Chawngmawii knelt. “Not to kill, but to trade. I bring salt for your ground, and a promise: my family will leave an offering at the valley’s edge every harvest — a small basket of rice and a rooster’s feather. In return, release my cousin.”

The Ramhuai appeared again. “Why do you come, hunter?”

Chawngmawii simply took his old bow, a small bag of salt, and whispered a prayer to the Ramhuai — the spirit of the jungle. They set off before dawn. Lalthangvela ran deep into the western valley — a place elders had forbidden because a Khuavang (forest spirit) lived there. He ignored the warnings. “Spirits are for children’s stories,” he laughed.

At dawn, Chawngmawii walked alone into the western valley. He found the clearing and saw Lalthangvela — now a twisted tree with a human face, tears of sap running down his wooden cheeks.

Lalthangvela sharpened his dah (machete) and tied a tiger tooth around his neck. “I will kill a wild mithun (gayal) or even a leopard!” he declared.

Chawngmawii stayed near the eastern stream, tracking a small wild boar.

The spear struck the mithun’s side — but instead of blood, flowers fell. The mithun transformed into a tall woman wrapped in vines and mist. Her voice was thunder and soft rain at once.

The spirit smiled — the first time in a hundred years. “You offered without being asked. That is the old law. Take him.”