Year: 2015
Location: Dewas, Madhya Pradesh, India
Dewas—a second-tier, hustling, bustling city—was famous for its religious mountain and the note press. The land was rich and fertile, with the potential to become a first-rate city. But due to corrupt politicians, it remained underdeveloped. Still, its fortune was tied to its proximity to Indore and Bhopal.
At the time, people were walking along the roads, lost in the daily hustle and bustle. No one had time to care—until suddenly, dark clouds began gathering above the famous Mataji Ki Takri. Thunder rolled ominously across the sky.
Curiosity spread among the crowd.
"What's happening?"
"Is it going to rain?"
But the clouds grew darker, and the thunder more violent—as if the world itself was about to be destroyed. People, birds, and animals began to panic. The municipal corporation and police rushed to evacuate the Takri.
Some began to whisper that it was the wrath of the gods. Others prayed to Mataji to save them.
Just as the chaos peaked, a blinding flash of lightning struck the Takri. Time itself seemed to freeze—like someone had pressed the pause button on reality.
From the top of the Takri, near the Mata Mandir, a golden drop of light descended. As it landed, the black clouds and thunder swirled toward it. The golden drop absorbed all the power of the storm. It began to grow—first into a molten liquid, then slowly taking the shape of a man.
With the final surge of energy absorbed, the atmosphere began to calm. The golden figure solidified into a young man, around 21 or 23 years old. As the glow faded, a warm beam of sunlight kissed his body, caressing him with divine affection.
He stood tall—around 1.8 meters—with a well-shaped muscular frame. His skin was milky white, and his face carried the heroic and valiant features of a classic Indian protagonist. As he opened his eyes, the paused world resumed its motion.
His eyes—two deep blue oceans—looked around curiously. They held a mysterious calm, like a majestic sea hiding ancient secrets.
After surveying his surroundings, the boy turned to face the temple behind him—the grand Badi Mandir on the Takri. A long-lost memory stirred within him.
"I didn't expect to return to this world again… after so many reincarnations," he murmured.
This boy, Arun Aditya, was no ordinary human. He was the reincarnation of the Primordial Infinite God—a deity beyond comprehension, who always sent a willful incarnation to practice divine purpose. His original world was the real world, and he had once been a citizen of India.
He raised both hands and bowed respectfully to Mata Rani.
"Mata Rani, thank you for your blessings. Please continue to protect me. I pray that you always bless your son."
After his prayer, Arun walked toward the temple balcony. Due to the strange phenomenon, the police had evacuated the crowd, leaving him alone.
Feeling the fast, familiar yet unfamiliar wind, he felt a slight nausea. As he looked down from the mountain, the bustling city of Dewas stretched before him.
His blue eyes scanned the tall buildings—symbols of growth—and the slums, reminders of poverty. This contrast revealed a profound truth: the rich were getting richer, while the poor remained stuck.
His gaze was calm, but within that calmness, a goal had taken root.
"This time… I will change your fate, my dear city."
Dewas was his hometown. He had always wanted to do something for it. The city had immense potential—fertile land, high windmills, natural resources. But because of politics, it never grew. He didn't fully blame the politicians; he also blamed the people of Dewas, who never tried to change their leaders.
From independence until now, Dewas had been ruled by one royal party. He didn't hate them—though they hadn't brought much progress, they were still better than the scam-ridden politicians he had seen elsewhere.
But for his goal, he knew he might have to sacrifice even these people.
As he thought this, he looked toward the palace of power—the royal family's residence.
"Hey boy, what are you doing he