Chapter 1: The Deadliest Agent's Last Mission
Huff. Huff. Huff.
Ram stumbled through the treeline, each ragged breath dragging thick, acrid smoke deep into his lungs. Behind him, the forest was an inferno—a blazing monument to his completed mission. Corpses lay scattered among the ashes, silent witnesses to his final, brutal symphony.
Blood—his own and theirs—caked his formal black suit. The remnants of his shirt clung to his torso, sleeves torn and folded up, revealing a simple wrist watch on his left arm. A dagger, still slick with recent work, was clutched in his right hand; a heavy-caliber gun hung loosely in his left. A few spent grenades bounced lightly on his waist belt as he moved. He was Ram, the most violent, the most deadliest undercover agent the world had ever known.
He collapsed beneath the nearest oak, the rough bark digging into his bruised back. His blue eyes, usually sharp and cold, were glazed over, but a terrible, grim satisfaction flickered in their depths.
"Huhh... Finally," he whispered, the sound a wet cough. "The mission... and my revenge. Completed." He tilted his head back, tasting blood. "But I think... this will be my last."
A wave of pain, white-hot and absolute, ripped through him. He was dying. And in his final moments, the dam of his carefully constructed mental defenses broke, flooding him with memory.
Deadliest. The title felt hollow now. It hadn't saved them.
The firelight behind his eyelids flared, igniting the past: Age thirteen. The loan sharks. The corrupt police. The brutal public humiliation of his father. The debt they couldn't repay. And then... the sight that broke his world forever: the bodies. His parents.
That was the day he learned the world wouldn't stand for the weak. He had fled, swearing a vow of vengeance. He accepted the help of the adoptive couple who found him, not for love, but for shelter and the means to an end. He devoured knowledge: MMA, Martial Arts, Kickboxing, and the lethal Indian combat style, Kalarippayattu. He mastered psychology and technical hacking. The army college, the medals, the penalties for his violent nature—it was all a climb toward one single target.
When the offer came to join the undercover agency, he took it without a second thought. He became an actor, a ghost, able to play professor, driver, or gang-star. He never failed, earning the title of Earth's most dangerous agent.
But his final assignment—erasing an entire underworld organization—was the jackpot. It was the same criminal network that had grown too big to touch. The same one that had caused his parents' deaths.
The memory fueled a burst of dark, gurgling laughter, laced with his own blood. "Mom... Dad... do you see it? I killed every damned motherf***r!" he choked out, the laugh turning into a ragged sob.
"Well, now I can die in peace..." He looked up at the smoke-choked sky. "Mom. Dad. Thank you for giving me birth. And I'm sorry... I couldn't be a better son. I couldn't save you."
With a trembling hand, he pulled out his phone. He didn't have time for a text; he hit the voice record button.
"Hey, Dad. I hope you're well..." His voice was broken, painful. The façade of the deadly agent shattered completely. "This... this is going to be my last message."
He took a shuddering, ragged breath. "I'm thankful to you both. Because of you, I got my revenge. I had a good life, a purpose. I love you, Dad. I've always loved you."
He forced a wet, gasping chuckle. "I have bad news, Dad. I think I'm going to Hell now. All the crimes... it's the only place for me. I know you're fighting that cancer, and I'm so sorry I'm leaving you early! Stay safe. Your son... he always loved you more than his life. Goodbye."
The phone slipped from his hand as the darkness finally, blessedly, rushed in. Peace. Finally...
A light. Not the harsh glare of the fire, but a blinding white that filled his vision, sharp and sudden.
Ram squeezed his eyes shut. When he blinked them open again, the stench of blood and smoke was gone, replaced by the scent of lavender and clean linen.
Where...?
He was being held. A beautiful woman with unfamiliar features was cooing over him. Who was this lady? He tried to push her away, but his hands were tiny, useless paws.
He tried to speak. "Hey! Stop, miss!"
All that came out was: "Goo-goo. Gaa-gaa."
A language he didn't know was being spoken nearby.
"Excuse me, Miss Emilia. The Duke is here and wants to see both of you," a voice said sharply.
"Tell him we are coming," the beautiful woman—Emilia—cooed. She hoisted him higher. "Jerry wants to see Papa, doesn't he? Let's go, my baby."
Jerry? Who in the nine hells is Jerry?
As she carried him across the room, Ram caught a flash of himself in a polished mirror on the wall: an infant, swaddled in silk, with his same intense blue eyes looking back.
Ram, the deadliest agent, was utterly, chillingly taken aback. Where am I? What are these clothes?
Reincarnation?