I was born in a dusty corner of India, in a town that didn't even make it onto most maps. People only remembered it for two things: the unbearable summer heat and the kind of poverty that stuck to your skin like dust. My name—at least the one given to me in this lifetime—was Arjun Mehra.
From the moment I opened my eyes, life decided to put me through a trial by fire. My father worked odd jobs that barely paid enough to buy rice. My mother stitched clothes for rich families who would never look her in the eye. And me? I was just another mouth to feed, another weight dragging us closer to the ground.
But the strange thing was… even as a child, I knew I had seen all this before. The hunger, the cries, the injustice of a world built on invisible walls—I had walked through it in another time, another body. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I'd dream of palaces glowing under the sun, of chariots racing across a battlefield, of divine music echoing through the heavens. When I woke, my hands trembled, as if I had just let go of a bowstring that could shatter the world.
The adults dismissed it as fever dreams. But deep down, I knew better.
Growing up in poverty is like playing a game where the rules are designed for you to lose. At school, the richer kids made fun of my torn shoes and my lunch—flatbread with a smear of pickle, if I was lucky. They called me names I pretended not to hear. Teachers looked at me as if I was wasting their time, as if my existence was an inconvenience.
Once, when I was about eight, a boy shoved me into the mud after class. His friends laughed, their polished shoes spotless as mine sank deeper into the dirt. I remember standing up, wiping my face, and staring at him with a calm that didn't feel like it belonged to a child.
"Do you think this makes you stronger?" I asked.
The boy froze. My voice had changed—lower, firmer, as if someone else had spoken through me. His friends stopped laughing.
For a moment, the world tilted. I saw flashes—an ancient battlefield, warriors colliding like waves, a chariot pulled by white horses. My heart pounded. The mud under my feet became blood-soaked earth. The boy's mocking face shifted, replaced by the twisted grin of a warrior I had once known, someone I had defeated ages ago.
And just like that, it was gone.
I blinked. The boy ran away, and his friends scattered. I was left standing there, confused and terrified, with the sinking realization that I was not just Arjun Mehra.
The years that followed were no kinder. My father died when I was twelve, collapsing on a construction site after a long day under the sun. The company didn't pay compensation. "Accidents happen," they said. My mother's health failed soon after, her body worn thin by work and grief. By the time I turned fifteen, I was alone.
It's funny—loss is supposed to break you. But in my case, it was like chiseling away stone to reveal something underneath. Each tragedy carved me into a shape I didn't fully understand. I worked odd jobs, ate less than I should, slept under roofs that leaked rain. And yet, I survived.
But the dreams never stopped. They grew stronger.
I dreamed of standing on a battlefield beside a warrior with a bow, guiding him as chaos roared around us. I dreamed of lifting a mountain to shield villagers from a storm. I dreamed of cosmic oceans where serpents curled and gods whispered my name.
Krishna.
The name echoed in my bones.
By the time I reached twenty-one, I could no longer ignore the truth. I wasn't just an unlucky kid from a forgotten town. I was something more—someone more. Memories from another existence seeped through the cracks of my soul, painting my life in colors that no one else could see.
I was Krishna, reborn. Not as a prince in palaces of marble, not as the divine figure sung in hymns, but as a boy scraping by in the alleys of modern India. Why? I didn't know.
But there was one thing I understood: it wasn't an accident.
One night, sitting on the roof of a crumbling hostel, I looked up at the stars. The city around me was alive with noise—horns blaring, dogs barking, people shouting. Yet above it all stretched the endless sky, the same one I had gazed upon centuries ago.
The realization struck me like thunder.
I had been sent here for a reason.
This was not just Earth—it was a version of Earth where gods, heroes, and monsters lived side by side with men in iron suits and soldiers frozen in ice. This was the Marvel Universe, though I didn't have a name for it yet. I only knew it was a world trembling on the edge of chaos, and I had been thrust into it with a purpose.
To uphold dharma.
But even gods need disguises.
In this life, I had to wear two masks. The first was Krishna—the guide, the teacher, the one who whispered truth into chaos. The second was Parashurama—the eternal challenger, the ruthless examiner of men.
Two sides of the same coin.
If humanity was to survive what was coming, they needed both the wisdom to walk the right path and the trials to prove they deserved it. And I—I had been chosen to be both.
The weight of that realization nearly crushed me. I was no billionaire genius. No super-soldier. No thunder god. I was just a boy with secondhand clothes and an empty stomach.
