---
Morning came too early.
The rooster outside clearly had no respect for sleep schedules or reincarnated souls with martial aspirations. Its first cry shattered whatever dream I'd been having about being a peaceful cloud—or maybe a sentient samosa, I couldn't tell. Either way, it was gone.
The golden rays of sunrise peeked through the window, slicing across my face like warm knives of responsibility. My body, still sore from yesterday's training, strongly suggested that I take up knitting instead of martial arts. My brain, however, ignored it with the smug conviction of a five-year-old who'd read too many shōnen manga in his past life.
Today was day two of training.
The muscles in my arms and legs screamed protest as I sat up. Even my hair hurt, somehow. But beneath the exhaustion, there was a strange excitement humming under my skin—the kind that came with the promise of progress.
I washed up quickly, brushed my teeth while mumbling fighting mantras ("Pain is weakness leaving the body—also possibly calcium"), and got dressed in my now slightly dusty shorts and T-shirt. My reflection looked both tired and determined—like a small monk who'd seen too much of the world's absurdity.
---
Father's Perspective (Omniscient POV)
Amit Bharadwaj was already awake, sipping his morning tea as the fog rolled lazily across the village. The faint aroma of cardamom drifted through the air, mingling with the smell of varnish and wood dust that always seemed to cling to his clothes.
He watched his son emerge from the room—tiny, serious-faced, and walking like an old man recovering from a brawl with a staircase. The sight made Amit's lips twitch.
It still amazed him, how a boy barely out of toddlerhood could carry himself with such intent. From the age of two, Abhay had been different—not in the loud, precocious way most "gifted" children were, but in a quiet, steady manner that unsettled and impressed adults alike.
He remembered vividly the time Abhay had pointed to one of his unfinished furniture designs and said, "Papa, if you made the leg angle sharper by two degrees, it won't wobble."
The boy had been three. Three!
Amit had laughed then—but later checked the design. The correction was… correct.
Now, seeing his son preparing for another round of training, Amit felt that same odd blend of pride and disbelief. There was something in that child's eyes—focus, clarity, almost… purpose.
And yet, he was still a child. A five-year-old who laughed when his uncle pretended to trip, who tried to feed the house cat with biscuits, who ran barefoot through the mud when he thought no one was looking.
Amit smiled faintly. "Balance," he murmured to himself. "He's learning balance."
He finished his tea, grabbed his keys, and called out, "Abhay, ready?"
---
Back to Me (First Person)
The scooter ride was chilly and full of life. The early mist hugged the fields as we passed. The sound of the scooter echoed through the narrow roads, occasionally startling a sleepy cow or two. I clung to Father's back, breathing in that familiar smell of wood polish and morning air.
By the time we reached Shukra Gurung's house, the sun was fully awake. The retired commando was already waiting in his yard—shirtless, because of course he was—performing stretches that looked medically inadvisable for any human being.
"Morning, sir," I said, trying to sound cheerful despite my body screaming no more push-ups, please.
He glanced at me, then at my father, and grinned. "The boy came back. That's a good sign. Most kids stop after the first blister."
I straightened my back. "Pain builds character."
He chuckled. "Pain also builds hospitals. Don't be too eager."
Father laughed, exchanged a few words with him, and then left, telling me, "I'll come get you after breakfast. Try not to die."
"Encouraging," I muttered as he drove off.
---
Shukra wasted no time.
"Yesterday was for learning form," he said. "Today is for learning rhythm. Body must move like river—smooth, steady, no pause."
He demonstrated a few combinations: step, pivot, punch, block. Simple, elegant, terrifyingly fast. I copied, my arms flailing at first like a confused windmill, then gradually settling into a rhythm.
After about ten minutes, I realized something strange—no new notifications.
I frowned slightly. Yesterday, the system had been throwing messages at me like confetti. +10 EXP here, +10 EXP there. Now? Nothing. Just my heavy breathing and the sound of Shukra's sandals scraping against the dirt.
"Focus on your breathing!" he barked.
I obeyed. But inside, my brain was multitasking—half practicing, half debugging my invisible game interface.
Then it clicked. Repetition. I was doing the same movements I'd already learned.
If yesterday was the "tutorial level," today was the "grind mode." No new moves, no new points.
"Guess the system doesn't reward spam," I thought, ducking under an imaginary punch. "Figures."
The realization made sense, though. If I wanted to grow, I needed variety—new experiences, new input. Just like in life. Or maybe the system was trying to teach me patience.
