The rain tapped against the foggy windows of the isolated countryside mansion nestled in the hills of Uttarakhand. The air smelled of pine, wet earth, and something darker—something final.

  Inside, on a silk-sheeted bed, lay a young man, his skin pale, his breath weak, his body slowly surrendering to death.

  Raghav Sharma, 24, second son of India’s most powerful Merchant Brahmin family, was dying.

  His family, a modern-day chaebol, had influence stretching from Parliament halls to international trade consortiums. Born into opulence, raised with the finest tutors, Raghav was hailed a genius from childhood. He could recite a document after seeing it once, solve equations in his head, and speak five languages by the age of ten.

  But nature is cruel in its irony.

  His mind was flawless—his body, terminal.

  Diagnosed with a rare genetic condition at sixteen, he was told he wouldn’t live past his mid-twenties. So, when his health began to fail for real, he retreated from the noise of Mumbai and Delhi and moved into the quiet valleys of Uttarakhand, seeking peace.

  He gave everything—his stake in the family, his inheritance, his responsibilities—to his younger sister, Meera, the one he loved most. The one he trusted completely.

  But peace never came.

  Instead, poison did.

  Now, he lay on his deathbed, vision dimming, throat burning. And beside him stood Meera—expression calm, eyes gleaming with something far colder than grief.

  “Rest in peace, bhaiya,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his face like a lover would. “Now you won’t suffer. And I will have everything. I was mocked because of you—always in your shadow. But not anymore.”

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  Raghav’s heart clenched, not from the poison, but from the betrayal. He tried to speak, to ask her why, but his body failed him. His breath rattled one last time—and the world went dark.

  But death did not come.

  Instead, there was a cave.

  Silent. Sacred.

  He walked—no, floated—through it, the walls pulsing with ancient light. He didn’t know if it was a dream, an illusion, or something beyond mortal comprehension. The air was warm, filled with the scent of sandalwood and storm. Symbols glowed along the walls in languages long dead.

  At the end of the cave, a bright, endless light waited.

  And then came a voice, soft and deep, like thunder wrapped in silk:

  “You have died betrayed… but not broken. May you attain success in this life.”

  Before he could question what it meant, the light consumed him.

  He screamed.

  A piercing, newborn cry echoed in a vast marble chamber.

  Hands lifted him into the air—brown, jeweled, trembling with emotion.

  “It is a boy!” cried the midwife. “A prince is born!”

  Trumpets blared outside. Bells rang from temple towers. Royal servants ran to spread the news across the palace: The heir to the throne of Samrathgarh had arrived.

  Unseen by all, the baby’s eyes slowly opened.

  And in them—was the soul of Raghav Sharma.

  Confused. Reborn. Remembering everything.

  Where am I? What is this place?

  He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. But his mind, still sharp, still brilliant, raced.

  Banners fluttered in the courtyard beyond, bearing the royal sigil of the House of Samrathgarh—a lion surrounded by flames.

  The year, as spoken by the astrologer beside the royal bed, was 1580.

  And Raghav Sharma—now Krishna Dev Singh—was the heir to a powerful kingdom in the heart of medieval India.

  To be continued…