Rudra waited until the apartment was quiet.
His mother had settled into the bedroom for her afternoon rest, a devotional song murmuring softly from the radio beside her. Outside, the building carried the fading echoes of children returning from school—footsteps on concrete, laughter dissolving down the stairwell.
He sat alone in the hall, cross-legged on the floor.
The cricket bat rested beside him. His schoolbag lay open nearby, books neatly arranged but untouched. He wasn't restless.
He was deliberate.
If this thing exists, he thought, it will not announce itself.
He closed his eyes.
Not in prayer.
In focus.
The change was immediate—but subtle. There was no sound, no flash, no dramatic interruption. It felt instead like becoming aware of a sense he had always possessed but never used, like flexing a muscle that had lain dormant his entire life.
Reality didn't disappear.
It layered.
When he opened his eyes, the hall was still there—the faded sofa, the fan humming overhead—but meaning had quietly arranged itself over the world.
Not as a screen.
As recognition.
Rudra
Age: 12 YEARS OLD (2001)
The information existed the way a thought existed—clear, unquestionable, impossible to touch.
Rudra did not blink.
He examined it the way he once examined hotel ledgers and legal documents—calmly, analytically, without excitement.
"No greeting," he murmured. "No instructions."
Nothing responded.
As his attention deepened, more clarity surfaced—not all at once, but only where his awareness rested.
A sense of accumulation formed.
Overall Level: 03
Title: Apprentice
Below that, understanding tightened.
Overall Progress: 214 / 1,000 EXP
He frowned slightly.
Overall, he noted. Not tied to any single ability.
So this system didn't reward isolated talent. It tracked total effort, across everything he did.
That alone told him more than any tutorial ever could.
His awareness drifted inward—toward his body.
A faint stiffness lingered in his legs from the walk home.
Recognition followed.
Strength: Lv 02 (18 / 100 EXP)
Stamina: Lv 03 (42 / 100 EXP)
Reflex: Lv 04 (11 / 100 EXP)
Flexibility: Lv 01 (67 / 100 EXP)
Rudra exhaled slowly.
"This body…" he muttered.
Weak. Undeveloped. Honest.
There was no promise embedded in the numbers. No suggestion of future greatness. Just a clean record of what existed right now.
And then, quietly—
Status Note:Regresses if neglected
His adult mind immediately grasped the meaning.
The body did not care about memory. Or intent. Or past achievement.
It demanded consistency—or it decayed.
He shifted his focus again, this time inward, toward thought.
The world sharpened slightly.
Focus: Lv 06 (27 / 100 EXP)
Memory: Lv 07 (09 / 100 EXP)
Emotional Control: Lv 05 (61 / 100 EXP)
Decision Speed: Lv 04 (33 / 100 EXP)
Higher.
As expected.
Forty-four years of living hadn't vanished just because his body had shrunk. Patterns remained. Habits. Restraint.
But there it was again—
Regression: Minimal
"Even the mind rusts," he whispered.
Good.
That meant it was still alive.
Finally, his attention settled where his heart had already been waiting.
The bat beside him.
The motion.
The game.
Understanding surfaced.
Batting Timing: Lv 01 (2 / 100 EXP)
Shot Selection: Lv 01 (0 / 100 EXP)
Hand–Eye Coordination: Lv 02 (14 / 100 EXP)
Field Awareness: Lv 01 (6 / 100 EXP)
His fingers curled slowly.
Permanent.
That single concept anchored everything.
"No decay," he said softly. "No loss."
This system didn't reward desire.
It rewarded imprint.
Memories alone meant nothing. Only what had been practiced—properly—remained.
Batting Timing was barely begun.
That made sense.
The mind remembered, but the body had to be taught again.
Rudra leaned back against the wall, letting the layers remain without forcing them.
"There are no quests," he observed. "No objectives. No deadlines."
Nothing contradicted him.
That silence was confirmation enough.
This system would never tell him what to do.
It would never stop him from failing.
It would never protect him from wasted days.
It would only record the truth.
Effort in.
Numbers out.
Nothing else.
He relaxed his focus.
The information didn't vanish—it simply became irrelevant, fading like a thought no longer needed.
The hall returned to normal. The fan hummed. The radio played softly from the bedroom.
Rudra stood.
He picked up the cricket bat.
It felt light.
Awkward.
Incomplete.
"Lv 01," he murmured.
No shame in that.
He stepped into the narrow hallway, adjusted his stance, and shadow-swung once—slow, controlled, intentional.
Not play.
Practice.
Somewhere, silently, truth adjusted itself.
And for the first time in both his lives, Rudra understood exactly how growth would look.
Not as dreams.
Not as promises.
But as numbers that refused to lie.