The last thing Aryavardhan remembered was the library.
Not the people. Not the noise outside.
Just the smell.
Old paper had a smell that could not be faked. Dry, dusty, a little sweet. The kind that stayed in your nose long after you left. He had always liked it. To him, it meant time—real time, not the kind that rushed past on screens.
He had been reading about Kalinga.
Again.
The chapter talked about war, death, and regret. About how Ashoka conquered Kalinga, how the rivers ran red, how the horror of it changed him forever. History books loved that part. They always talked about Ashoka.
But Aryavardhan had closed the book that day feeling uneasy.
Kalinga disappears too easily, he had thought. As if it existed only to teach someone else a lesson.
That thought stayed with him as he leaned back in his chair.
And then—everything went dark.
When he opened his eyes again, the silence felt different.
Not empty. Just… open.
Voices drifted in from somewhere nearby. Calm voices. Thoughtful ones. People speaking without hurry, without fear. The air felt warm on his skin.
Aryavardhan blinked and sat up slowly.
The first thing he noticed was the ceiling.
Wooden beams. Carved by hand. Patterns of waves, suns, and ships etched into them. Sunlight slipped through narrow windows, lighting up rows of shelves filled with long bundles of palm leaves tied together with string.
This isn't a hospital, he thought.
His heart began to beat faster.
He looked down at his hands.
They were smaller. Thinner. Younger.
He stood up and walked unsteadily toward a bronze bowl placed near a pillar. The reflection staring back at him made his breath catch.
A teenage boy. Dark eyes. Sharp face. Someone strong, but not yet finished growing.
"That's not me," he whispered.
Or maybe it was.
"Are you feeling better?"
The voice came from behind him.
Aryavardhan turned around and saw a man watching him with mild concern. The man wore simple clothes, clean and well-kept. There was no armor, no crown—just confidence. The kind that came from knowledge, not power.
"You fainted during the discussion," the man said. "Happens sometimes. Especially to students who forget to rest."
Students.
The word echoed in Aryavardhan's head.
"I… I'm fine," Aryavardhan said carefully.
The man nodded. "Good. I am Samudragupta. I teach here."
Here.
Aryavardhan looked around again.
People were seated in groups, arguing softly. One old scholar drew shapes on a wooden board while younger ones listened. Another group discussed something about winds and seasons. No one noticed Aryavardhan anymore. No one treated this place like it was strange.
Because to them, it wasn't.
"This is…" Aryavardhan hesitated. "Where am I?"
Samudragupta raised an eyebrow. "You truly exhausted yourself."
Then he smiled slightly. "You are in Tosali. One of Kalinga's learning halls."
Kalinga.
The word landed heavily in Aryavardhan's chest.
Not a ruin.
Not a battlefield.
Not a memory.
A living place.
Later that day, Aryavardhan walked through the city.
No one stopped him. No guards questioned him. Students came and went freely, some carrying manuscripts, others debating loudly as they walked. Learning here was not locked behind walls. It spilled into streets and markets.
The city opened toward the sea.
Aryavardhan stood still when he reached the docks.
Ships lined the coast—some small, some large. Sailors shouted instructions while merchants checked cargo lists. Cranes made of wood and rope lifted heavy loads. Everything moved with practiced ease.
This wasn't chaos.
This was order.
He remembered the books from his old life. How they described ancient kingdoms as simple, slow, almost helpless. Looking at Kalinga now, those descriptions felt dishonest.
This place knew trade.
It knew ships.
It knew planning.
It just didn't know the future.
That was the difference.
A deep sound echoed across the city—conch shells blown from a high place. People paused, then slowly began moving in one direction.
"The council is gathering," someone said nearby.
Aryavardhan followed them.
From the terrace, he could see almost everything. Roads connecting districts. Fields beyond the city, watered by canals. Watchtowers placed carefully, not desperately.
Kalinga was not afraid.
And that scared him more than weakness ever could.
Because he remembered what was coming.
That night, Aryavardhan lay awake.
Sleep refused to come.
His mind was too clear.
Dates rose uninvited. Campaigns. Supply lines. How Magadha expanded. How Ashoka fought not just with armies, but with patience. How Kalinga resisted—and lost.
Not because it was foolish, Aryavardhan thought. But because it stood alone.
He sat up and stared at the ceiling.
"If I try to change everything," he whispered, "I'll fail."
Heroes burned out. Geniuses were ignored. Kings died.
Civilizations survived only when their people carried the weight together.
Kalinga already had knowledge.
What it needed was habit.
Recording. Testing. Sharing. Improving.
Not secrets passed from master to apprentice—but systems passed from one generation to the next.
"I won't build anything," Aryavardhan said softly. "That's not my place."
Instead, he would ask questions.
Why not write down failures?
Why not test ideas more than once?
Why not let scholars talk to craftsmen?
Why not let merchants learn mathematics properly?
Small questions.
But questions that stayed.
Outside, the sound of the sea rolled in and out, steady and patient.
Aryavardhan closed his eyes.