But the universe didn't care. Destiny rarely asks if you're ready.
And as the wind swept across the rooftops, carrying the smell of dust and smoke, I whispered the words that sealed my fate:
"I am Krishna, born again. And this time, I walk among heroes."
The first time I heard the name Avengers, I thought it was just another cricket team. Someone at the hostel had left an old newspaper on the table, its front page showing a man in red-and-gold armor flying through the sky like a mechanical Garuda.
The headline read: "Iron Man Saves City Again."
At first, I laughed. It looked like a comic book, not real life. But then the reports kept coming—gods from Asgard walking the Earth, a green-skinned giant smashing tanks like toys, a man carrying a shield as if it were destiny itself.
That's when the truth hit me: this was not the same Earth I once knew. This was a world where myth had already stepped out of the shadows, where gods and men fought side by side—or against each other.
And somewhere in that vast storm, I was expected to play my part.
I didn't jump into it right away. How could I? I was still Arjun Mehra, broke, invisible, trying to survive one day at a time. But the universe doesn't wait for you to catch up.
One evening, I was walking home from a shift unloading crates at the market. The alley was quiet, the kind of silence that feels staged, like the world is holding its breath. That's when I saw them—three men cornering a boy no older than twelve.
They weren't just bullies. Their eyes glowed faintly blue, their movements sharp, unnatural.
Chitauri.
I didn't know the name then, but my soul recognized them. Soldiers from another realm, remnants of a war that hadn't quite ended after the Battle of New York.
The boy whimpered. One of the creatures raised a blade, its edge humming with alien light.
Something inside me snapped.
The calm, human part of me—the Arjun that knew fear—wanted to run. But another voice rose, clear and commanding, the voice that had whispered on battlefields centuries ago.
Protect him. Uphold dharma.
I grabbed a rusted iron rod from the ground. The moment my fingers closed around it, the air vibrated. For an instant, the rod shimmered, reshaping into something far older, far deadlier—a weapon I remembered wielding long ago. Then it was just metal again, heavy in my hand.
I stepped forward.
The Chitauri turned, its blade raised.
"Leave him," I said. My voice didn't sound like mine. It was deeper, ancient, threaded with authority.
They hesitated. Just for a heartbeat. And in that pause, I moved.
The fight was brutal. I wasn't trained in martial arts, not in this life. But my body remembered. Every strike, every dodge—it was instinct, carved into me by lifetimes of war. I struck with precision, as if guided by a hand beyond my own.
When the last of them fell, dissolving into ash and smoke, I stood in the silence, my chest heaving.
The boy stared at me with wide eyes.
"Who… who are you?" he whispered.
I wanted to say Arjun. But the truth was heavier, impossible to contain. For the first time, I let the words slip free.
"I am Krishna," I said quietly.
The boy ran before I could explain. Maybe it was fear. Maybe awe. Either way, the name had been spoken, and with it, the world had shifted.
That night, another dream came. But it wasn't just a dream—it was a memory.
I stood on a mountaintop, watching the world burn below. At my side was Parashurama, axe gleaming, his eyes merciless.
"You cannot guide without testing," he said. "You cannot offer wisdom without first burning away weakness."
I woke in a sweat, the echo of his words ringing in my skull.
It terrified me, because deep down, I knew he was right. Krishna, the guide, could not exist without Parashurama, the challenger. They were two sides of me, inseparable.
The next day, I tested it. At the market, a man cheated a vendor, slipping coins from the scales. Normally, I would have stayed silent. But this time, I stepped in.
"Give it back," I said.
The man laughed. "Or what?"
In that instant, something shifted behind my eyes. The world seemed to slow, colors sharpening, sounds echoing as if the universe was holding its breath. My voice deepened—not loud, but commanding enough to freeze him in place.
"You are being tested," I said. "Do not fail."
The man's face went pale. He dropped the coins and fled.
The vendor stared at me as if I had sprouted wings.
I realized then that Parashurama wasn't just a memory. He was alive inside me, ready to surface whenever humanity needed to be challenged.
And that frightened me almost as much as it empowered me.
Weeks passed. Word spread—quietly, in alleys and street corners—about a stranger who stopped thieves, who spoke like an ancient prophet, who appeared when the city was at its worst. Some called me a guardian. Others whispered darker names.
But I knew the truth.
I wasn't here to be worshipped. I wasn't here to replace the Avengers or claim a throne.