Either way, the message was clear: no shortcuts today.
--
I paused for a breather, hands on knees, panting. As the cool wind brushed my face, I remembered yesterday—when the skill had first leveled up.
The moment Martial Arts had gone from Level 1 to Level 2, something had clicked inside my mind. Like an invisible door opening. Suddenly, I knew things—forms, philosophies, tactics—from dozens of martial traditions: Gorkha hand-to-hand combat, judo holds, taekwondo kicks, Indian kalaripayattu stances, even odd tidbits about balance and momentum from physics.
It hadn't been overwhelming, but exhilarating. Like a thousand puzzle pieces slotting perfectly into place.
"Knowledge rush," I'd called it to myself. The world hadn't changed—but I had. Every movement since then carried a clarity I couldn't explain.
Now, I wanted that rush again. But apparently, the system wanted me to earn it.
---
"Stop daydreaming," Shukra barked, pulling me back to reality. "Focus! You punch like you're apologizing to the air."
"Sorry, air," I muttered, earning a raised eyebrow from him.
He didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Good. Humor keeps you loose."
For the next hour, we practiced more. Punch, block, stance. Push-ups until my arms felt like boiled noodles. Kicks until the earth beneath my feet turned to dust.
By the end, I collapsed dramatically on the ground, staring up at the clouds. "Sensei… I see the light…"
"That's the sun," he replied dryly. "You'll live."
Then, just as he was walking away to fetch water, a faint flicker appeared before my eyes.
> [Martial Arts Lv.2 – Progress Increased]
A grin crept up my face. No level up yet, but definite improvement.
"Good," I whispered to myself. "I'll take steady growth over nothing."
---
Father Returns
By the time Father returned, I was half-dust, half-boy. My hair was sticking out in twelve directions, and I looked like a survivor of an epic playground war.
Shukra saluted him with a small nod. "The boy's a quick learner. Clumsy still, but focused. That's rare."
Father looked at me proudly. "That's my boy. He breaks things, but at least he breaks them with purpose."
I tried to stand straighter, but my legs had filed for leave.
"Papa," I croaked, "I think my knees learned flight."
He laughed, lifting me effortlessly. "You'll be fine. Just need some rest and a big breakfast."
"Two breakfasts," I corrected weakly. "One for me, one for my ego."
---
Home – Midday
Breakfast never tasted so divine. Paratha, boiled eggs, and a glass of milk that probably came from the world's angriest cow.
Mother fussed over me, clucking like a hen. "You're too small for all this training, Abhay. At least wait till you grow taller."
"But Ma," I said, mouth full, "I'm growing. Just… horizontally right now."
She smacked my head lightly with a spoon. "You talk too much for your age."
Uncle Rajiv, lounging nearby, grinned. "Let him be, Didi. He's got your sharp tongue and Amit Bhaiya's stubborn head. Perfect combination for trouble."
"Thank you for your support, Uncle," I said sweetly. "How's your imaginary job going?"
He gasped dramatically, clutching his heart. "Wounded! By my own blood!"
Grandmother, from her corner, snorted in laughter. "Serves you right, Rajiv. The boy has more sense than you already."
It turned into a full family comedy session, with my uncle pretending to faint, my mother laughing despite herself, and my grandmother muttering prayers that I'd use my tongue for good and not mischief.
For the first time that day, my exhaustion melted into pure, easy joy.
---
By eleven, the sun had grown bold. Heat shimmered over the courtyard, and cicadas sang like they'd just discovered music. I sat under the shade of a mango tree, sketching lazy circles in the dirt with a stick.
The system window hovered faintly in my mind when I called for it:
> STATS:
STRENGTH: 31 | AGILITY: 34 | ENDURANCE: 39 | INTELLIGENCE (IQ): 140.5| CHARISMA: 40 | LUCK: 50
SKILLS:
– Martial Arts Lv.2
– Reading Lv.1
– Mathematics Lv.1
– English Lv.1
– Science Lv.1
– Writing Lv.1
Each number meant something. Progress. Proof. But it wasn't about the stats—it was about what they represented.
I closed the interface, leaning back against the tree trunk. "One day," I whispered, "I'll make all this count—for me, and for them."
The "them," of course, was my family—the people who had unknowingly given me a second chance at love, belonging, and purpose.
I watched the fields sway gently in the breeze, heard the chatter of villagers in the distance, and smiled.
