Abhijith had always thought of himself as adaptable. He could haggle with the best of them in Ahmedabad's bustling markets, switch from Hindi to Gujarati in a heartbeat, and improvise excuses for any occasion. But nothing in his thirty years had prepared him for waking up as a king in ancient India.
He lay on the massive, sandalwood-framed bed, staring at the intricately painted ceiling. The events of the night before—the golden thread, the vision of Hayagriva, the Veda Sutra's promise—felt both dreamlike and terrifyingly real. He flexed his new hands, marveling at the strength in his knuckles, the faint scars across his palms. Somewhere in the palace, a conch blew, and the day began.
A servant entered, eyes averted. "Maharaja, the council awaits your command. Shall I bring your morning meal?"
Abhijith hesitated. What did kings eat for breakfast? He decided to play it safe. "Bring me something light. And strong spiced milk. With honey."
The servant bowed and vanished. Abhijith swung his legs off the bed and stood, feeling the weight of royal jewellery and the unfamiliar heaviness of a warrior's body. He caught his reflection in a polished bronze mirror: the face of Jarasandha, King of Magadha, stared back. The eyes, though, sparkled with a mischief that was all Abhijith.
He explored the room, running his fingers over the carved wood, the silk cushions, the weapons displayed on the wall. It was a world away from his one-bedroom flat in Ahmedabad, with its cracked plaster and cricket posters. Here, everything spoke of power, history, and danger.
A tray arrived: flatbreads, fresh fruit, a bowl of curd, and a steaming cup of spiced milk. Abhijith sipped the milk, savouring the warmth and the bite of ginger. Not bad, he thought. He could get used to this—if he survived the day.
He dressed in royal robes—deep red, edged in gold—trying to remember how Jarasandha would have walked, spoken, commanded. The memories were there, lurking at the edge of his mind, but they felt like someone else's dreams. He decided to trust his instincts. After all, if he was going to rewrite destiny, he might as well do it his way.
As he strode through the palace corridors, servants and guards bowed low. Some watched him with awe, others with fear. He flashed a quick, crooked smile at a passing maid, who blushed and nearly dropped her water pot. The old Jarasandha, he suspected, had not been known for his charm.
The council chamber was a vast, sunlit hall. Ministers and generals sat in a semicircle, their faces tense. At the centre stood Veerabhadra, the grizzled general, and Arya, the court astrologer. Arya's eyes met his, sharp and curious.
"Maharaja," Veerabhadra began, "there are urgent matters. The Chedi envoys await your word. There are rumors of unrest in the west. And…" He hesitated. "There is news from Mathura."
Abhijith nodded, trying to look regal. "Let the envoys wait. Tell me about Mathura."
Arya stepped forward, her voice low. "Kamsa is dead. Slain by Krishna. Your daughters are widowed. The city is in chaos."
The words hit Abhijith like a slap. He remembered—Jarasandha's daughters had married Kamsa, the tyrant of Mathura. Krishna, the upstart, had killed him, setting off a chain of events that would shape the Mahabharata.
He let a moment of silence stretch, then spoke. "Send condolences to my daughters. And prepare the army. If Krishna thinks Magadha is weak, he is mistaken."
The council murmured approval. Abhijith felt a flush of pride—and a jolt of fear. He was playing a dangerous game, and the stakes were higher than anything he'd faced in Ahmedabad.
After the council dispersed, Arya lingered. She was striking—dark eyes, quick wit, a mind as sharp as any sword. She studied him, a faint smile on her lips.
"You seem… different today, Maharaja."
Abhijith grinned. "Maybe I finally got a good night's sleep."
She laughed, the sound like silver bells. "Or maybe the stars have shifted. Be careful. The court is watching."
He winked. "Let them watch. I plan to give them a show."
As he left the chamber, a golden notification flickered before his eyes.
Veda Sutra Quest Unlocked:
Secure your throne, outwit your rivals, and forge your own legend.
Sub-Quest: Investigate the loyalties of your council.
Reward: Sutra Fragment – Rajya-Darshi (Throne Seer)
Abhijith—now Jarasandha—walked into the sunlight, heart pounding with excitement and dread. He was no one's puppet. Not the gods', not the sages', not even destiny's. He would play this game his way.
And if Krishna wanted a rival, he'd get one—clever, unpredictable, and just a little bit dangerous.
The king's awakening had only begun.