Chapter 1: Death's Echo – Hindi-meaning Style in English
The beginning strikes like a lightning bolt—sudden, jhatka bhara, violent. Arjun's rebirth isn't soft or divine; it feels like a desperate jolt, the kind that snatches life from the jaws of death. He finds himself in a small bed—too soft, too rough, its sheet made of coarse, desi-style linen, far from the royal silk bedding he was used to.
His body is unfamiliar—young, weak, only ten years old. His limbs feel like they belong to someone else. Cold sweat clings to his back, and the early morning air seeps in through an open wooden window, reminding him this isn't the palace or battlefield. It's something much earlier. Much humbler.
The first thing he feels is pain—not physical, but deeper. A burning void in the center of his chest, where once his 5th Magic Circle used to shine with power. Now? Only emptiness. The memory of poison tearing through his veins comes roaring back—the slow paralysis, the scorching in his throat, and then… silence. Death.
But what hits him even harder than pain is the clarity—sharp as a honed blade. Seventy years of life—every memory, every betrayal, every victory—crashes into him like a tidal wave. He remembers everything: the endless wars, the countless spells, and above all—the moment his best friend, Prince Dhruva, smiled sweetly… then stabbed him through the heart with a sacred dagger.
That smile burns in his mind, haunting and hateful. The betrayal runs deeper than blood.
Now trapped in a child's soft, delicate body, Arjun struggles to adapt. His hands are tiny, unused to holding blades or casting flame. When he tries to rise, his legs are short, clumsy. He nearly falls. It's maddening—like wearing someone else's skin.
But then, instinct takes over. Arjun closes his eyes, searching—feeling inward. Past the phantom ache, beyond the weakness. And there… a flicker. Tiny warmth, deep inside, where his Magic Circle should be. Not destroyed, but sleeping. Like a seed of lightning, waiting to be awakened.
A second chance.
Voices interrupt him. Footsteps outside the door. Arjun quickly lies back down, pulling the blanket over his chest, acting like a confused child who just woke from a nightmare. His mama enters—warm eyes, worried voice. She touches his forehead, murmuring about fever. His pita stands behind her—silent, stern, with that forever-worried expression of a man whose once-proud house has lost its glory.
As they speak, Arjun listens—not just to the words, but to the unspoken truths. He watches their movements, their tone. He catalogs everything. These were the people who raised him. Who loved him? Who were, unknowingly, caught in the fallout of his downfall?
And then—the moment. The turning point.
Soft laughter echoes outside. Familiar. Too familiar.
Prince Dhruva—ten years old, innocent on the surface—enters. His charm is real, his voice light, his manner effortlessly friendly. And yet, Arjun knows the monster that hides beneath. It makes his stomach twist. His hands clench. But he smiles. A soft, childish smile. Fake.
Inside, a fire awakens. Cold, sharp, and unrelenting. Badla—revenge.
Every word with Dhruva becomes a strategy. Every smile is a blade. Arjun, the seasoned warrior, hides behind the mask of a boy—playing the long game.
As night falls again, Arjun sits alone in silence. The weight of his task settles like a mountain on his shoulders. He must rise again—from nothing. Earn power. Master politics. Outsmart a prince who once fooled him. All while pretending to be a bachcha, helpless and harmless.
His heart burns with the memory of betrayal, and his mind is already drawing the first steps of his revenge. And then another terrifying realization strikes: to regain magic, he must attend the Magic School. Without formal training, his powers will never return.
That school is his first goal. His first battlefield.
The path ahead is long, dark, and filled with hidden knives.
But Arjun is ready.