**Patna, Bihar – 1910**
The moment the System's voice faded, Randhir stood motionless, the reshaped chair cradled in his hands like a sculptor's first masterpiece. The air in the study felt charged, alive with the hum of unseen energy. He set the chair down, its metal legs scraping softly against the marble floor, and stared at his palms. They trembled—not from fear, but from the raw thrill of possibility.
*This is real. This is mine.*
The estate around him, once a static monument to his family's wealth, now pulsed with potential. The carved teak doors, the brass fixtures, even the stone floors—they were no longer just objects. They were clay waiting for his touch.
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#### **The Chair**
Randhir circled the distorted chair, running his fingers along its twisted frame. The metal felt colder than usual, as if it had absorbed the chill of his intent. He closed his eyes, focusing on the molecular lattice of the iron. In his mind's eye, he saw the atoms as a shimmering grid, rigid and unyielding. With a thought, he nudged them.
The chair groaned, its legs straightening as the metal flowed like liquid. Randhir's breath hitched as he felt the strain—a faint pressure behind his temples, like a muscle flexed too long. The chair's backrest rippled, reshaping into an intricate pattern of vines and leaves. For a moment, the design wavered, edges blurring as his concentration faltered.
*No. Control it.*
He gritted his teeth, pouring more focus into the transformation. The metal obeyed, sharpening into delicate filigree. When he stepped back, the chair was no longer a utilitarian object but a work of art, its surface alive with swirling botanical motifs.
"Incredible," he whispered, tracing a metal leaf. But the pressure in his skull lingered—a silent reminder that even Omega-level power had limits.
---
#### **The Brass Lamp**
Next, he turned to the tarnished lamp on the desk. Its surface was dull, scarred by years of neglect. Randhir placed a hand on its base, feeling the pitted brass beneath his fingertips.
*Smooth. Reflect light. Become something new.*
The lamp shuddered, its metal rippling like water. The tarnish melted away, revealing a mirror-like sheen. The base elongated, curving into a slender stem, while the top flattened into a perfect orb. Randhir's heart raced as the orb began to glow from within, casting a warm golden light across the room.
**[Warning: Energy Reserves at 75%]**
The System's voice startled him. The orb flickered, its light dimming.
"Energy reserves?" Randhir muttered, withdrawing his hand. The orb stabilized, but the ache in his head deepened.
*So there's a cost. Every transformation drains me.*
He filed the thought away, vowing to track the toll of each use.
---
#### **The Feast**
Hunger gnawed at him—not for food, but for proof of his power's versatility. He eyed the wooden table, its surface littered with papers and ink pots.
*If I can shape metal, why not wood?*
He pressed his palm to the table, envisioning the dense grain softening, breaking down. The wood dissolved into a mound of golden wheat, each grain plump and glistening. The scent of earth and harvest filled the air.
*Further.*
The wheat shifted, morphing into round, flat chapatis. They steamed faintly, their edges crisped to perfection. Randhir tore one apart, the warmth seeping into his fingers. He took a bite, the flavor rich and nutty, as if baked in a clay oven.
A memory surfaced—his past life, standing in a Delhi slum, watching hollow-eyed children scrounge for scraps. *This power… I could end hunger. Feed millions.*
But another voice, colder, whispered: *Or control them.*
He shoved the thought aside, stacking the chapatis neatly. For now, this was a victory.
---
#### **The Flower**
Emboldened, Randhir stepped into the courtyard, where his mother's prized marigolds bloomed in fiery clusters. He knelt beside a healthy plant, its petals vibrant orange.
*Can I alter life itself?*
He cupped a flower in his hands, willing its cells to divide faster, its color to intensify. The stem thickened, shooting upward like a sapling. Buds sprouted along its length, bursting into blooms the size of his palm. The orange deepened to a molten crimson, the petals edged in gold.
But then the leaves began to curl, their veins blackening. The plant trembled, its roots straining against the soil.
**[Caution: Organic manipulation unstable. Genetic decay detected.]**
Randhir jerked back as the marigold withered, collapsing into a heap of ash. His chest tightened—not from exertion, but guilt.
*I overstepped. Life isn't metal or wood. It's… fragile.*
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#### **The Weight**
As dusk fell, Randhir slumped into his study, exhaustion weighing his limbs. The System's interface flickered:
**[Energy Reserves: 40%]**
**[Recommendation: Restore energy via rest or mission completion.]**
He ignored it, staring at the remnants of his experiments—the ornate chair, the glowing orb, the uneaten chapatis. Each a testament to his power, each a warning.
*I could build cities. Or destroy them.*
His father's words echoed in his mind: *"You are destined for greatness."*
But greatness without control was a blade without a hilt.
Randhir opened his journal, its pages blank and waiting. With a steady hand, he began to chart his abilities, noting every success, every failure, every tremor of fatigue.
*This isn't a gift. It's a science. And I will master it.*
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