Adam and Chavah were not officially married, but they lived together as if they were. Their union, however, hinged on a single test—one imposed by Chavah's family. They had given Adam a sapling and a simple yet daunting task: grow it into a tree worthy of their blessing.
For months, Adam toiled. He watered it daily, mulched the soil, and cleared away competing trees. Yet, despite his efforts, his tree remained stunted—a mere ten feet tall with a meager eight-foot girth. By contrast, the trees of Chavah's family towered hundreds of feet high, their trunks wide enough to embrace a small village. His, by comparison, was a frail, pitiful thing.
Still, Adam persisted. If this was what they valued, then he would indulge them. But as the weeks passed, doubt gnawed at him. He had done everything right, yet the tree remained unimpressive. Would they ever accept him?
One evening, as he wandered near Chavah's tree, he saw her standing beneath its branches, her voice rising in a soft, melodic chant. He watched in quiet awe as the leaves trembled and the tree seemed to stretch, responding to her song.
His breath caught. Could it be?
The next morning, he tried it himself. He stood before his tree, cleared his throat, and sang. His voice cracked and wavered—he had never been a singer—but he poured his heart into the melody.
The tree did not move.
Adam sighed, rubbing his neck in embarrassment. Of course, it hadn't worked. He was a terrible singer. He glanced at the tree one last time, shaking his head. Maybe he was simply not meant to pass this test.
But as he turned to leave, a single leaf unfurled. A tiny, imperceptible shift—so small he almost missed it.
Hope flickered in his chest. Perhaps he had been going about this the wrong way. Perhaps the test wasn't just about growing a tree but about understanding it.
And perhaps, just perhaps, there was still time to learn.
Chavah wandered deep into the forest that morning, drawn by an unease she couldn't explain. The moment she reached the clearing, her heart plummeted.
Men with axes hacked at her tree—her tree. The one she had nurtured since childhood, singing to it, whispering her dreams into its bark. It was sacred, and now, it was falling.
"No!" she cried, rushing forward. She threw herself between the men and the tree, her arms outstretched. "Stop! You can't do this!"
The workers barely acknowledged her. One shoved her aside. Another struck her hard enough to send her stumbling into the dirt. Pain flared across her cheek, but she didn't move. She crawled back toward the tree, clutching its roots as if she could hold it together.
They didn't care. The axes kept swinging. Wood splintered, the mighty trunk groaned, and then—it fell. The impact sent tremors through the ground, and something inside Chavah shattered with it.
By the time she returned home, her body ached, bruises blooming across her arms and face. Adam saw them the moment she stepped through the door. His entire frame tensed.
"Who did this to you?" His voice was low, dangerous.
"It doesn't matter," Chavah whispered, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "Please, Adam, promise me you won't do anything reckless."
Adam clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. Every fiber of his being screamed for revenge. But when he met her pleading gaze, he felt himself unravel.
"I promise," he muttered, though the words tasted bitter.
But the promise didn't stop the anger from burning in his chest.
The workers reported the incident to Lomi, their overseer. A man who believed in power above all else. He listened, unimpressed. A woman crying over a tree? It was nothing to him.
Still, he would make sure there were no more interruptions.
When he arrived at the village, his presence alone was enough to silence the murmurs. He strode into the square, his eyes sweeping the gathered people like a wolf searching for prey.
"Which one of you disrupted our work?" he demanded. The villagers remained quiet.
Lomi exhaled through his nose, already losing patience. He turned to one of the workers, who quickly pointed at Chavah. She was still weeping, her grief consuming her.
Lomi wasted no time. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her forward. She gasped, struggling against his grip, but he was too strong.
Adam's vision went red. He stepped forward, but Chavah caught his gaze and shook her head. A silent plea: Don't.
Lomi struck her. A sharp crack echoed through the air. Then he struck her again. On the third blow, Adam moved before he could think.
He caught Lomi's wrist.
The overseer's eyes narrowed as he turned to Adam. The air between them was charged, thick with the weight of an unspoken challenge.
"You want to take her place?" Lomi sneered. Without waiting for an answer, he backhanded Adam.
Adam barely reacted.
Lomi's brow furrowed. He hit him again, harder. Then again. Each time, Adam stood firm, his jaw clenched, his eyes locked onto Lomi's with quiet defiance.
The blows increased in force, until finally, blood trickled from Adam's lips. He spat to the side and straightened, still refusing to retaliate.
