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.

“No one conquers the forest,” he said. “We only borrow from it.”

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.”

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.

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.

“This is no ordinary beast,” Lalthangvela whispered. But greed took over. He raised his spear and threw.