Umair Alvi was a history teacher by profession, but a historian by temperament. He taught at a modest college in India, where classrooms were noisy, resources scarce, and ambitions often drowned in routine. Yet, Umair treated history with reverence. To him, it was never just stories of kings and wars. It was a chain of choices; decisions that empires made, and mistakes that led to their downfall.
He studied world history with almost obsessive precision: the Roman Empire, the Abbasids, the British Empire and above all, the Ottoman Empire. The Ottomans fascinated him most. Their decline had been slow and visible, like a candle burning from both ends. Reform came too late, debt came early, foreign influence crept in quietly and stayed forever. Umair knew the timelines by heart. Ironically, all that knowledge could not save his own life.
When stable teaching positions dried up, Umair accepted an offer from Russia, believing it would allow him to continue his work. It was a trap. His documents were seized, his savings stolen, and those who had promised him security vanished.
Then came the war.
As the Russia-Ukraine conflict intensified, foreigners without legal protection were conscripted into service. Umair had no combat skills. He was assigned to logistics; moving supplies, guarding storage, maintaining base security. Safer than the front lines, yes, but still deadly.
One cold night, he was posted at a base responsible for transporting strategic materials. The truck he guarded carried sealed containers marked with hazard symbols. Umair noticed them immediately. Where others saw only crates, he saw danger. Inside were radioactive isotopes, Cesium-137 among them, and toxic chemical compounds. Stable only under strict conditions, these materials were harmless until mishandled. Failures meant death.
Before dawn, the attack came. Ukrainian jets screamed across the sky, bombs tearing through the compound. Explosions shook the earth, fire roaring everywhere. The transport truck took a direct hit. Protective casings ruptured.
Umair was thrown to the ground.
White vapor hissed into the cold air as chemical reactions ignited. Radiation spread invisibly, instantly lethal. His body froze. Every instinct screamed, but he could not move. Awareness faded. No pain. Just silence.
Then, shockingly, he woke up, not to the battlefield, but to the cold tiles of a bathhouse. Confusion hit immediately. The air smelled of warm water, soap, and damp stone. It was heavy, charged with a strange energy.
Memories crashed over him. He realized the truth: he had been transmigrated. He was no longer Umair Alvi. He was Şehzade Abdulaziz, fifteen years old, a prince of the Ottoman Empire, destined to ascend the throne in a year.
He was overjoyed. Then he remembered: according to original history, Abdulaziz should have been thirty years old, while he was only sixteen. It should be the butterfly effect. He tried to recall any other change. But the rest of history was the same. "It should be a butterfly effect," he concluded.
While he was recalling his memories, a sudden, searing pain surged through his chest and limbs. He collapsed again, the world fading to black.
When he opened his eyes a second time, he felt strength, vitality, and presence unlike anything before. His body had transformed. Every muscle, every line was perfect, broad shoulders, sculpted chest and arms, a narrow waist, and legs that could run for miles without fatigue. He was 1.85 meters tall, a perfect balance of power and agility.
His face had changed too. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, deep commanding eyes. Even covered in grime, he radiated authority. He stumbled toward a mirror and froze. The reflection staring back at him was both familiar and different, an extremely handsome young face was reflected from it. He compared himself to the body he remembered. The differences were staggering. He was taller, stronger, more imposing. Yet he could hide it. Most of his time would be spent in the Royal Lodge, surrounded by loyal servants. Here, his form could be observed without alarm, allowing him to train, learn, and plan.
Memories of his new life flooded him, the privileges, the dangers, the responsibilities. In one year, he would be Sultan. Until then, every glance, every word, every action would be watched. Patience and strategy would be his first lessons.
A knock at the door broke his thoughts.
"Prince, are you alright?" a guard called.
Abdulaziz straightened, his newfound presence commanding even in the small bathhouse. "I am fine," he replied calmly. "You may leave."
He finished bathing, letting the warm water wash away not just the grime but the lingering tendrils of fear. Steam curled around him, rising like whispers of a past life he could no longer remember. When he called for the maid, she arrived promptly, carrying his fresh garments. The fabric slid across his sculpted form with the smoothness of silk.
Her eyes widened, lingering for a heartbeat too long. Abdulaziz's body had changed, muscles now defined where once there had been none, strength and grace woven together in every line. The sight seemed to catch her breath; her cheeks flushed as she whispered, almost to herself, "Why haven't I noticed until now that the prince… has such a body?"
Abdulaziz met her gaze briefly, expression unreadable, then turned away. "Place the garments here," he commanded, voice steady, indifferent. "You may leave."
She obeyed silently, retreating with a mixture of awe and hesitation. Alone again, Abdulaziz dressed with meticulous precision. Each movement was measured, controlled, every fold and crease attended to. The tunic clung a little too snugly around his chest and shoulders, but he accepted it, an acknowledgment of the transformation that had reshaped him, inside and out.
When he returned to his chambers, freshly dressed, a slow, deliberate knock came at the door. Entering was his personal butler, a man in his mid-thirties whose presence carried both authority and quiet precision. His hair was dark, neatly combed back, framing a face of sharp features, high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Though young, his posture was flawless, his movements deliberate, and his composure unshakable.
The butler, named Khalid, had been an orphan that his late mother had arranged for him to serve Abdulaziz's family, ensuring he would have both a home and purpose. She had raised him with discipline and care, instilling in him an unshakeable sense of loyalty and duty. Khalid owed everything to her and to the young prince he had sworn to protect and serve, his allegiance absolute.
He noticed the change in Abdulaziz and was surprised by this much change but tactically didn't inquire. "Your Highness," he said, voice calm and measured, carrying the weight of both experience and devotion. "Your breakfast is ready."
"Thank you, Khalid,"Abdulaziz nodded and said, his voice calm but carrying an edge of authority. "I trust everything is as it should be?"
"Indeed, Your Highness," Khalid replied promptly, his tone deferential yet steady. "All arrangements have been made according to your usual preference."