The chaos of Beijing was still fresh in Mukul's memory, though his small legs had carried him far from the screaming crowds. The five-year-old wandered through the twisting streets, clutching his toy car, until the roar of traffic gave way to the gentle murmur of water. A wide river stretched ahead, its surface glittering under the moonlight. Exhausted, frightened, and alone, Mukul leaned over the riverbank, peering into the rippling darkness.
A sudden misstep on the slick, muddy edge sent him tumbling into the cold current. The shock stole his breath, and his tiny limbs flailed against the strong flow. Panic set in, and the river's pull dragged him deeper. One moment, he tried to fight it; the next, the world blurred into blackness.
When Mukul awoke, the sun was warm on his face, and the sound of crashing waves filled the air. His head throbbed, and his vision was blurred. Slowly, he opened his eyes to find himself lying on a sandy shore, the river nowhere in sight. Around him, dense greenery stretched in every direction, and strange cries of birds and distant creatures echoed through the morning mist.
He struggled to sit up, coughing against the salty air. The river had carried him far—far enough to place him on an unknown island. No buildings, no streets, no familiar faces. Only the wind, the waves, and the jungle.
Fear prickled at his young mind. He had never been alone like this before. But something inside him—an instinct, unshaped but strong—urged him to move. He picked up his toy car, clutching it like a talisman, and stood on wobbly legs.
The island was alive. Birds with iridescent feathers swooped overhead, strange insects hummed around the dense foliage, and the trees themselves seemed to whisper secrets. Mukul took a hesitant step into the jungle, feeling both awe and fear. Every sound was a warning, every shadow a potential threat. Yet, he moved forward, driven by a force he didn't yet understand—the pull of survival, of destiny, of something greater.
Hours passed, though he could not measure them. He stumbled over roots, tripped on stones, and even fell into a shallow stream, but each time, he rose again. Hunger gnawed at him, and the sun grew merciless overhead, but Mukul endured. Small as he was, his mind was sharp; he observed patterns in the birds, the river's flow, even the way the wind rustled the leaves. Slowly, he began to understand the island's rhythm.
By evening, he had found a small clearing, sheltered by overhanging branches and thick vines. Exhausted, he curled up under their protection and slept, dreams filled with shadows of his family, the explosion in Beijing, and the faint memory of the stars on his neck.
When he woke, the island seemed even stranger, yet somehow alive with opportunity. He found fruits he could eat, fresh water trickling from rocks, and natural hiding places for shelter. Though scared, Mukul felt a spark of exhilaration. The island was dangerous—but it was also a place where he could learn, adapt, and grow.
At that moment, a distant rumble—perhaps thunder, perhaps something else—reminded him that he was alone. No one would find him here. Not yet. Not for a long time. And yet, the boy with the seven-star mark on his neck felt a strange sense of calm. The prophecy had begun, and this island, unknown and wild, would be his first trial.
He looked toward the horizon, waves crashing endlessly, and whispered to himself, "I will… become strong. I will… find them again."
The island waited, full of secrets, challenges, and mysteries. And so, the journey of Mukul Sharma, the boy destined to protect his family and the world, truly began.