The world was simple right now—but it wouldn't stay that way forever.
And I was ready for it.
---
---
Abhay's POV
By afternoon, the village had transformed under the blazing sun. The morning mist was gone, replaced by a heat so sharp it could slice thought in half. Even the buffaloes looked like they were reconsidering their life choices, standing knee-deep in the pond and staring blankly at existence.
I sat on the veranda steps, still buzzing from the morning's training session. Every muscle in my body pulsed with a dull ache, the kind that made you aware of every single bone you owned. But under that ache, there was satisfaction—a quiet rhythm of you're improving.
Mother came out, wiping her hands on the end of her dupatta. Her hair was tied in a neat bun, though a few strands escaped, curling gently around her temple.
"Abhay," she said, squinting in the light, "aren't you tired of sitting outside? You'll bake like papad."
"I'm solar-powered," I replied solemnly. "Absorbing energy."
Her lips twitched. "If you're solar-powered, your batteries must be half-fried."
I grinned. "Maybe that's why my brain's overheating."
She sighed—the kind of sigh that said she was both exasperated and endeared. "Your father's gone to the workshop. He said if you wanted to go to the library today, I should take you. Do you still want to?"
My heart leapt. "Of course!"
Books, knowledge, stories—those weren't just hobbies now. They were tools. My system had turned every learning moment into a quest for mastery.
Mother smiled softly. "Then finish your milk. We'll go in ten minutes."
I saluted her with my glass. "Aye, Captain."
---
The journey to town was… chaotic, as all good adventures are. The narrow village road eventually bled into the dusty main path, where buses honked like irritated geese and fruit vendors shouted deals at passing bicycles.
Mother drove the scooter this time. Her driving philosophy was simple: "Speed is courage; braking is optional."
"Ma, that cow looks angry," I said nervously as we swerved past it.
"It'll move," she said confidently.
"It didn't move—Ma, it's chasing us!"
"Good. Builds stamina."
I clung tighter. "You and Shukra Sir would get along too well."
Despite the bumps and occasional bovine hostility, I couldn't stop smiling. The air smelled of roasted peanuts, rain-damp earth, and something alive—something that whispered possibility.
---
Mother's POV (Omniscient)
Sunita Bharadwaj wasn't blind to how much her son had changed in the past year. There was something deliberate in the way he approached everything now—whether it was folding his clothes, cleaning his toys, or asking strange, analytical questions about how fans worked or why martial artists trained barefoot.
Sometimes it unsettled her. No five-year-old should sound so serious when saying things like, "I just want to understand how everything connects, Ma."
But then, he'd grin, trip over his own shoelaces, and shout "I meant to do that!" and she'd laugh, reassured that the child in him still lived brightly.
She slowed as they neared the town square. The library loomed ahead—an old, colonial building of red bricks and wide arched windows. Its faded blue sign read "District Public Library."
Sunita parked, turned to Abhay. "Alright, little genius. Two hours. No more, or your brain will explode."
He saluted again. "Affirmative."
"Don't run. Don't shout. And—"
"I know, I know," he interrupted. "No eating the books."
"Exactly," she said with mock sternness. "Last time someone tried, I think it was your uncle after he lost his job."
They both laughed, and she watched as her son marched inside with that eager, wide-eyed determination that made her heart ache in the best way.
---
Abhay's POV
The smell hit me first—dust, old paper, and faint polish. The kind of smell that promised stories waiting to be reborn.
Rows upon rows of books stretched before me. For a moment, I just stood there, feeling oddly reverent. The librarian, an elderly woman with half-moon glasses, looked up. "Yes, beta?"
"I'd like to apply for a library card," I said, handing her the form I'd already filled—with my mother's details, of course.
She chuckled. "Such seriousness in such a small face. Wait here, I'll prepare it."
While she typed on an ancient computer that beeped like it was in pain, I wandered into the science and technology section.
There they were: stacks of books on computer fundamentals, programming basics, logic circuits, and writing for young readers. I grabbed one of each.
"Balance," I murmured, echoing Father's word. "Mind and heart."
I took a seat by the window, light pooling over the pages, and began to read.
The computer book was fascinating—simple but thorough. Binary numbers, the idea of on/off signals, data as information—things I'd understood in my previous life, but now absorbed with the clarity of a clean slate.
As I flipped through chapters, the system pulsed faintly in my mind.
> [Computer Knowledge Integrated.]
