Chapter 1: Awakening
Darkness.
It wrapped around him like a wet cloth, heavy and suffocating. There was no sound, no light, no sense of time. Only stillness. And then—
A sudden crack. A piercing flash of light.
Aarav gasped.
His lungs convulsed as air rushed into them, and he shot upright, drenched in sweat. The pain came instantly—sharp, blinding pain exploding in his skull like a sledgehammer cracking concrete. He clutched his head with both hands, fingers digging into his scalp.
"Ahhh!" he cried, the scream tearing through the silence.
His heart pounded. The room spun. His mind, once orderly, erupted in chaos. Memories crashed into him from every direction—names, faces, voices, headlines, gunshots, markets, betrayals, inventions, deaths, celebrations. History.
His history. Someone else's history.
It made no sense.
And yet... it did.
Aarav fell back onto the bed, gasping. The images came faster now—books, news articles, documentaries, YouTube videos, podcasts. He saw everything he had ever read or heard about the world after the 1980s: Cold War tension, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the rise of Silicon Valley, the Gulf War, the 2008 financial crisis, global power shifts, corporate empires, political assassinations. The world had once been his playground—through screens and pages.
And then, a memory stood out, clearer than the rest.
A bottle. A table. His head collapsing against cool glass.
Alcohol poisoning.
The doctors had warned him. But warnings didn't mean much when loneliness crept in. When ambition turned bitter. When the weight of knowing too much crushed the joy of living.
He died alone.
In a cramped Mumbai flat in 2024, surrounded by piles of history books, empty bottles, and half-finished dreams.
But he didn't vanish.
No, something else happened.
He woke up here.
He sat up again, slowly this time. His hands—smaller, smoother. The body was familiar but foreign. He looked around.
This wasn't his one-room rental with peeling paint and a noisy fan. This was luxury. A palace. High ceilings with carved wooden beams. A chandelier. Walls lined with artwork. A scent of sandalwood and jasmine hung in the air.
And then the mirror.
He saw himself—or rather, the boy whose body he now inhabited.
Eighteen. Sharp jawline. Thick black hair. Regal features. Eyes that hinted at both mischief and madness. He was beautiful, like a painting.
And the memories returned—not from his past life, but from this body's.
Aarav Rathod.
Second son of Ashok Rathod—the oil and arms tycoon of India. A name that meant power. The Rathod family didn't just own businesses; they owned influence. Politics, media, defense, law—if there was a lever of power in India, the Rathods had their hand on it.
And now, he was that Aarav.
The soul from 2024—the historian, the observer, the dreamer—had fused with this new self.
Two Aaravs. One body. One path.
But this world... something was different.
Not the people. Not the history. That was all the same.
Yet as the memories settled, he understood: this wasn't Earth. Not the one he knew.
This world was called Blue Star.
A parallel Earth, perhaps. A mirror reality. Same events, same timelines—but the rules might not be identical. Here, fate could be bent. Here, a single person could shift the course of history.
And he had been handed the perfect position to do so.
He slowly slid off the bed, his feet sinking into the thick carpet. He opened a drawer—neatly folded clothes, engraved cufflinks, a leather-bound notebook with the initials "AR." He flipped it open.
Inside, scribbled in flowing handwriting, were pages of poetry, random sketches, and—
—dreams of running away.
The old Aarav, the original soul, had felt trapped. Ignored. Overshadowed by his elder brother, the family's heir. He didn't want power. He just wanted peace.
The new Aarav smiled.
"Well, we'll have both. Power and peace."
A knock at the door.
"Chhote saab," a deep voice called. "Your father is waiting in the central hall. Shall I prepare your sherwani?"
He froze. That voice—so respectful, so polished. The servants of the Rathod household were trained better than most government officers. This was real. It was all real.
He walked to the window. The curtains pulled back with a soft tug.
Sunlight bathed acres of manicured gardens, white peacocks, security guards in tailored uniforms, and a distant helipad. A vintage Rolls Royce idled near the entrance.
The empire was at his feet.
He took a deep breath. Felt the pulse of both his lives merge.
The boy who died in 2024—who only ever watched history. The heir of 1986—who was now a part of it.
He turned to the mirror one more time.
"I'm not just a witness anymore," he said softly. "I'm the one who'll rewrite the story."
And with that, Aarav Rathod stepped into history.