Morning light slanted through the bamboo blinds, painting thin golden stripes across the wooden floor. Birds outside were already in a heated debate over who got the first worm, and I was lying there, half-awake, half-dreaming, trying to convince myself that sleep was optional.
I had barely slept the night before. The thought of today—my first real day of training—buzzed through my veins like caffeine. My system window still lingered faintly in my mind: clean, blue, promising. No divine voice, no dramatic AI announcements—just me, a kid with too many plans and one invisible interface that made my childhood sound like a low-budget RPG.
A knock came at the door. "Abhay," my father's voice was deep, gentle, and unmistakably alert for this early in the morning. "Get ready. We're going to visit someone special today."
That 'someone special' turned out to be Shukra Gurung, a retired Gorkha army commando who had settled two villages away. My father had known him since his school days. The man was rumored to have hands so fast that he could swat mosquitoes mid-flight without missing his tea sip. To me, he sounded like the kind of man who'd make an excellent video game boss.
I got up, washed, and put on the simplest clothes I had—a white T-shirt and blue shorts. Nothing heroic, just breathable. My reflection in the mirror was unremarkable: small, round-faced, a little too serious for my age. Five years old, apparently, but with the mind of someone who'd already lived one life, died once, and decided to take better notes this time.
Father stood waiting near his scooter, helmet in hand. His workshop was quiet this early; stacks of unfinished furniture and the smell of varnish still hung heavy in the air. As I climbed on, I noticed the faint smile on his face—a mix of amusement and pride.
"Ready, champ?" he asked.
"As I'll ever be," I said, trying to sound casual but ending up sounding like a movie hero heading to his first duel.
The scooter roared to life, and the morning wind rushed past. The road curved through stretches of green, flanked by paddy fields shimmering with dew. Buffaloes stared at us like judgmental spectators. In the distance, the hills framed the sky like they were holding it up themselves.
---
Father's Thoughts (Omniscient POV)
Amit Bharadwaj had always been a man of steady instincts. Ever since Abhay had learned to talk properly at two, he'd sensed something different about the boy—not the usual kind of "gifted" parents boasted about. Abhay didn't just repeat what he heard; he processed. He asked why gravity mattered, why the sky looked different after rain, and—once, at three years old—why adults spent so much time pretending not to be tired.
He'd watched his son grow with a balance of patience and disbelief. Other children screamed for toys; Abhay asked for notebooks. When the boy had started discussing compound interest after overhearing a bank commercial, Amit had nearly dropped his cup of tea.
It wasn't just intelligence. It was maturity—an unhurried way of thinking. The kind that came with knowing something others didn't.
And so, when his son had approached him after his birthday party, politely asking permission to train in martial arts, Amit hadn't laughed. He'd looked into those serious brown eyes and seen conviction—quiet, steady, frighteningly adult.
He'd told Sunita that their son might be unusual, but not in a way to fear. "He knows what he wants," Amit had said. "It's my job to give him the tools, not to hold him back."
And with that thought, he'd called Shukra Gurung, the only man in the village who could teach discipline sharper than any stick.
---
Training Begins (Abhay's POV)
Shukra's house stood at the edge of the village, near a small clearing where the earth was flat and compact from years of practice. He was already waiting for us, a tall man with sharp eyes, short gray hair, and a frame that didn't look a day past military service.
"Namaste, Amit," he greeted my father warmly, then glanced at me with a half-smile. "So this is the warrior you were talking about."
I bowed slightly—trying to look respectful and not like a tiny pretender. "Good morning, sir."
"Disciplined," he noted, impressed. "Let's see how long that lasts."
After a brief chat, my father left me under his watch. Shukra led me to the center of the clearing. "We'll start simple," he said, demonstrating basic stances and footwork. His movements were clean, deliberate, almost poetic.
I copied him, though my limbs didn't always agree with my intentions. After the fifth time I tripped over my own enthusiasm, he chuckled. "You have spirit," he said. "And clumsy feet."
Ten minutes later, a faint blue line flickered in front of my eyes:
> [New Skill Acquired: Martial Arts Lv.1 (0/100)]+1 Strength+1 Endurance +1aglity
I nearly grinned. Finally! The system's awake.