[Computer– Level : Lv.1]
[INTELLIGENCE +0.1]
A soft warmth spread behind my eyes—the same rush of understanding that martial arts had given me, but this time it was quieter, more mental. My mind expanded, connecting threads of logic and creativity.
I could see patterns—how words formed rhythm, how circuits mirrored thought. The world didn't just move; it functioned.
Two hours passed like minutes. I barely noticed until Mother's voice echoed gently: "Abhay, time's up."
I looked up reluctantly. "Already?"
She smiled, amused. "Yes, Professor. Let's go before you start teaching the books back."
---
Mother's POV
On the way back, Sunita stopped by the tailor's shop near the market. The man, an elderly tailor with gold-rimmed glasses and a perpetually confused expression, welcomed them with a nod.
"Ah, Sunita-ji! What bring to here today again?"
"This," she said, placing the fabric on the counter. "Need to stitch the uniform for Abhay. He's starting classes soon."
The tailor measured the boy carefully, occasionally muttering numbers. Abhay stood straight as a soldier, arms stretched, chin up.
"You're taking this very seriously, Abhay" she said with a smile.
"Uniforms are like armor, Ma," he replied solemnly. "A warrior must respect his armor."
The tailor chuckled. "And how many dragons will you be fighting at school, young master?"
"Depends," Abhay said without missing a beat. "Are teachers considered dragons?"
Sunita stifled a laugh. "Don't give him ideas."
When the measurements were done, she rewarded his patience with a stop at the candy shop next door. He picked a handful of toffees—carefully, as though choosing a spell from a grimoire—and they began their ride home.
---
Abhay's POV
By the time we reached home, the sun was sinking low, painting the fields in liquid gold. I carried my three library books like treasures, the paper bag rustling softly in my hand.
After dinner, while Mother was washing dishes and Father discussed lumber deliveries over the phone, I slipped into my room. The ceiling fan hummed above, casting gentle shadows that danced on the walls.
I opened the first computer book again. This time, I read slower, more intentionally. Every sentence seemed to unfold into diagrams and mental models. I didn't just read—I saw.
When I moved to my writing guide—"The Art of Storytelling for Beginners"—the ideas hit harder. Plot, pacing, character arcs. I compared them unconsciously to the story I'd started—the makeshift "Harry Potter" I'd been writing in my notebook.
Line by line, I corrected, expanded, reimagined.
> [Writing Skill – Experience Increased.]
[Writing skill upgraded lv1→2]
[INT+0.5]
A thrill ran through me. My handwriting looked cleaner, my thoughts sharper. The structure of storytelling—the emotional beats, the rhythm of suspense—all of it aligned in my head like stars forming constellations.
"Maybe," I whispered, "I'll write something even better someday."
The system's glow faded softly, leaving me with a quiet sense of accomplishment.
---
Mother's POV (Night)
Later that night, Sunita peeked into Abhay's room. The lamp was still on, casting a soft amber glow across his desk. He'd fallen asleep over his open notebook, pencil still in hand, the page filled with small, neatly written lines.
She smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
The sight filled her with warmth and a tiny spark of awe. For all his big words and strange seriousness, he was still just her little boy—dreaming, learning, chasing the things that made him curious.
She turned off the lamp quietly and whispered, "Goodnight, my writer."
---
Abhay's POV
When I woke up again, the night was still, and the moonlight spilled across the room. For a moment, I didn't move—just listened to the quiet hum of life outside. Crickets, distant barking, a soft breeze.
I called up the system, curiosity tugging at me. The window shimmered into existence.
---
[SYSTEM STATUS]
STATS:
STRENGTH: 31
AGILITY: 34
ENDURANCE: 39
INTELLIGENCE (IQ): 141.1
CHARISMA: 40
LUCK: 50
SKILLS:
– Martial Arts Lv.2
– Reading Lv.1
– Mathematics Lv.1
– English Lv.1
– Science Lv.1
– Writing Lv.2
– Computer Knowledge Lv.1
---
I stared at the glowing lines for a long time. Each number, each skill—tiny markers of progress. But more than that, they were reflections of effort, of family, of purpose.
My hand tightened around the pencil still resting between my fingers.
"Step by step," I murmured. "I'll grow stronger. Smarter. Kinder. Not just for me… but for them."
The window faded. Outside, the wind carried the distant sound of a train whistle—a whisper of worlds yet to be explored.
I smiled, closed my notebook, and let sleep take me.
Tomorrow, the journey would continue.
---