Even as an infant, Vijay j knew that he was being raised among titans.
He had opened his eyes to luxury, to soft silks and distant voices that spoke his name with reverence. But beneath that surface elegance, he could feel the tension — like a great machine always humming behind the walls. This was not a normal household. This was the House of Raj, and every step he took in it would echo through India's most powerful empire.
The jayj family was not just rich. They were foundational.
Their business empire, Jay Group, touched every corner of modern Indian life — infrastructure, energy, finance, technology, media. Shivraj jay, his father, was not merely a businessman; he was a symbol. Stoic, exacting, and impossibly sharp. He rarely raised his voice, but when he did, even grown men stilled. To the public, Shivraj was India's most disciplined tycoon. To his family, he was an enigma wrapped in steel.
And yet, he was present. Always observing. Always aware.
From the crib, Vijay watched his father often. Shivraj never cooed or babbled the way new fathers did. Instead, he stood quietly beside the crib, sometimes placing a finger on Vijay's tiny hand, sometimes simply watching. And somehow, Vijay understood — his father did not express affection in noise, but in silence. In presence. In attention.
Still, it was his mother, Rusheina, who filled the room with warmth.
She would glide in every morning in pastel silks, her blue eyes bright, her hands scented faintly with jasmine and vanilla. She always carried music — whether it was in her voice or on a gramophone she insisted on playing classical melodies from. Sometimes Russian lullabies, sometimes old Indian ragas. But always gentle. Always personal.
"You are born into power," she'd whisper in Russian, cradling him in her arms. "But your heart must remain human, little moon."
He couldn't speak. He couldn't respond. But in those moments, he remembered being loved. Or rather, not being loved — and now understanding what he'd missed in his past life.
Now he can feel family affection
The mansion was so large it could house villages. Tall marble columns lined the halls, and golden light spilled from chandeliers the size of cars. Staff moved silently. Guards rotated at every checkpoint. Tutors, advisors, assistants — all worked behind the scenes for the child who was barely three months old.
But Vijay, with the mind of a grown man trapped in a baby's body, noticed everything.
He saw the flicker in his father's eyes when work calls came in late at night. He caught the subtle sadness in his mother's smile when Shivraj left a conversation unfinished. He could even feel the quiet envy of distant relatives who visited under the pretense of affection, but whose eyes scanned the house like thieves at a museum.
He catalogued it all.
He didn't cry unless absolutely necessary. He learned to respond to tone, not just words. And though his body was weak compared to his adult body , his mind was already racing ahead.
At just five days, he could recognize every face in the house and associate them with tasks. He had memorized floor patterns, learned to distinguish between languages, and was already predicting when his nanny would try to sneak off for phone calls.
At seven months, he startled a tutor by mimicking the rhythm of Sanskrit slokas. The old man blinked, swore under his breath, and called for Shivraj immediately. It's took long to speak because his body organs are not developed.
At ten months, he solved a shape puzzle meant for four-year-olds in under a minute. By his one year, he was already pointing to objects by their full names, not just baby syllables.
The staff began to whisper again.
"This boy... he's not normal."
"Gifted doesn't cover it."
"He's like... awake. Fully awake."
And yet, the most difficult thing for Vijay was not speech, nor movement. It was emotion.
He had lived a life before this. One full of loneliness, unfulfilled ambition, and cold concrete dormitories in a Bangalore orphanage. And now he was in a place where love was given freely, where meals arrived warm, where his name was spoken with reverence. And sometimes, late at night, tears would roll down his baby cheeks — tears he could not explain to anyone.
Gratitude.
Relief.
And guilt.
He had escaped a harsh fate. Others had not. Time flow like river one year since his birth.
He called property pannel
(Give power stone to push the book