Atma sat in Padmasana, his small fingers gently turning the pages of the ancient book spread out in front of him. He had been trying to make sense of the symbols for hours, but much of it still eluded him. His mind was sharp, yet there were too many mysteries in this world, and his understanding of them was still incomplete.
The sound of his mother's voice broke his concentration. "Atma, what are you doing, Beta? Come here and help me with this."
Atma blinked, looking up as his mother, Samyukta, stood by the hearth, her gentle smile beckoning him. With a soft sigh, he dropped the book and walked over to her, his small legs brushing against the rough floor. As he reached her side, he absent-mindedly grabbed a stalk of grass from the ground and placed it carefully between the pages of the book, marking his spot.
"Here, what do you need help with, Maa?" Atma asked, though his gaze lingered on the book, his thoughts still partially consumed by the mystery of the power he had long yearned to understand.
Samyukta handed him a small bundle of vegetables to sort, her voice soft. "Help me with these, Beta. There's much to do before evening falls."
Atma took the bundle, his fingers skimming over the rough edges of the vegetables, but his mind was elsewhere. For the past three years, he had gathered fragments of knowledge, piecing together what he could about this strange world. When he was younger, his parents had spoken freely about the extraordinary power that existed in this world, but as he grew older, those conversations ceased. The more he tried to ask, the more they deflected, their answers vague or filled with distractions.
His brow furrowed slightly as he remembered how he had once thought that exploring the village might reveal some insight into the powers everyone spoke of. But after wandering the village for days, speaking to the villagers, he came to a disappointing conclusion: The people here don't know anything about extraordinary powers. The villagers, kind-hearted but simple, went about their lives unaware of any hidden potential in their world. The flow of information into the village was so slow that it felt like time moved at its own pace—unhurried and isolated. The thought had been devastating at first.
The dream of becoming something extraordinary, of having powers beyond imagination, felt like a distant memory now. Where would I find this power? he had wondered, feeling a sense of loss creeping into his chest. Was it all just fantasy?
But slowly, as the days passed, Atma began to realize something else. Even without extraordinary power, there are still ways to shape the world around me.
At first, the idea had seemed insignificant. Rich? he had thought, scoffing at the idea. What good is wealth when there are no powers to wield? But over time, a new understanding began to form, one that was more pragmatic. He had lived a life before this one—a life where knowledge and information had power. And in this new world, he had the advantage of being young, of having time to learn.
He now realized that, while the village might not have extraordinary powers, there was still something else that could give him an edge. He had knowledge—knowledge of the world he had come from. He knew the value of trade, the importance of technology, and the power of a well-placed word or action. And unlike most of the people here, he could start learning it all now.
I can still become someone important, Atma thought, a small spark of ambition flickering in his chest. I can study. I can learn. I know what it takes to build wealth and influence, and now I have the time to do it.
He continued sorting the vegetables, his hands moving methodically, but his mind raced. This world doesn't need to be about extraordinary power. I can carve my own path—one that doesn't rely on magic or combat, but on knowledge and strategy.
The dream of being a superhero had faded, but in its place, a new dream was born. He could become a wealthy man, a powerful figure in his own right, someone whose name would be known across the land—not for his strength or his ability to wield incredible powers, but for his intellect and his wealth. Knowledge was his true power now.
He smiled to himself, a quiet determination settling in his heart. This time, I will not fail. I will study, I will grow, and one day, I will be more than just a son of a poor family in a forgotten village. I'll be someone who shapes the future of this world.
For now, he would do what he could—learn, observe, and wait for the right moment to strike. The world might not have the powers he dreamed of, but it had something just as valuable: opportunity. And Atma, with the knowledge of two lifetimes, would seize it.
---
The knock echoed through the small house, disturbing the quiet afternoon. Samyukta glanced towards the window, squinting at the sun hanging high in the sky.
"Who would come at this time?" she murmured to herself.
Her eyes flicked to Atma, who sat quietly by her side. With a small nod from her, he stood up and padded towards the door. But before his tiny hand could even reach the handle, the door was thrust open with force, slamming into his face. Atma fell back onto the ground, landing flat on his back with a sharp yelp of pain.
A figure loomed in the doorway, tall and imposing. It was Raghunath, his eyes cold and full of malice as he entered without invitation.
"Samyukta," he began, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Have you thought about my offer? Do you still want to reject it?"
Samyukta's face tightened with disgust, but she didn't falter. "Raghunath," she replied, her voice calm but firm. "I have already given you my answer. There's no way in hell I'll ever accept your offer."
Raghunath's lips curled into a cruel smile, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Well, that's a pity. It was your last chance." He turned to leave, but as he did, the men who had been silently following him didn't budge. Instead, they closed in, their eyes gleaming with hunger, as if they were predators circling their prey.
The tension in the room thickened as the men surrounded Samyukta, leaving her no way to escape. Her posture remained unyielding, even as the situation grew more dire. One woman alone, surrounded by a dozen armed men, but her defiance still burned bright.
"So, this means you're resorting to violence," Samyukta said, her voice steady despite the imminent threat.
The men didn't answer. They merely held their weapons in hand, their eyes cold and calculating, watching her like wolves preparing to strike.
Meanwhile, Atma, still dazed from the fall, struggled to push himself up. His three-year-old body was not built to withstand such a blow, and the pain surged through him like a tidal wave, but he gritted his teeth. He couldn't just lie there.
Seeing the dire situation, he forced himself to his feet and staggered toward the men. "Don't do anything to my mother!" His voice, though small and shaky, was filled with a courageous plea, though completely misplaced in this moment.
His attempt was futile. It was as if an ant had tried to stop a mountain. A man grabbed Atma by the arm and, with a flick of his wrist, threw him harshly back onto the ground. This time, Atma didn't even manage to catch himself. He hit the floor with a sharp cry of pain, the impact sending tremors through his small body.
But this was no ordinary moment. As soon as Samyukta saw her son thrown to the ground, her expression twisted from calm defiance to one of pure rage. Her eyes, once soft and gentle, now burned with a ferocious intensity, almost glowing in the dim light of the room. Her hair seemed to rise, as if caught in some unseen wind.
"You should not have done that," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. The atmosphere in the room shifted as a wave of energy pulsed around her, as if the very air had changed in response to her fury.
The men, still encircling her, took a step back, momentarily taken aback by the change in her demeanor. The once-confident predator now seemed uncertain, like the ground had shifted beneath their feet. Samyukta's anger was not just a mother's fury—it was something deeper, something that had been waiting beneath the surface.
The room was tense, charged with the potential for something greater than violence.