An old story about a myth named Arkhalos was forgotten, just like the dying flames of a fire. But the real world had its own kind of monsters.
Our story takes place today in the beautiful city of Hajira, Azad Kashmir. Here, the morning sun felt like a warm blessing. It spread over green hills, warming the fields where farmers worked. The air was filled with happy sounds: students talking on their way to school, kids laughing and playing, and elders sharing stories in the lovely weather. Everything was peaceful. In one of these fields, two teenage brothers, Zyan and Sahil, were working hard. Zyan was a very fast learner. He didn't farm the old-fashioned way; instead, he made up his own new, faster rules for planting that helped them get a lot more work done. Thanks to his great time management, they moved with a skill that was amazing to watch. This farm was more than just land to them; it was how they survived.
Their father was sick and couldn't work. The small amount of money they earned was the only thing keeping their family from going hungry. They didn't have much education, and being poor, this job was their only option.
Suddenly, a group of rough-looking men walked onto the farm, casting a dark shadow over the morning. They looked mean and dangerous, and the peaceful feeling of the day was instantly broken.
"This farm is ours now," the leader said in a cold voice.
Zyan, who was always the leader and the first to face an enemy, stepped forward. He put his hands up, but it wasn't a sign of fear. It was a planned move. He had learned how to fight by watching martial arts students from outside their training hall. He was too poor to join, but he learned quickly. He knew he could take down one or two of the men, but not all of them, and losing a fight would put his family in danger. Being a leader meant choosing the right battle. "Please, sir," he said, his voice steady even in this situation. "This isn't our farm. We just work here for the landlord."
Sahil, who was always calm and collected, stepped up beside him. He was known for leaving people speechless with his smart words. "So you're saying you have a claim that's stronger than the man who pays us?" he began calmly. "I'd be very interested to hear..." He had a good heart and was truly curious about their twisted way of thinking, a trick he often used to use people's own words against them.
But the men weren't there to talk. Their eyes showed no pity. Before Sahil could finish, the men attacked. Zyan chose to take the beating to protect his brother and his family at home; it was a painful, strategic retreat for a fighter. Fists flew, and even as they were being punched and beaten, Sahil didn't feel angry or sad for himself. He only felt a calm sadness for the men, who were so lost that the only way they could communicate was with violence. After the brutal attack, the men tied Zyan and Sahil up with rough ropes. They stuck a pole in the ground with a crude flag on it, a sign that they had violently taken over the land.
The leader leaned close to Zyan's face. "When your boss asks what happened," he growled, "tell him you messed up and ruined the crops. Say it was your fault." He paused, letting his threat sink in. "If you tell him the truth, we will come back and kill you and your family."
Fear for their family, sharp and cold, shot through the boys' pain. They felt completely helpless, and their hearts filled with a deep sadness. As the men walked away, leaving them tied up and defeated, the brothers could only stare at the flag that now stood on their only source of hope.
What would they do now? How would they take care of their sick father and their family? The beautiful morning had turned into a nightmare. As the sun rose higher, its warmth felt like it was making fun of them.