Arvind Velayudham woke on the asphalt of OMR road with throbbing pain behind his eyes.
The first thing he noticed wasn't the burning sunlight or the honking traffic.It was the floating letters above the buildings.
Golden Tamil syllables drifted like fragments of scripture torn from the sky.
அ, தி, ரம், பு…
This wasn't Chennai.
It was the Akshara Realm—the story version of India from the manhwa he used to read every night.
Arvind staggered to his feet.
A distant rumbling rolled across the horizon. People screamed as a school bus skidded sideways, ready to topple.
And then—a streak of blue-white lightning sliced the air.
The bus stopped.
No—it was caught, held upright by a boy whose hands sparked with living thunder.
Aarav Menon.
Arvind recognized him instantly.
"That's impossible," he whispered. "This scene never happened in the original story."
Aarav set the bus down gently. The passengers cheered. Arvind watched the boy—small, humble, face glowing with innocence and raw power—and dread coiled in his stomach.
The world was not following its script.
"Why am I here…?" Arvind whispered.
A shadow moved above him.
A giant black panther landed silently on a rooftop, golden eyes burning with ancient intelligence.
Arvind froze.
The panther spoke.
"You. Reader.You do not belong to this written world."
Arvind's heart stopped.
Because that meant one thing…
Someone—or something—had rewritten the story.
And he had been dragged into the fracture.