I was here to guide. To test. To ensure that when the real storm came—and I could feel it brewing—the world would have the strength to endure.
Every night, as I stood on rooftops and looked toward the horizon, I felt it drawing closer. A shadow, vast and merciless. A war greater than any Mahabharata I had ever fought.
And I knew, with the certainty of lifetimes, that my role in this universe had only just begun.
I used to think the worst battles were fought with fists, blades, or bullets. That's what the world shows you on the news—explosions, broken buildings, heroes striking poses against burning skies.
But the older memories inside me whispered a different truth: the greatest battles are fought inside the heart.
That truth came back to me the night I stood on the roof of an abandoned factory, staring at the city lights. The air smelled of smoke, diesel, and monsoon rain. Down below, life carried on as if nothing was wrong—children laughing, vendors shouting, traffic snarling. But above it all, the stars pulsed like watchful eyes.
And then I felt it.
Not just danger. Destiny.
A pulse in the fabric of the universe, a ripple that echoed through my bones. I closed my eyes, and in the darkness behind my eyelids, I saw him. A titan, his skin the color of dusk, his eyes glowing with cold hunger. He carried a gauntlet studded with gems that pulsed like dying stars. Each stone was a fragment of creation itself.
Thanos.
The name surfaced from nowhere, yet felt inevitable. He was not just a tyrant from another world. He was the embodiment of adharma—imbalance, greed, destruction without purpose. A new Kaurava king, ready to drag the cosmos into ruin.
And the battlefield he sought? It would not be Kurukshetra this time. It would be the universe itself.
The vision ended with a gasp. My knees buckled, palms pressed against the rooftop as if the Earth itself might split beneath me.
That's when the voice returned—the one I had carried across lifetimes. Calm, commanding, mercilessly clear.
You must choose. Krishna, the guide. Parashurama, the challenger. You cannot walk this world as Arjun Mehra any longer. The war is coming. Heroes will gather. And they will need you to be more than human.
I clenched my fists. Part of me wanted to resist. I was still just a boy with debts, scars, and a past no one cared about. I wasn't a billionaire with suits of armor. I wasn't a super soldier. I wasn't a thunder god.
But the other part—the eternal part—knew there was no choice. I had walked battlefields before. I had whispered truth into the ears of kings. I had lifted mountains when the people cried for shelter.
And now, I would do it again.
I stood, letting the rain soak through my shirt, washing away the dust and doubt.
"I am Krishna," I said aloud, the words steady as thunder. "I am Parashurama. I am the teacher and the tester. I am the light that guides, and the fire that burns away falsehood. This is my dharma. This is why I was reborn."
The city below did not hear me. The world did not pause. Cars honked, dogs barked, life moved on.
But the universe listened.
I felt it—the subtle shift, like the click of a lock opening. My two halves aligned, no longer at war. Krishna and Parashurama, wisdom and wrath, guide and judge. Not separate. Whole.
For the first time since my rebirth, I was complete.
That night, I tested my resolve. I walked through the city's underbelly, where shadows swallowed alleys whole. Criminals thrived there, feeding on fear and silence.
I found a man beating a beggar for a handful of coins.
"Stop," I said.
The man sneered. "Mind your business."
My eyes burned—not with anger, but with something older. He froze, his hand still raised.
"This is your test," I told him. "Compassion or cruelty. Choose wisely."
The man dropped the beggar, backing away as if I had revealed fangs. He fled into the night.
The beggar looked at me with trembling hands pressed together. "Who are you?" he asked.
And this time, I didn't hesitate.
"I am no one," I said softly. "Just a voice to remind you of what you already know."
But inside, I carried the truth.
In the days that followed, whispers grew. A figure walking among the forgotten. A stranger who saw into men's hearts. Some said prophet. Some said judge. None knew the whole truth.
And I kept walking, testing, guiding, waiting.
Because I knew what was coming.
The Kurukshetra of this age was on the horizon, drawn by a mad titan and his endless hunger. The Avengers—those heroes shining like fragments of a broken pantheon—would stand at the front. But their strength alone would not be enough.
They needed more. They needed someone who could remind them why they fought, who could test their resolve before the final dawn.
That was my role.
To be the quiet voice in the chaos.To be the storm when weakness threatened.To be Krishna, reborn not in a palace, but in the streets.
And when the final war came, when the stars themselves trembled, I would be there—not as a hero, not as a god, but as the eternal guardian of dharma.
The reincarnated Krishna.