s upkeep— it was about ready to be retired.

“You should really replace the knife, mother. It doesn’t even have a grip anymore.” Mannat said kissing her on the cheek.

Noor smiled and rubbed his head saying, “But I love it too much. It was your father’s first gift—”

“—or rather the first blade he made. I know.” Mannat pulled a chair from under the table and took a seat. “I have heard this story too many times.” He said getting comfortable on the chair. His mother was removing peas into a wooden bowl and he tried getting a handful, but Noor didn't let him.

She slapped his hand, and he pulled back clicking his tongue. She was still smiling when she said, “Then you should know how this discussion ends, right?”

“You are as stubborn as a cow.” He said raising his hands in defeat when she flashed him the knife.

“Ho... looks like someone is cranky this early in the morning.” Noor found her smile growing, but she noticed the bed sheet in the bucket and the damp spot on it made her somber. It wasn’t Mannat’s first nightmare, but they were coming faster than before when weeks used to pass between two.

“Was it the same nightmare again?” She asked in worry.

Mannat thought of lying but decided to come clean in the end. She would have found out anyway; there was no point in hiding the truth. He wasn’t embarrassed by it. “Yes, mother, it was the same one.” He said and tried to snatch some peas again. This time Noor didn’t stop him and he happily popped the catch into his mouth.

A few minutes later Mannat was helping his mother cut his favorite orange carrots. He paid extra attention, yet the cuts came out all of different shapes and sizes. He had pitiful dexterity. The result flustered him much, but he could only practice and get better at it. Although it may not look like much, knife work was an excellent (tried and tested) method of training one's dexterity. It was a slow process, but one with definite gains.

“Mother?” called Mannat, not raising his head. He didn’t want to end up with a chopped finger.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Do you think I can become a blacksmith?”

“Absolutely,” Noor said without hesitation, like always, but Mannat wasn’t convinced this time.

Usually, he would nod and get on with his day, but today he pressed on. He had a lot on his mind.

“I’m not so sure.” He whispered out, loud enough that she heard him.

Mannat tended to hide his feelings, but Noor wasn’t like him. She got easily flustered and panicked. However, she knew she couldn’t let him know. Having lived with the boy for long enough, she knew how mentally strong, he was. This was the lowest she had ever seen him. He must have been miserable if he was letting his thoughts slip like that.

Noor dropped her hands under the table and clenched them to hide her panic. She wasn’t going to make him regret asking her, and carefully chose her words.

“Did your father say so?” She coughed, but Mannat didn’t put any mind to it.

“No,” he shook his head. “But he didn’t say that I could become a blacksmith, either.”

Noor shot him a glare and said, “Don’t you think that’s stupid?”

Mannat was taken back. He sharply raised his head and stared at her, waiting for her next words. Noor delivered.

“I know for sure you are many things, but stupid isn’t one of those.” She said. The boy blushed and a warm smile grew on her face. “So tell me what happened.”

“I’m stuck, mother,” Mannat told her. “And no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to move forward. It’s a nightmare. Father said I would have a much better time once I hit five points in strength and forcefully evolved my general fitness, but I don’t see it happening. Maybe I’m not supposed to be a blacksmith, after all.”

Suddenly, Noor slapped the table and the sound made Mannat jump on the seat. “Why do the words of a Witch hold more weight to you than those of your father?”

“No, mother—”

“Shut up.” Noor glared and coughed heavily into her hand. Mannat tried to help her, but she raised her free hand and told him to stay back.

“Do you have any idea how hard your father is trying to help you? Why do you think he comes home late at night and wakes up early? He’s giving him everything so you won’t look down on yourself. And he asks nothing from you in return.” The coughing got worse; her chest rumbled every time she coughed, forcing her to hold the table for support.

Mannat went to help and this time she didn’t stop him. He tightly held her shoulders until her cough abated. Then he poured her water in a carved cup, which she picked up with trembling hands and sipped slowly. Neither said anything. She had her fill and the glass created a stark thud when she put it on the table, forcing Mannat to look at her. She gazed into his trembling green eyes and speaking softly, told him what he was dying to hear. “Believe your father. Let him worry about your attributes. He hasn’t given up yet. So don’t you give up on him, alright?”

“Yes, mother.”

As if waiting for their conversation to end, his father barged into the lobby, stomping on the creaking wood floor.

“Look who’s up so early.” He said upon seeing Mannat awoke and sitting beside his mother. He rubbed Noor’s back and picked one of the washed, but unshaved Carrots from the basket on the table. Noor complained, but he didn’t listen. Holding a sly grin, he dried the carrot off his rolled sleeve and tore off a sizable chunk with a crunch. He spoke unintelligible words while eating, pointing the half-eaten carrot at Mannat and causing Noor to grumble.

