Pain. A crushing weight pressed down on his chest. His vision blurred, the world spinning as sirens screamed in the distance.
Aryan gasped, struggling to breathe. The wreckage of his car lay twisted around him, shards of glass glinting under the pale moonlight. His mind was a haze—one moment he was driving home after his lecture on ancient Indian warfare, the next, the truck's headlights had swallowed him whole.
Is this how I die?
Darkness swallowed him.
Then, silence.
When Aryan opened his eyes again, the world was… different. The scent of burning wood and damp earth filled his nostrils. The sky above was no longer polluted with neon lights, but a vast expanse of stars. The air was thick with something raw and primal.
He sat up, heart pounding. He wasn't in his car anymore. He wasn't even in the 21st century.
Around him stood men—warriors draped in dhotis, their bare chests adorned with golden ornaments and battle scars. Their expressions were wary, hands gripping the hilts of swords and spears. Behind them, massive war chariots gleamed under the firelight, their wheels carved with intricate symbols.
"This one still breathes," one of them muttered, stepping closer. His voice was deep, ancient.
Aryan's throat was dry. He tried to speak, but the words caught.
No. This isn't real.
But as the man knelt beside him, eyes scanning him with suspicion, Aryan realized the impossible truth.
He had regressed. Not just years, but millennia.
He was in the age of the Mahabharata.
And he had no idea why.