The river whispered as it moved, its current steady, ancient, and unbroken. Mist clung to the waters like veils of silver, drifting and curling over the stones. Dawn had not yet risen; the world still lay suspended between night and day, a silence deeper than words resting upon the land.
I stood at the edge of the water, bare feet pressed against the cool earth, my breath steady as I folded into the last motion of Surya Pranam.
The pose had become instinct to me after years of practice—arms lifted, body bowed, spirit bent toward the horizon where the sun would soon emerge. But this morning was unlike any before. For today, something had changed.
The moment I had awoken before dawn, I had known. A door—long locked, hidden in shadow—had opened inside me. And with it came a flood of memory.
Not of this life. Not of this world.
But of another.
The Memory Returns
My name. My true name—Ansh Agarwal.
Images flickered like lightning: the cracked blackboard of a classroom, the laughter of boys running with cricket bats, the glow of a computer screen late at night. The blaring horn of a truck, the grinding of brakes that would not stop, the scream of metal before darkness swallowed me whole.
And then—the void.
The voice that spoke.
The wishes I had made.
Talent without limit.
Strength without end.
I had thought them impossible fantasies in that brief moment between life and death. Yet here I was, reborn, and for ten years those memories had been sealed away.
Now, at the threshold of ten, they had returned.
Reflection in the River
I lowered my arms slowly, opening my eyes. The river's surface shimmered, showing me the boy I had become.
The reflection that stared back was not of the ordinary teenager who had once trudged through crowded streets of Uttar Pradesh. No, the face here belonged to a prince.
Skin smooth and luminous, fair yet warm, like polished ivory kissed by the sun. Eyes no longer dark brown but amber-golden, catching even the faintest glimmer of light. Hair dark and tousled, falling naturally across my brow. My body—though only ten—was lean, my frame carrying a strength unusual for my age.
I tilted my head, studying my reflection, and a soft smile crossed my lips.
"In this world too, my name is Ansh. What a coincidence… or perhaps, destiny."
Ten Years of Innocence
For a while I stood still, letting the memories wash over me. Ten years. Ten whole years I had lived as a child, without the burden of knowing, without the shadow of my past.
Those years had been precious.
I remembered racing barefoot through palace gardens, my laughter echoing among peacocks and parrots. I remembered clambering onto my father's throne when no one watched, pretending to be a king as the guards struggled not to laugh. I remembered the stern yet kind hands of my governess pulling me away from the kitchens when I tried to steal sweets, only to sneak extra laddus into my pouch with a wink.
Yes. Those years had been a blessing. They had given me time to adapt, to grow into this world without mourning the last one. By the time my memories returned, my heart no longer longed for the streets and classrooms I had left behind.
This world was now my home.
The Kingdoms of Aryavarta
Over those years, I had also learned of the land around me.
This was not one single kingdom but a tapestry of rajyas, each powerful in its own right, each carrying its own ambitions.
Kuru Rajya — my father's realm, the beating heart of Aryavarta, where fertile fields and mighty armies flourished.
Kosala Rajya — proud and ancient, with cities of stone and walls that gleamed in sunlight.
Videha Rajya — seat of sages and philosophers, where rishis debated truth beneath banyan trees.
Magadha Rajya — wealthy and ambitious, its mines of iron and copper feeding endless forges.
Matsya Rajya — riders of the plains, feared for their cavalry charges.
Anga Rajya — eastern rivers and merchants, their wealth flowing from trade.
Avanti Rajya — the western jewel, rich from commerce with distant seas.
Kalinga Rajya — southern warriors and sailors, their navy ruling the waters.
Surasena Rajya — famed for their discipline with the bow, where archers could split a fruit in flight.
Each rajya was proud, each with its own traditions and glories. But above all, what bound them together was the Weapon System.
The Way of Weapons
Here, a man was not measured by crown or gold alone. His worth, his destiny, lay in the weapon he wielded.
Every child of noble blood was given a weapon upon coming of age. Sword, spear, bow, mace, chakra—the choice was theirs, though tradition often guided them. With it came a path of discipline. Through training and battle, one ascended ranks of mastery: apprentice, warrior, commander, and beyond, toward the almost mythical realm of Astra-Maheshwar, Lord of Weapons.
My father, Maharaja Adityavarna Kuru, wielded the talwar. In whispers, I had heard courtiers speak of battles where his blade cut through enemies like a storm of fire. Though he never boasted, many believed he was among the highest ranks, his strength unchallenged in all Aryavarta.
As for me—my time would come soon. In a month, I would leave for the Sarva-Astra Gurukul, the grand institution where heirs of every rajya were sent to train.
A crucible of destiny. The place where friendships would be forged, rivalries sparked, and the future of kingdoms written.
Strength Without End
I clenched my fist, watching the veins rise faintly under my skin.
Even without formal training, my body was already beyond ordinary. At ten, I could run faster, strike harder, endure longer than boys several years older. The courtiers often whispered that the prince had been blessed by the gods. They did not know the truth—that my wish had made my body one of infinite potential, strength without limit.
And this was only the beginning.
Discipline of the Dawn
The chill of the river breeze pressed against me as I straightened from my asana.
Every day of these ten years had been shaped by discipline. The rhythm of the palace was unyielding—before dawn, I rose to practice Surya Pranam. By sunrise, I was at the training ground, bow in hand or sword at my side. By noon, I studied scriptures and philosophy. Afternoons were for horse riding and spear drills. Evenings were filled with lessons of politics, history, and strategy.
In my old world, the thought of waking at four a.m. would have horrified me. I would have groaned, cursed the alarm, and buried my head in a pillow. But here—here it had become natural. Discipline was not a burden but a way of life.
And in that discipline, strength was born.
The Rising Sun
The horizon began to glow. Slowly, gently, the first rays of dawn brushed across the sky, staining it with gold and crimson.
I lifted my arms once more in reverence, the warmth of the sun falling upon my face. It was more than light. It was a promise.
Ten years ago, I had died as a boy alone. Today, I stood as a prince, heir to the mightiest throne of Aryavarta, son of a warrior king. And with my memories restored, I felt the weight of destiny settle upon my shoulders.
In one month, I would enter the Gurukul. There, the path would truly begin. There, I would test the limits of the wishes I had made, the strength I had been granted.
The river flowed behind me, endless and eternal, as I turned away. My palace loomed in the distance, its towers rising above the mist.
I walked toward it, the sun at my back, casting a long shadow before me.
And in that shadow, I felt it—
The story of my destiny had only just begun.