“Why even bother drying the carrot or picking one that was washed?” She said. “Just eat a dirt-ridden one, instead.”

Raesh answered by going for another one but backed away with his hands raised in surrender when Noor flashed him the knife.

When Mannat left the house with his father that morning he had a smile on his face. They went straight to Pandit’s house who was surprised to see him so early at his door and looked at the sky in an exaggerated attempt at a joke.

“The sky is still blue, and the sun is still rising from the east.” The boy said, tilting his head in contemplation. Ten years old, Pandit was no longer the shy, fearful, sloppy, and plump kid of the past.

Both of them had grown taller. Pandit was lean, yet muscular and wore form-fitting clothes suiting his job. He had grown a whole head taller than Mannat, coming out at five feet and three inches thanks to his heavy head of brown hair. His voice had grown deeper and his eyes were sharper.

“Oh, I got it!” Pandit exclaimed. “It’s not the world that has suddenly changed, but you!” He pointed a finger at Mannat and flicked his nose when he didn’t react. His smile fell when Mannat crossed his arms and stood still —not impressed.

“Oh, come on!” Pandit cried intently. “I was playing with you. Don’t freeze on me!” The boy jumped upon Mannat, causing him to hurriedly get out of the way or get hugged —which would have been disastrous. Pandit, born to a butcher and a hunter, had almost twice Mannat’s strength; there was no way he was forcing his way out of the arm lock —because that’s what the hug would have been— once caught.

Pandit vied to attack again, but Mannat was done playing games.

Raesh watched the two from the other side of the road. He was highly amused, yet satisfied.

A lot of time had passed since the day the two had asked him to train the then shy and plump butcher boy into a blacksmith. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the idea of kids choosing their own jobs; it was the norm where he came from, but everyone was so… grounded in the village. In a place where Parents passed their jobs to their children, the boy had surprised him.

He hadn’t looked like much then, sure he had the blood of a butcher and a dexterous build, but strength could always be trained, at least a part of it.

He would have made a good pupil. “Alas,” Raesh muttered under his breath when he noticed the silhouette at the window staring at the two boys. Mannat also noticed him even though he had his back to the house, turned around, and raised his hand in greeting. The action drew Pandit’s attention to the boy standing behind the curtain and he grew silent. Little butcher drew the curtain back on and the two were left standing in awkward silence.

Raesh decided the morning had been stiff enough and called the boys over.

“Does he still refuse to leave the house?” Mannat’s asked.

Pandit hesitated at first, but only saw concern in his friend’s eyes. “Yeah…” he said solemnly.

“What about work?”

“He does help Ma at the shop sometimes at night, but—” Pandit refrained from making any further comments. Mannat dropped the topic. The past few months had been tough enough. Nothing he said would make it easier on his friend. He could only stay with him and keep dragging his feet out of the house in the morning.

“How far are we running today?” Mannat asked his father. A mysterious smile grew on Raesh’s face.

“You are not running today.” He told them.

The words took both the boys by surprise. “Then what are we doing?” Pandit asked looking at the father-son duo. Mannat had an ill foreboding that his father had something daring planned for them, and he was not happy to be proved right.

“Do you know Sardar?” Raesh asked, and for some mysterious reason, Pandit playfully nudged Mannat on the shoulder. Raesh noticed, but ignored it. He knew what it was about. To think his thick-headed, straightforward son had it in him to impress a girl. Just thinking about the conversation that had played between him and Sardar gave him pleasure. He grinned harder.

“You both will be helping him at his farm.” Raesh ignored the groans and the questions that erupted from the two and warned them instead. To Mannat he said, “Act rationally and don’t ask too many questions.” And to Pandit, who was acting like it didn’t concern him he said, “Your father agreed to give you some time off, a week exactly.” Blood drained from Pandit’s face and he turned a shade paler.

Mannat snorted and said, “I’m really interested in the kind of excuse you will be giving to run away today.”

Pandit refrained from commenting. He would show the boy with his actions.

“How long will we be working with him?”

“However long it takes to fining prepare the fields.”

Pandit slapped his head in frustration. “But he has 30 acres…” He mumbled.

Raesh boomed a laugh. “So you both better not slack. Be respectful. Now go before the sun comes up. It will get tough at noon. And son—” Raesh wanted to say something about the conversation he had with his mother, but seeing the smile and those clear eyes, he decided to let it rest. “Nothing,” he said and left.

Mannat watched his father’s back as he disappeared up the next bend, then told Pandit to follow him. They jogged east, in the opposite direction to Raesh. Pandit did follow him, but only after performing one of his very rare personal rituals – screaming.

The two jogged through the village streets, passing people who were used to seeing them running around and paid no attention. They saw Pathar preparing a net and rod to go fishing in the lake and waved a greeting. He waved back. Pandit knocked two carrots from the vegetable seller who yelled at them for not paying but didn’t give chase. He offered one to Mannat, who found a smile creeping up his face at the sight of the dirt-covered carrot. Mannat took it, put it into his pocket, and sped up; He’d eat it later, after properly washing it.

