Imagine this: you spend your entire life preparing to enter politics, determined to carve your name into history. From a young age, you study everything that might be even remotely useful for statecraft and governance.
You graduate from university with a master's degree in political science, mastering the art of politics, diplomacy, and the complexities of international relations. Then you go further—into economics and finance—earning another master's degree, because you know that without understanding money, markets, and budgets, no one can rule a country effectively.
But you don't stop there. To learn the art of war, you enroll in a military academy, where you spend years absorbing the knowledge of an officer: strategy, tactics, logistics, and command. At the same time, almost obsessively, you study history—memorizing the timeline of the 20th century, every war, every revolution, every turning point of the modern world.
Half your life goes into this preparation. And finally, at sixty years old, you begin your political career. You form a party that quickly gains support and has a real chance of securing seats in parliament. As for you, you set your sights on the presidential elections. Polls are promising. The dream is close.
Success feels inevitable. Fate seems to be on your side. But at the very moment when victory is within reach—during a public conference where you speak confidently about your plans for the future—something unimaginable happens.
A man emerges from the crowd.
He pulls out a pistol.
And before your guards can react, he shoots.
---
That happened to me…
I was still conscious when I felt myself hit the ground. Chaos erupted all around. People screamed, panicked, fled in every direction.
"Kyyaaa!"
"Run! Get out of here!"
"Grab him!"
The police reacted instantly. One of them lunged at the shooter. To my surprise, the man barely resisted—he threw his weapon aside and almost waited for the arrest. Still, they slammed him into the ground with brutal force, as if determined to crush him.
People rushed to me. Some shouted for a doctor, others pressed their hands against the wound. But the sounds were fading. Voices grew distant, muffled, like echoes from another world.
I tried to keep my eyes open, knowing all too well what would happen if I closed them. Yet no matter how hard I fought, my eyelids grew heavier and heavier.
"Damn it…" Those were my last words.
---
…
I opened my eyes in a strange room.
It was old-fashioned—shockingly so. Not a single modern object. No machines. No equipment. Nothing familiar. On the bed lay a young man—me, and yet not me. He suddenly sat up, breathing hard, frantically touching his body, checking if everything was still intact.
"Kha… haa… haa…" The heavy breaths filled the silence.
After catching my breath, I looked around in confusion.
"What, they couldn't find a better hospital for me?" I muttered, but then froze.
The words felt… wrong. My tongue twisted strangely. No—this wasn't my native language. And yet, I understood everything I had just said.
Experimenting with my voice, I spoke again, then once more. Slowly, realization struck: I was speaking in another language. One I had heard before during my political career, though never mastered. It sounded familiar, yet different.
And strangest of all—I could still speak English, Russian, and German, fluently, just as before. But this new language… it felt closer. Warmer. As if it were my mother tongue.
---
I decided to get up from the bed. Nobody had come into the room, so waiting made no sense. But then a troubling thought hit me: was this even a hospital?
I looked around again, more carefully. No IV drips. No outlets. No lights. Not even a lamp. The only source of brightness was the window. The furniture—simple, old, wooden. The whole place looked more like a scene from a century-old drama than any modern hospital.
"Where's my frail old body?" I whispered, staring at myself.
This body was young, strong, free of pain. No aching back, no stiffness in the joints. I noticed a small mirror on the bedside table, snatched it up, and stared into it.
And froze again.
I hadn't just grown younger. I wasn't myself at all.
Dark hair. Brown eyes. Olive-toned skin. The facial structure was unmistakable—Caucasian features: the nose, the cheekbones, the complexion. I knew immediately.
This wasn't just anyone. This was a Georgian.
---
"I never believed in reincarnation, in souls being reborn or transferred," I said aloud, voice trembling slightly. "But… looks like I don't have a choice now."
The idea of being in Georgia didn't scare me. But it puzzled me deeply. Still—how was it possible that in this house there wasn't even a lamp or an electrical socket? Surely Georgia wasn't that backward?
I stepped into the hallway.
The entire place felt ancient, as if I had walked into a museum. Benches, chairs, kitchen tools—all distinctly Georgian in style, steeped in tradition. Whoever lived here wasn't just patriotic. They were obsessed.
Then my eyes landed on something lying on a table. A newspaper.
Curious, I grabbed it. The text was in Russian.
And what I read next sent a chill down my spine:
"Tiflis Gazette"
Breaking News. Today, March 3rd, His Imperial Majesty Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias, Tsar of Poland and Grand Duke of Finland, has abdicated the throne…
---
My blood ran cold.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a hallucination.
I had been reborn.
In another body.
In another time.
And the year was 1917.