Another ten minutes of punches, squats, and confused breathing later:
> [+10 EXP – Martial Arts]
And again. Every ten minutes, a neat little number popped up like applause from the universe. It felt rewarding, even though my arms felt like damp noodles.
By the end of two hours, my body had begun negotiations with gravity. Sweat ran down my neck, and I was starting to see the appeal of being an ordinary five-year-old again. But just as we were finishing, a final notification appeared:
> [Martial Arts Lv.2 (0/500)]+2 Strength+2 Endurance +3aglity
I blinked at the new requirement. "That escalated quickly," I muttered under my breath.
Shukra smirked. "Something funny, Abhay?"
"No, sir," I said, straightening up, though my back disagreed. "Just… realising how long forever is."
---
Father picked me up an hour later. His eyes lit up when he saw me covered in dust, hair sticking out like I'd fought a windstorm. "How was it?"
"Exhausting," I admitted. "But fun."
He laughed. "Good. Real learning always hurts somewhere."
Back home, I ate breakfast like a soldier who'd survived a siege, then headed to my small study table. The morning sun slanted across my books—bright, crisp, familiar. I opened my school textbook, determined to push the limits of this "ordinary world."
Ten minutes into reading:
> [New Skill Acquired: Reading Lv.1 (0/100)]+0.1 Int
A few pages later:
> [New Skill Acquired: Mathematics Lv.1 (0/100)]+0.1 int
Then English.Then Science.
[New Skill Acquired: English language Lv.1 (0/100)]+0.1 int
I was halfway through the section on plants when:
> [Science Lv.2 (0/500)]+0.5 int
[Subcategories Unlocked: Physics | Chemistry | Biology]
I leaned back, eyes wide. So even the system knows how messy science can be.
By the time I closed my books three hours later, I felt mentally alive again. Training hurt, but this—this was my zone. Every page I read made the world clearer, sharper, like tuning an instrument
After finishing my study marathon, I shut my notebooks and stretched my arms until they popped. The air outside my window carried the smell of wet earth and burning wood. Somewhere in the distance, a group of kids were shouting over a game of cricket, and I couldn't help but smile.
For the first time since my rebirth, I felt… balanced. My small hands still trembled slightly from training, but inside, I could sense a rhythm forming—a pulse of work and reward, struggle and satisfaction.
By noon, the heat rolled in like an uninvited guest. I stepped out of my room and found Father in the courtyard, working on a chair frame with the precision of a sculptor. Wood shavings curled at his feet. He looked up as I approached.
"Tired already?" he asked, smiling.
"Physically, yes. Mentally, no."
He chuckled. "You sound like someone three times your age."
"I get that a lot," I replied with a grin.
He studied me for a moment, then said quietly, "When you asked to learn martial arts, I didn't even have to think twice." He paused, hammer halfway in motion. "You're not like other kids, Abhay. I don't mean that as pressure. I mean it as truth. You're… steady. Too steady for your age."
He set the hammer down, wiped his hands, and leaned back. "When you were two, you used to stare at my work for hours. You'd ask questions about the type of wood, the weight, even how the varnish smelled different. You were curious in ways I couldn't explain. Most kids see a chair. You saw the thought behind it."
I stood quietly, unsure how to respond. His tone wasn't one of expectation—it was pride mixed with quiet wonder.
"I've always believed," he continued, "that talent is something a parent can nurture, not control. You'll find your way. And if that way involves a few bruises, well," he grinned, "that's part of the job."
The sincerity in his voice hit me harder than any training session could. For a man like him—steady, cautious—to speak so openly meant something. I felt a warmth spread through my chest.
"I'll make sure your trust isn't wasted," I said softly.
He nodded, eyes crinkling. "I know you won't."
---
After lunch, I retreated to my room again, not to study this time but just to let the fatigue settle. The house hummed with life—Grandmother chanting softly in her prayer corner, Mother clattering utensils in the kitchen, and the faint tune of a distant radio playing old Hindi songs from a world where Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge still hadn't been made.
