Amit stood behind the counter of his small general store, idly browsing his phone. The shelves nearby, covered in a fine layer of dust, were filled with the day-to-day necessities—biscuits, soaps, matchboxes, and crummy plastic toys nobody actually bought. The ceiling fan whirred, pushing the hot summer air around, but it wasn't doing much to combat the heat that came in from the outside.
It was just another slow afternoon in the little town.
Then the lights flickered.
Amit scowled, glancing upwards. Power outages were usual, but this was not the same. The flicker wasn't the sudden, staccato sort that occurred when the power system collapsed. It throbbed—like a pulse. The store paused to breathe, shadows elongating unnaturally on the walls.
Then, he heard it.
A gentle creak.
Like a wooden door opening in an old house.
Amit slowly turned his head, his gut writhing with discomfort. He recognized this shop. He had spent his childhood in it. There were merely two doors—the entrance and the small storeroom at the rear. But as he glanced in the direction of the storeroom, his breath stopped in his throat.
There was a third door.
It was standing where there had only been a wall seconds before—a wall tall and old, fashioned of dark wood with carvings that ran along its length. Symbols that Amit had never laid eyes on slithered along its face, curling and twisting in the faint light. The door did not belong in his shop.
He gulped, his throat parched. This is not happening. He pinched his eyes tightly shut, and then opened them again. The door remained.
A chill sweat formed on his back. He ought to get out. Lock up, go home, as if he never witnessed this. But something about the door was compelling him. It was not only curiosity—it was a tug, low in his bones, as if something beyond was expecting him.
Slowly, as if unwillingly, he advanced. His fingers shook when he grasped the handle. It was cold, even though it was hot outside. A deep, chilling cold ran through his skin as soon as he touched it.
He turned the handle.
The door opened.
And Amit's life changed forever.
In place of his small, cramped storeroom, he was staring at a large tract of land bathed in golden light. Great stone temples rose in the distance, their delicate carvings unblemished by the passage of time. Sandalwood and the smell of incense hung on the air. People clad in ancient Indian garb walked along the streets—warriors bearing curved swords, merchants carrying heavy baskets, scholars in heated debate.
Amit's heart raced. This was India… but not the one he knew.
There was a signpost beside the entrance. The writing was ancient, yet mysteriously, he could understand it.
"Welcome to Bharata. Year: 1100 CE."
His breath caught. 1100 CE? This is impossible.
And then, as he stepped forward one pace, his eyes erupted with light.
A screen flashed in front of his eyes.
─── SYSTEM ACTIVATED ───
[Welcome, Gatekeeper.]
[You have unlocked the Timeless Door.]
[Quest: Create your first trade in 1100 CE India.]
Amit's heart pounded. His hands trembled. His legs went weak.
This was not a door. This was not a vision.
This was real.