The sky over South Crest was painted in soft hues of orange and lavender as morning broke. Dew glistened on the grass, and a slight breeze rustled the leaves of the tall neem trees lining the eastern field.
Vishwa stood at the edge of the open clearing, his feet bare against the cool earth. He stretched quietly, his movements slow but fluid. Across from him, Joseph was already warming up, rolling his shoulders and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
Villagers began to gather at the edges of the field. Word had spread quickly. A spar between Maari's grand-nephew, freshly returned from overseas training, and the mysterious stranger who had become a quiet presence in their lives. Hitami stood near her grandmother, her tiny hands clenched anxiously.
"Don't get hurt," she whispered.
Maari's gaze remained steady on the two men. "Let them speak the way warriors do. Through motion, not words."
Joseph stepped forward first. "No holding back. If you're going to fight, show me who you really are."
Vishwa nodded silently.
With a clap of the village elder's hands, the match began.
Joseph moved fast—faster than Vishwa expected. He came in with a sweeping kick, followed by a feint and a high elbow jab. Vishwa dodged, barely, his footing unsure. His injured leg still carried stiffness. Pain shot through his knee.
Joseph didn't hesitate. He launched another set of strikes, each more aggressive. A spinning palm strike landed against Vishwa's chest, knocking him back.
The villagers gasped.
Vishwa coughed, regaining breath. He steadied himself and shifted his stance, lowering his center of gravity. His eyes sharpened. He wasn't in full form, but the instincts remained.
He blocked the next strike with his forearm, then ducked a knee and countered with a short but powerful punch to Joseph's ribs. The crowd murmured. Joseph stumbled, surprised at the force.
They circled each other, breath heavy, sweat beading on their brows.
Joseph growled, "Not bad. But you're still dragging that leg. Weak."
Vishwa didn't reply. He closed in, blocking a side strike and countering with a kick aimed at Joseph's shoulder. It connected—but his leg buckled as he landed.
Joseph took the opening. He struck with precision—a sweeping leg kick followed by an elbow to the back. Vishwa hit the ground hard.
Hitami screamed, "Stop!"
Joseph hesitated, but Vishwa slowly pushed himself up, one knee in the dirt, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
"I'm not done," Vishwa said, voice hoarse.
He rose again, body swaying. The villagers fell silent. Even Joseph hesitated, watching the man in front of him rise with shaking limbs, but eyes full of fire.
They clashed again—Vishwa parrying with surprising accuracy despite the pain. His movements were no longer smooth, but each block, each step, showed years of embedded discipline. They exchanged a flurry of strikes, fast and furious—Joseph's style was newer, foreign, aggressive. Vishwa's was older, rooted, defensive with bursts of power.
But his body couldn't keep up.
Finally, with one last twisting movement, Joseph slammed his palm into Vishwa's chest, sending him staggering back. His heel caught on a rock, and he fell.
This time, he stayed down.
The elder raised his hand. "Enough! The match is decided."
Joseph breathed hard, chest rising and falling. He looked down at Vishwa, sweat dripping from his brow.
"You're not weak," he admitted. "But you're not ready yet."
Vishwa sat up, coughing once. He met Joseph's gaze with no anger, only respect.
"I never said I was," Vishwa said quietly. "But I'm getting there."
The crowd remained silent, until Hitami ran forward and knelt beside him.
"You didn't lose," she said, eyes brimming with tears.
Vishwa gave a faint smile. "Sometimes, losing teaches more than winning ever could."
Joseph offered a hand. After a pause, Vishwa took it.
As he helped him up, Joseph muttered, "You're not what I expected."
Vishwa chuckled, wincing. "Neither are you."
The two stood in the field, not as enemies—but as two men beginning to understand each other.
And though Vishwa had lost the fight, something in the village had changed. He had proven his spirit. Not through dominance—but through endurance.
And as the sun rose higher, bathing the field in gold, the villagers didn't talk about who won.
They spoke of the man who stood up, again and again.