That last bit still amused me. A reality without Shah Rukh Khan's extended train scenes? A timeline without The Matrix ?It was like someone had edited the global playlist and deleted half the good tracks.
Still, the absence of those cultural landmarks meant one thing: opportunity. Every missing story was an open slot waiting to be filled. And if there was one thing I was certain of—it was that I would fill it.
---
The sun dipped low, painting the sky in soft streaks of pink and gold. Father had finished his work and was sitting on the porch, sipping tea. I joined him, the cup of warm milk in my hand feeling both childish and comforting.
He looked down at me. "So, how was your first day as a martial artist?"
"I'd say I survived with minor damage," I said, deadpan.
He laughed, almost spilling his tea. "That's a good start."
"By the way," I added, "I was thinking of starting something new—writing."
He raised an eyebrow. "Writing?"
"Yeah. Stories, maybe even books. I like the idea of creating worlds."
He nodded thoughtfully. "That's good. Creation is a kind of courage."
Then he leaned forward. "But you'll have to balance it with your studies. School starts in February. You'll manage both?"
"I will," I said firmly. "I've already been reading the books."
He shook his head, smiling. "Of course you have."
We sat in silence for a while, the air filled with the sound of cicadas. I could feel the weight of his faith—not heavy, but grounding. The kind that makes you want to live up to it.
---
Dinner was lively as always. Grandmother blessed me twice for no reason, Mother scolded me for training too hard, and Father told her not to worry—"the boy's tougher than he looks."
Afterward, I retreated to my desk again, pulling out a notebook. The idea had been simmering in my mind since morning. If this world didn't have Harry Potter, then maybe it was my job to introduce it.
The first line I wrote was shaky, the handwriting clumsy but determined:
> "Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much…"
As I finished the first paragraph, a soft flicker appeared in front of my eyes.
> [New Skill Acquired: Writing Lv.1 (0/100)]+0.1 int
I smiled. It wasn't much, but it was something—a start. A whisper of potential, like the faint hum before a storm.
---
Father's Reflection (Omniscient POV)
That night, after Abhay had gone to bed, Amit sat by the window, lost in thought. The lamp beside him cast a warm circle of light on his hands—hands that had built everything he owned, piece by piece.
He thought about his son—the quiet intensity, the constant focus, the strange balance of childlike joy and adult awareness. It was both comforting and intimidating.
He remembered his own childhood: simpler, rougher, filled with cricket and the scent of sawdust from his father's workshop. He'd never thought he'd raise a child like this—someone who seemed to carry a hidden blueprint for the world.
Sometimes, late at night, he wondered if this was how geniuses were made—not through miracles, but through small acts of persistence, curiosity, and faith.
He smiled to himself, watching the faint light from Abhay's room fade as the boy finally drifted off to sleep. "Whatever you become," he whispered softly, "just stay kind. The rest will follow."
---
Abhay's Last Thoughts (First-person)
The night air was cool and still. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion wrapping around me like a blanket. Yet my mind wouldn't rest.
The System window hovered faintly at the edge of my vision—quiet, minimal, almost comforting now.
> STRENGTH: 28 +3=31| AGILITY: 31+3=34 | ENDURANCE: 36+3=39| INTELLIGENCE (IQ): 140+0.9=140.9 | CHARISMA: 40 | LUCK: 50
SKILLS:
– Martial Arts Lv.2 (0/500)
– Reading Lv.1 (0/100)
– Mathematics Lv.1 (0/100)
– English Lv.1 (0/100)
– Science Lv.2 (0/500)
– Writing Lv.1 (0/100)
I closed the window with a thought, grinning to myself. Not bad for a five-year-old.
The world was still small now—one house, one village, one set of skills. But soon, I knew, it would grow. The road to adventure wasn't meant to start with explosions or magic; sometimes it began with early mornings, tired muscles, and a pencil on paper.
Tomorrow, I would train again. Then read again. Then write again.
Because this time, I wasn't just living life—I was building it.
And as sleep finally claimed me, a quiet sense of purpose settled in my chest.
Adventure was coming. I could feel it.