Ashok was born into an ordinary middle-class family in India—a world far removed from power, wealth, or destiny. His parents were humble schoolteachers, their dreams simple, their struggles endless. Each month was a delicate balancing act between bills, tuition fees, and the occasional hospital emergency. They worked tirelessly to provide Ashok with a life of dignity, even if they could offer little else.
Theirs was not a family of prodigies or privilege. There were no politicians in their bloodline, no business tycoons or hidden legacies waiting to be claimed. They were dust and sweat and sacrifice.
Yet from a young age, Ashok displayed a sharpness that outshone every expectation placed upon him.
He didn't possess superhuman intelligence, nor did he have the aura of a born genius. But his mind—his mind was a blade: cold, refined, and ruthlessly effective when called upon. While others stumbled through life, Ashok moved with quiet purpose. He knew how to read a room before he ever spoke. How to gauge a man's ambition from the way his eyes darted. How to bend rules without breaking them—and, more importantly, how to make others believe they were in control even as they danced on strings he wove.
He understood one simple truth: the world wasn't kind, or fair, or just.
It was a game.
And he was going to win.
Ashok climbed the social ladder not by brute strength, nor by reckless ambition, but by patience and precision. From the narrow, congested lanes of Delhi where the air tasted of exhaust and broken dreams, to the marble floors of global corporations whose halls echoed with the quiet language of power, he built his empire.
Finance, politics, technology, even the shadowy arteries of the underground markets—Ashok dabbled in all. He was the invisible hand pulling levers behind curtains, the whisper in a king's ear, the silent architect of chaos when needed.
Every alliance he forged, every enemy he made, was by design.
By the time his hair had turned gray and the lines around his eyes etched deep with years of battles fought and won, Ashok was a legend.
Some called him a visionary.
Others whispered "devil."
Both were right.
But Ashok never cared for labels. He had lived his life on his own terms, wielding destiny like a weapon, until at last, even destiny could no longer keep him standing.
And now, he was dying.
---
The hospital suite reeked of antiseptic and silent reverence. It was no ordinary room; it was a palace built atop the fear of death. White sheets so soft they seemed spun from clouds, machines so sleek they whispered rather than beeped, windows that displayed an artificial sunset in perfect imitation of the real world outside.
Around the bed stood his family—his sons and daughters, strong and successful, reflections of his iron will passed down through blood. His grandchildren, solemn, wide-eyed, clutching at the hands of their parents.
There were no loud sobs, no wails. Ashok had taught them better than that.
Dignity, even in grief.
He offered them a final smile. Proud. Tired. But not sentimental.
His empire would outlive him. His influence would ripple through generations yet unborn. That was enough.
In his wrinkled hands rested an old, half-burnt book—The Fall of Arkanveil—a battered relic he had found decades ago in the ruins of a forgotten temple dedicated to Lord Shiva, deep in the jungles of Madhya Pradesh. It hadn't been a scholarly expedition. Just curiosity. Adventure. A final hunt for something "real" in a life increasingly lived in boardrooms and skyscrapers.
The novel had captivated him. It was not a bestseller, not even a famous work. A fantasy world of power, magic, ancient bloodlines, and a villain doomed to fall.
A villain he had understood far too well.
Ashok had read it slowly, savoring each word like forbidden wine, hiding it from even those closest to him. It was his secret indulgence. A reminder that even villains were not born—but made.
And now, he was at the final chapter.
Beside the book lay another relic: a peculiar glass shard. Irregular in shape, faintly luminescent. Ancient Sanskrit inscriptions spiraled along its edges, faded and cracked. But three words stood out clearly in flowing English:
"Proficiency Panel."
He had found the shard next to the book, buried beneath a collapsed idol of Shiva, during that same expedition. A curio. A trinket. For years it had sat inert on his desk, gathering dust and memories.
Today, as his trembling fingers turned the final page of the book, fate—or perhaps destiny—intervened.
The IV stand beside his bed tilted, nudged by a careless nurse. A jagged piece of stone—a souvenir rock from the temple, kept on his bedside table—tumbled, scratching his palm deeply. Blood welled up, thick and dark.
A single drop fell onto the shard.
And the shard... awakened.
It pulsed once. A heartbeat. Then again, brighter, as if drawing strength from his lifeblood.
Before Ashok's disbelieving eyes, the shard glowed fiercely—and then simply dissolved, evaporating into the air like mist caught in a furnace.
A warmth rushed up his arm, flooding his body.
Ashok gasped.
The machines beside him screamed alarms, lines flatlining, doctors rushing in.
But he hardly noticed.
He felt… untethered. Lighter than air. A soul slipping its mortal anchor.
---
There was no light.
No sound.
No breath.
Ashok's consciousness lingered in an empty void. A prison beyond life, beyond even death. Here, there was no heartbeat to anchor him, no thought clear enough to grasp.
Only existence.
Cramped.
Suffocating.
Timeless.
Was this death?
No.
It was something else.
Something ancient and terrible.
Something waiting.
---
And then—
Light.
It stabbed into his senses like a thousand needles, blinding him, burning away the darkness.
A tidal wave of sensation slammed into him: taste, touch, sound, smell—all at once. His lungs screamed for air, and he let out a ragged, newborn cry.
He was... alive?
His eyes fluttered open.
The world was a blur of white and silver. Shapes moved—beings in sleek, metallic uniforms, faces partly hidden behind glowing holographic interfaces. Machines floated mid-air, tendrils of light linking them to hovering tablets. The air smelled of ozone and sterilized minerals.
He lay naked and fragile in a translucent pod, cables and fluid tubes attached to his limbs. Above him, the ceiling projected a simulation of a clear blue sky, dotted with drifting, golden clouds.
Ashok… no...
Not Ashok anymore.
Somewhere, deep within his soul, he knew instinctively:
He had been reborn.
Not into his old world.
Not into another era of Earth's history.
But into a world entirely new.
A world where the impossible was made real.
A world of power.
A world of magic.
A world where he would rise again.
And in the back of his mind, as the holographic systems began scanning his body, words began to carve themselves into his vision—
glowing, living letters burning themselves into reality.
> [Proficiency Panel Activated.]
[Initializing Host... Complete.]
[Welcome, New Entity.]
Ashok's lips curled into a faint smile.
A second life.
A second chance.
This time…
he wouldn't just conquer a lifetime.
He would conquer everything.