Lomi scoffed. "Let's go. It's no fun when they don't fight back." He waved a hand, and the workers followed him as they disappeared into the trees.
Adam didn't move. Not until Chavah touched his arm. Only then did he exhale, the tension slowly draining from his body.
But inside, the fire still burned.
This wasn't over.
That night, as Chavah rested, a healer arrived to tend to her wounds. Adam sat close, watching with quiet intensity as the healer worked. The bruises on her skin had darkened, a stark reminder of Lomi's cruelty.
The healer's fingers pressed gently over Chavah's abdomen, pausing for a long moment. Then, a soft smile spread across their face.
"You carry life," the healer murmured. "You're with child."
Adam's breath hitched. His heart swelled, joy crashing over him like a wave. A child. Their child.
He turned to Chavah, searching her face. She looked surprised, then overjoyed. But before the feeling could fully settle in his chest, another emotion crept in—rage.
Lomi.
The man who had humiliated them, who had struck Chavah, had done so while their child grew inside her. Adam's hands clenched into fists. He wanted justice. No, he wanted vengeance.
Sensing the shift in him, Chavah reached out and placed her hand over his. When he met her gaze, she smiled—a quiet, knowing smile.
And just like that, the world was right again.
Adam exhaled slowly and smiled back. They should be my main focus, he told himself as he squeezed her hand.
"Should I send word to your parents?" the healer asked.
Chavah shook her head. "No. Adam hasn't grown his tree yet. If they find out, they might kill him." She chuckled, though there was a trace of truth in her words.
Adam smirked but said nothing.
Later that night, when Chavah had fallen into a deep sleep, he slipped out of their home and made his way to the forest.
His tree stood there, still short, still lacking the strength and grandeur that Chavah's family expected. He placed his hands on its trunk, pouring his energy into it. Nothing.
His gaze wandered, and then he saw it—Chavah's tree, reduced to a stump. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of fury through him. It was more than just a tree. It had been a part of her, a part of their history.
His rage burned hot, and suddenly, something stirred beneath his fingertips. His tree trembled. He turned back to it, pressing both hands against the bark. Energy pulsed from him, raw and unfiltered. The tree responded, stretching upward, its trunk thickening, branches exploding outward. It grew, and grew, until it towered over the forest, taller than the trees of Chavah's family.
Adam staggered back, breathless.
Then his eyes fell back to Chavah's tree stump. He walked toward it, kneeling beside it. Slowly, he placed his hands on the splintered wood, letting his energy flow once more.
At first, nothing happened. Then, a small sprout emerged. The sprout turned into a sapling. The sapling thickened, expanded. The air around him buzzed as the tree surged upward, reclaiming its lost form.
When Adam finally pulled his hands away, Chavah's tree stood before him, fully restored, as if it had never been cut down.
He stared at it, chest rising and falling with deep breaths. A slow smile crept onto his face.
They will never take from us again.
"Sometimes the weeds need to be cleared for the plant to survive."
Adam whispered the words to himself as he walked through the night, his path set. He had tried restraint. He had tried patience. But Lomi and his kind only understood one thing—power.
The factory loomed ahead, its smokestacks clawing at the sky. The scent of burning metal filled the air. Adam stepped through the entrance, and within seconds, the workers noticed him.
Shouts rang out. A dozen men charged.
Adam didn't slow. He swung his arms in wide arcs, his movements fluid and precise. The moment his hands sliced through the air, the workers crumpled, clutching their throats. It was as if invisible blades had torn through them. They dropped one by one, collapsing like wheat before the scythe.
The factory floor was littered with bodies before Adam even reached Lomi.
Lomi stood at the far end, his expression twisted with shock. Then he sneered, shaking off his hesitation. He raised his fists. "You think this ends with me?"
He lunged, throwing a punch.
Adam caught it with ease and twisted. A sickening crack echoed through the room. Lomi gritted his teeth and swung with his other hand. Again, Adam caught it, twisting until the bones snapped.
Lomi fell to his knees, panting. His once-arrogant face was contorted with pain.
"You have no idea what you've done," he gasped. "The Syndicate will send someone worse by tomorrow."
Adam didn't care.
With a single open-handed strike, he slapped Lomi across the face. The force of it snapped his neck instantly.
Lomi's body slumped to the ground.
Adam exhaled, stepping over him. The factory was silent now, save for the distant hum of machines.
Tomorrow could bring whoever it wanted.
Tonight, the forest had been avenged.