“Slow down. What’s the rush?” Mannat’s heard behind him, but he was already lost in thoughts. He was excited. His father was not a thoughtless man. He was intelligent enough to have Inspect, which could only be unlocked at ten points. He also had the skill, of course —even though he was way younger— but also understood the difference between him having ten points of intelligence and his father —a blacksmith— having them, considering he was stuck at four points of strength which his father had in abundance.

He must have considered it all to send them to the field. This wasn’t the first time they would be helping others in the name of training.

Mannat hoped this would be the last time. He was tired of menial work.

However, their confidence wavered when they saw the 30 acres of field with their own eyes. There were tens of people already working. Dirt was rising into the air, people were shouting, and a buffalo was running amuck. People they knew chased the animal, trying to calm it down, but the animal was in a mood of its own.

Pandit laughed at the people chasing the animal, but Mannat remembered his nightmare at the sight of the endless sea of brown, unpopulated dirt. A shiver went down his spine, setting the day’s tone; it was going to be long and full of frustration, pity, and self-mocking.

Sardar was waiting for them when they reached the fields. He was talking to a man from the farmer community when a boy almost their age told him of their arrival. He turned and called them over.

Sardar was an old man. Kids talked that he was in his nineties, but that was obviously not true. He was far too energetic for someone in his nineties. His long white beard was the only mark of the time he had lived. A farmer all his life, he dressed differently from the two. He wore light clothes that swayed with the wind and had a turban wrapped around his head. It interested Mannat much, while Pandit was fascinated by his startlingly curved and pointed mustache.

The man looked them up and down, especially Mannat, combing his beard with his fingers and nodding in contemplation.

“You two look happy.” He said finishing his observation; his voice sounded aged and gruff.

Mannat took special notice of the turban. He could see that all the seasoned farmers had their heads wrapped or covered just like the old man. Although his father had advised him against asking too many questions he couldn’t help it and fired away. “Does wrapping your head help with farming?” he asked.

“This?” Sardar pointed at his turban. Mannat nodded.

“It’s to keep the head cool when the day gets dizzying hot.” Sardar casually explained. “And when needed,” he unrolled a layer of the long piece of cloth, hung it over his face, and holding the corner between his teeth said, “You can also shade your face, or wipe sweat. It serves multiple purposes.”

Mannat had noticed another thing. “And it can identify you as a farmer.” He said, surprising the old man.

Sardar smiled and carefully wrapped his head again. The man clearly took pride in being a farmer. Mannat hadn’t seen his father work in the shop but could imagine the same kind of satisfaction on his face after shaping a lump of metal into something useful. He wondered if he would someday feel the same pride and satisfaction.

Suddenly, Pandit nudged his shoulder, pulling his mind back to the field. He didn’t have to ask what the boy wanted; Sharmilla, who was standing with her cousin’s and laughing at the buffalo, had noticed them.

She had a basket slung over her back and a beautiful smile on her face. Under the straw hat, her pigtails bounced off her love handles whenever she sneaked a peek at them. Though not a village beauty on the level of her older sister, Chahhat, her sweat-drenched forehead, and freckled cheeks did make her look enchanting under the clear sky.

Sardar noticed her too and called her over — it was an order that Sharmilla was all too happy to oblige. “Baba,” She greeted and the old man gave her a pat on the head.

“Take them to the central plot of land. Instruct them on how to prepare the field, and keep a strict eye on them. Make sure they do their work properly.” He told Sharmilla, and then to the boys, “There is a tree and a well there. Rest up whenever you need, and drink a lot of water. Farming is a tough job. Your father told me you two like to compete with each other?” It was not a question. He was making a statement. “Don’t be reckless. You both hear me?”

The two looked at each other talking with their eyes. Pandit grinned and Mannat snorted.

“Don’t worry, Baba. I will take good care of him.” Sharmilla said and blushed. She looked at her Baba, who said nothing, then hurriedly grabbed Mannat’s arm and dragged him away, leaving Pandit gawking with the old man.

“I fear for that girl,” Sardar mumbled out loud. Having dealt with the troublesome part, he was looking to get to work, and got surprised when Pandit started talking, though he didn’t show it.

“They look beautiful together don’t they?” The boy expressed such complicated emotions that the old man was reminded of his second daughter. He looked in dismay as the boy continued, “You shouldn’t worry. It is the folly of youth. They will settle with age; hopefully.”

“What does it take for a hunter to become poetic?”

“Clearly, it’s the friendship of a thorn in his side he can neither hurt nor remove.”

A smile grew on the old man’s face and he had a chuckle. Pandit did the same.

