The date was November 7, 2025. It was precisely 10:03 AM in Mumbai, India, but for the rest of the world, the time zones blurred into a single, unified moment of anticipation. From the neon-lit sky screens of Tokyo to the quiet, pre-dawn coffee shops in London, every major media network was simultaneously counting down the seconds.
The focus of this global digital stare was the World Press Forum (WPF) and its unprecedented live interview, streaming from the financial heart of India.
On desktops, tablets, and smartphone screens across every continent, the WPF ticker flashed the same cryptic message: THE GOD-KING WHO ERASED HIMSELF? Below the headline ran a picture of a cracked, ancient stone slab covered in indecipherable script.
Social media networks were in a frenzy. YouTube's live chat scrolled faster than a falling waterfall, filling with speculation and conspiracy theories. Facebook timelines were dominated by shared links to the WPF feed. The curiosity wasn't just about the subject—an ancient Indian emperor suddenly unearthed—it was about the gravity of the WPF's involvement.
The World Press Forum, known for breaking diplomatic stalemates and exposing global corruption, did not cover historical fantasies. If they were giving an archaeologist this kind of platform, the world was about to hear something monumental.
In Mumbai, the air conditioning units across the metropolitan area struggled against the persistent, humid heat. Traffic pulsed with impatient honking below the towering glass structures. Yet, here, the excitement was almost tangible.
People huddled around street vendors' small televisions, office workers ignored deadlines to refresh their browsers, and the city's inherent chaos was temporarily unified by the sheer pride and hype. A famous journalist from the prestigious WPF had flown directly to their city, making Mumbai the center of the world's attention for a few minutes.
At the base of one of the city's highest, sleekest towers, a highly polished black sedan pulled up, flanked by a quiet but heavily armed security detail. The tinted door opened, and Eleanor Vance stepped out.
Eleanor was thirty-two, immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit that immediately began to feel constrictive against the city's oppressive warmth. Her face, usually known for its cool, unflappable composure when grilling politicians, held a flicker of professional annoyance.
"Five-star security for a history lesson," she muttered under her breath to her producer, Michael, who was already sweating through his light blue shirt.
"Direct orders from the top, El. They say this story is bigger than anything we've touched this year. Just sell the legend," Michael whispered, adjusting the tie that was already knotted too tight.
Eleanor merely nodded, her skepticism a tightly controlled internal pressure. She was the WPF's star correspondent, flying from crisis zones and negotiating volatile interviews. Now, she was here, in a city she mentally cataloged as "intolerably hot," to interview an academic about ancient tales. The direct nature of the assignment—Go to Mumbai. Get the story. No debate.—confused her. It felt beneath her profile, yet the resources allocated suggested otherwise.
They were ushered quickly through the modern, cavernous lobby and into a private express elevator. As the doors sealed, Eleanor pulled a silk scarf from her handbag and dabbed subtly at her temples.
Why on earth did this interview have to be conducted here? she wondered. Surely, a studio in New York or London would have been more suitable. The very idea that this "mere archaeologist" demanded the world come to him, in the suffocating heat of a November morning in Mumbai, chafed at her professional ego.
The ascent was swift and silent. Eleanor used the glass reflection of the lift door to compose her expression, replacing doubt with the razor-sharp focus her viewers expected. She reviewed her brief: Dr. Vinkesh Rao. Archaeologist.
Claiming to have deciphered an ancient, previously unknown Indian scripture that detailed the autobiography of an emperor whose reign reshaped the ancient world—and was then wiped completely from historical record.
The electronic chime signaled their arrival. Sixteenth Floor.
The moment the elevator doors parted, Eleanor's internal tension eased. It was like stepping into a different climate zone. The air conditioning here was fierce, dry, and immediately comforting, a stark, soothing contrast to the sweltering city sealed beneath the high-rise structure. She breathed in the chill, sterile air—the controlled environment of power and high finance—and felt her journalistic focus sharpen.
As Eleanor and her small camera crew entered the spacious, soundproofed room—which looked more like a corporate boardroom than an interview setting—they immediately saw the source of the global attention.
Standing at the far corner, looking out over the hazy, sprawling cityscape of Mumbai, was Dr. Vinkesh Rao.
He was an old-age man, certainly in his late sixties or early seventies, but his posture was remarkably straight, and his shoulders were broad. His close-cropped gray hair framed a face that was lined not with frailty, but with deep thought and what looked like profound joy.
He radiated an unnervingly youthful energy, the kind that comes not from diet or exercise, but from a life spent passionately pursuing a singular, grand truth. He wore simple, well-ironed traditional clothes—a crisp white kurta and pyjama—that lent him an air of quiet authority.
Three younger individuals, assistants likely, moved politely but efficiently around the room, directing Eleanor's team.
"Ms. Vance, if you would please take a moment to settle in," one of the assistants, a young woman with a reassuring smile, requested. "Dr. Rao will be ready as soon as your cameras are aligned."
Eleanor's team began the meticulous process of setting up the key light, the three-point lighting, and the expensive, high-definition 8K cameras. The silence in the room was electric, broken only by the soft click of equipment and the gentle hum of the industrial air conditioning.
