Harsh's hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the dials of the quantum field simulator. The dim lab was bathed in the cold, sterile glow of overhead fluorescent lights, while the machine at the center of the room hummed with mounting intensity. The faint scent of solder and ozone lingered in the air—a smell he had grown used to over months of tinkering.
The display flickered erratically, the waveforms fluctuating in patterns that defied their earlier calculations. Harsh wiped his palms on his lab coat and stared at the chaotic data streaming across the monitor.
"Too unstable," he muttered under his breath, feeling his throat tighten with a mixture of anxiety and fascination.
Behind him, Dr. Sharma, his PhD mentor, scrutinized the readings. His voice was steady but edged with tension. "The frequency modulation's slipping out of phase. Reduce it by half a percent."
Harsh's fingers flew over the console, adjusting the parameters with the precision of someone who had spent endless nights refining every detail. Though still an intern, he had earned the professor's trust through sheer persistence. He was not some prodigy or genius—just a determined student of science with the rare willingness to endure the grueling hours and meticulous failures that came with cutting-edge research.
The machine—a compact web of superconducting coils and particle accelerators—was a project meant only for controlled field tests. Their goal had been modest: to simulate brief field distortions and measure how quantum particles reacted under artificial gravity shifts. But tonight, something had gone wrong. The readings were spiking erratically, and the core was humming with a resonance they had never seen before.
Harsh glanced at Dr. Sharma. The older man's face, usually calm, was tight with concentration. "Too fast," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "It's—"
The machine shrieked. A wave of blinding indigo light burst from the core, engulfing the entire lab in a swirling cascade of energy. Harsh barely had time to register the explosion of pressure before he felt himself wrenched from the floor. His body twisted violently as if he were being dragged through a whirlpool of light and shadow.
Then, nothing.
---
When Harsh opened his eyes, he was lying on his back, the rough texture of dirt and grass pressing against his palms. His ears rang with a faint, high-pitched whine, and his chest ached as though the breath had been knocked out of him.
For a moment, he stared at the sky—an unblemished canvas of deep blue streaked with the hues of dawn. No artificial lights, no smog, no distant hum of traffic. Only the faint rustle of leaves in the wind and the distant calls of birds.
Disoriented, he pushed himself up, his fingers digging into the coarse soil. His lab coat was gone. Instead, he was wearing unfamiliar garments—soft linen tunic and fitted trousers, their edges subtly embroidered with gold thread. His boots, sturdy and well-worn, spoke of practical travel.
"What the…" he whispered, blinking hard.
The air was warmer and heavier than he was used to. The scent of damp earth, woodsmoke, and faint spices drifted on the breeze. Slowly, he staggered to his feet, taking in his surroundings. He was in the middle of a field bordered by trees. A dirt road wound through the landscape, cutting through clusters of thatched huts and stone structures in the distance.
For several moments, he stood frozen, trying to process what he was seeing. The settlement—if that's what it was—looked nothing like the modern villages he knew. The architecture was ancient. The people he glimpsed moving in the distance wore simple, archaic garments.
His heart clenched. This can't be real.
As he stumbled forward, trying to make sense of his situation, a man on horseback emerged from the woods. The rider, dressed in a rough cotton tunic and a leather breastplate, pulled his reins sharply. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Harsh.
"Hey! You there!" the man barked, spurring his horse closer.
Harsh's eyes widened. The rider spoke in flawless Prakrit, an ancient language he had only ever heard in documentaries. Yet he understood every word as though it were his own. His disorientation deepened.
Before Harsh could respond, the man slid off his horse and approached him with cautious authority. His eyes flicked over Harsh's fine tunic and sturdy boots—garments of obvious wealth. The man's expression shifted from suspicion to recognition.
"My lord!" he said, his voice changing to reverence. He bent forward, prepared to kneel.
Confusion crashed over Harsh. My lord? What the hell?
Before the man's knee could touch the earth, Harsh's instincts kicked in. He stretched out a hand and stopped him mid-motion.
"No. Don't kneel," Harsh said sharply. His voice came out rougher than he intended. The man's eyes widened, startled.
"Lord?"
Harsh's throat tightened. His pulse hammered in his ears. "No one should kneel before me," he said firmly, his voice low but clear. "Only before God… or your parents."
The man froze, clearly bewildered by the statement. No noble would stop a commoner from kneeling—it was unthinkable. Yet Harsh's words were spoken with such calm authority that the man hesitated, then straightened.
A group of peasants emerged from the tree line, clearly having overheard the exchange. They glanced between Harsh and the soldier, their faces a mixture of confusion and awe. The stranger in noble clothes, with the voice of command, had just denied the age-old right of men to kneel before their betters.
Before Harsh could process what was happening, a second figure appeared—a thin man with graying hair, his face lined with age and worry. He wore the robes of a steward, his sash embroidered with the insignia of a minor noble family.
"My lord! You have returned!" the older man called, his voice cracking with relief.
Harsh's stomach twisted. Returned?
The steward reached him and bowed deeply, clasping Harsh's hand between his own. "We feared you were lost to the river's wrath. The gods have been merciful."
Harsh's throat constricted. The river? Memories that were not his own stirred at the edge of his consciousness—flashes of riding along a flooded riverbank, of falling into the raging current. This is not my life.
But the men knew him. They spoke with certainty. And somehow, he knew them in return. The steward's name slipped into his mind as though he had always known it.
"Rama…" he muttered without thinking, the name unfamiliar yet familiar.
The old man's eyes brightened with relief. "Yes, my lord!"
Harsh's knees weakened, but he steadied himself. His heart pounded as he realized the machine had not simply transported him—it had rewritten his existence. He was no longer Harsh, the science intern. In this time, he was Lord Harsh—the minor noble they believed had returned from a near-death accident.
The peasants and soldiers around him bowed deeply, reverently. Harsh stared at them, his hands trembling. They think I am their lord.
The weight of the moment pressed down on him, and somewhere in the depths of his mind, a cold realization settled. I am one of them now. A man of title and blood. No longer just a scientist.
And as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the road, Harsh knew with bone-deep certainty that he was no longer a visitor in this time. He was a part of it now—and the burden of his title would become his first chain.
---