“I didn’t expect you to be so cheeky. You are not like the other boy.”

“I like you too old man,” Pandit said and the two parted.

A little while later, Sharmilla had the two holding subtly heavy pickaxes and plowing the land, removing rocks and roots, and sketching deep grooves in the land to plant seeds. She stood over them and gawked hungrily as the two shirtless boys flaunted their muscles. Well, they couldn’t help it. Farming, as they were learning, was a far more demanding job than anything else they had done in the past year.

However, they had not trained fruitlessly. The result of their persistence was visible from their well-defined shoulders, abs, back, and leg muscles. Unlike Pandit, who had an impressive set of biceps for his age, Mannat had skinny arms; but he had an inkling it would start changing as soon as he started using the hammer.

After a dizzying long time of hopelessly repeating the same routine, the two had not made much progress in terms of being any help to the farmers. If anything they might have increased their work instead. They had both started from the same end, and now Pandit was a lane ahead of Mannat, but they both were drenched in sweat and tired beyond their minds. Together they had drawn ten deep grooves in the field, but the sun shining above their heads was too strong a contender for them to defeat. The clouds sometimes provided shade, but they were too poor helpers to be of any real virtue.

“Keep going you both,” Sharmilla shouted from under the shade of the lone tree. “You are almost there.” She almost sounded sarcastic.

“How-how long have we been doing this? Is it already evening?” Pandit asked looking at the bright sky. The sun was nowhere above their head; it wasn’t even noon yet.

“Two hours should have passed by now,” Sharmilla answered. Suddenly a gust passed, almost taking the straw hat off her head. She shielded her eyes by facing the tree, but the boys weren’t so fortunate. Dirt got into their eyes and mouth when they breathed. Mannat fared better of the two, as he had crouched and hidden his face in time, but Pandit suffered badly. He was crying out loud, yelling his eyes burned and he couldn’t see!

A little while later, the boys were lying in the tree’s shade, while Sharmilla fanned the two of them with a hand fan.

“I’m dying...” Pandit groaned. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“Don’t do it,” Mannat warned without moving an inch.

“I’m doing it. Oh, here it comes…” And Pandit let out the little food that Sharmilla had shared with him.

“There, there,” Mannat said rubbing his back from where he laid. He didn’t plan on getting up for anything. “Let it all out.”

“Weak,” Sharmilla commented and then started fawning all over Mannat again, as he was neither complaining nor behaving like a spoiled brat.

“Ha, I’m done. I don’t think I can do it. Your father’s the devil, Mannat. And here I thought my mother was evil.” Pandit said throwing dirt over the vomit and lying back down on the ground beside Mannat.

The patch of land they had to work by the end of the day was but a small slice of the total. They could see others working nearby. Some had buffaloes pulling a large and heavy wooden ax to draw the grooves, while others worked like them. Raja was among them, working hard in the field. The older boy waved at them when he passed by. He was still scrawny and short, but expertly handled the pickaxe on his shoulder, and was doing much better than them.

“To think we can’t even compete with Raja…” Pandit mumbled.

“Don’t be stupid.” Sharmilla flicked his head. “He’s close to sixteen years old and has been helping us ever since his father died of Pneumonia. Of course, you are not his match. ” She said, and then stopped fanning their air.

Pandit looked at her, annoyed. “What are you doing?”

Sharmilla ignored him. “Breaks over; now get on with it. The way you are working it will take you days to prepare just this piece of land if you are taking naps every couple of hours. Others have already moved onto different fields.”

Mannat stayed silent, but Pandit didn’t. “Girl, they are working with buffaloes! How do you expect us to compete with that?

“Do you want to become farmers for life?” Startled, the two boys stared at each other when she raised her voice. “Tell me? Have you decided to give up on become a blacksmith?” she asked, looking straight at Mannat, whose eyes opened wide as he remembered the reason why they were working in the field.

“No.” He said raising his head and getting up.

“Really now, you are going to pull that stunt on us?” Pandit complained to Sharmilla, who kept staring at Mannat’s face in expectation, causing him to roll his eyes. “I don’t want to do it.” He whined but was up on his feet right behind Mannat.

A moment later, they were working in the field again, digging groves and removing stones from the land. They took another break at noon when Sharmilla called them over to eat. Mannat was walking when Pandit called him.

“You sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” Mannat said.

“Don’t tire yourself out over it. If it doesn’t happen, then it doesn’t happen. You can always join me on the hunts. You will have to learn to plant traps, but even I learned them. So you shouldn’t have any problem with them, either.”

“Thanks, for the offer,” Mannat said. “But I’ll become a blacksmith, for the both of us.” he raised a fist and Pandit bumped it.

Mannat was determined to get the skill.

A week later he did.

His strength reached 5 points and his General fitness evolved into Vigor.