Eleanor watched Dr. Rao. He hadn't turned around, yet he seemed intensely aware of their presence. He stood like a statue, a quiet center in the controlled chaos of the global media setup.
When the producer, Michael, gave the subtle 'thumbs-up' signal, Dr. Rao finally turned. His eyes were a startling, clear brown, and they seemed to take in the entire room—the cameras, the crew, and Eleanor—with a sense of ancient patience. He walked slowly, deliberately, towards the table where two chairs had been placed facing one another.
He sat down directly opposite Eleanor, his hands resting calmly in his lap. The camera lights bathed both of them in a brilliant, unforgiving white glow.
Dr. Rao smiled, a genuine, warm expression that momentarily disarmed Eleanor's professional defenses.
"Namaste," he began, his voice surprisingly deep and clear, cutting through the silence of the room. "My name is Dr. Vinkesh Rao. An archaeologist, and I am here for the interview, and for the answers that the world needs to hear."
Eleanor felt the shift. This wasn't a nervous academic; this was a man fully prepared to take the stage. She returned the smile with a practiced, measured courtesy.
"Namaste, Dr. Rao. My name is Eleanor Vance. Let's begin."
She gave a quick nod to Michael off-camera, signaling they were rolling. She paused, letting the weight of the moment hang for a carefully calculated beat, ensuring the audience felt the transition from setup to high-stakes conversation.
"Dr. Rao, the findings and the scriptures you submitted to the World Archaeological Forum have caused a global sensation. They've been analyzed by experts from Oxford to Tsinghua. Why are they so crazy over it? Are the scriptures really written by an emperor of ancient India as an autobiography? Why did he write it? Is this only a mere fantasy story, or a reality that genuinely happened?"
Dr. Rao listened patiently, his smile unwavering, absorbing the rapid-fire questions that were echoing the world's immediate skepticism.
"Ms. Vance," he said softly, "such questions are necessary to ask. We always learn from history, but sometimes history can have something unexpected also. Something that completely changes the rules of what we thought we knew."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking with hers. Eleanor felt an unexpected heat behind the cameras, not of temperature, but of pure narrative focus.
"First, a correction. He was not an emperor," Dr. Rao stated, a note of quiet reverence entering his voice. "He was a Samrat. A unique title, a universal sovereign, who, according to these records, was a legend, a mortal that walked this land more than 2000 years ago."
Eleanor pressed him immediately, her journalistic instinct overriding her composure. "More than 2000 years ago? Dr. Rao, if this Samrat was as great as you claim—a universal sovereign—then why is there no mention of him in our textbooks? Why is he absent from every historical account, every coin, every pillar inscription we've ever found?"
This was the core of the global skepticism. A figure of world-altering power should leave world-altering traces.
Dr. Rao took a deep breath, his eyes crinkling at the corners as if he found the question wonderfully obvious and yet fundamentally complex.
"Ms. Vance, if I may ask, what does most of the rulers seek? What is the single, common goal that drives kings, emperors, and Presidents?"
Eleanor didn't hesitate. "Hmm, it can be fame, glory, wealth, the expansion of their territory… or most commonly, they want to be remembered for future generations. They build monuments, commission histories, and enforce their legacy."
"Precisely," Dr. Rao agreed, nodding slowly. "Your answer is correct. Most rulers fall into one or more of these categories. They lie, they conquer, and they die to ensure their name endures. But now, I tell you something that is fundamentally different, something that makes this Samrat unique. The reason he is not in your textbooks is because he deliberately and completely vanished himself from our history."
The revelation hit Eleanor with the force of an unannounced physical blow. She blinked, her expression slipping for a fraction of a second—a priceless moment the camera captured. Vanish himself? What kind of fantasy is this?
"Is—is that even possible?" she stammered, recovering quickly. "To erase your entire life, your reign, your legacy, across continents and centuries? Why would he do that? And if he did, why is he emerging now?"
Dr. Rao simply smiled, a profound, almost sorrowful expression.
"Even if I told you the reason—which is just one possibility of mine, backed by the sheer impossibility of his disappearance—you and the audience watching now wouldn't believe it. You would see it as poetry, as metaphor, as the delusion of a fading madman."
He paused, letting his quiet authority reclaim the silence of the room, compelling the millions watching to lean in closer to their screens.
"For all of the answers the whole world wants to seek, there is only one way forward. I need to tell you a story. The story of him—Samrat Rudraksha—his journey, his motivations, and what made him so fundamentally different from every other great emperor in our history. A story that begins not with conquest, but with an impossible promise."
Dr. Rao's gaze softened, turning inward, as if he were already seeing the desolate landscape of the past.
"And, Ms. Vance, I can confirm this is not merely a tale of ancient scripture. There is also another definitive proof of the Samrat's life. A clue that the World Archaeological Forum and our government are currently searching for in the Bay of Bengal. A physical, non-scriptural piece of evidence that confirms every single word written in this autobiography. The past, it seems, is no longer willing to be forgotten."
He settled back in his chair, his hands resting on his knees.
"So, let's start now."