The world was not a muffled hum, nor the sterile scent of antiseptic. It was a cacophony of silks rustling, the distant chime of a bell, and the soft, unfamiliar scent of lavender and polished wood. Akash Waker bolted upright, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat. The movement sent a jolt of pain through his still-recovering chest, a phantom echo of the heart attack that had stolen his last breath. He slapped a hand over his sternum, his fingers instinctively searching for a pulse, for the ragged rhythm of a failing organ. Nothing. Only the smooth, unblemished skin of a child.
His eyes, wide and panicked, darted around the room. This wasn't the stark white of his on-call room, nor the impersonal beige of his small apartment. This was a chamber spun from a forgotten era, drenched in rich, crimson and gold. Heavy velvet drapes, embroidered with intricate golden crests, were drawn against the morning light, plunging the room into a luxurious twilight. A four-poster bed, draped with more shimmering fabrics, loomed over him like a majestic, oversized throne. The air was cool, almost sweet, completely devoid of the metallic tang of blood or the lingering scent of illness.
A gilded vanity stood against one wall, its surface laden with delicate porcelain figures and ornate silver brushes. A massive, carved wardrobe, dark as ancient oak, commanded another. The floor was covered in a plush, patterned rug that swallowed the sound of his ragged breathing. This wasn't a hospital. This wasn't his life.
"No, no, no…" he whispered, his voice startlingly high-pitched, childish. He pressed his palms against his eyes, squeezing them shut, willing the opulent vision away. It had to be a dream. A vivid, cruel hallucination brought on by the trauma of his death. But the feeling was too real. The soft give of the feather mattress beneath him, the heavy weight of the silk duvet, the unfamiliar scent filling his lungs.
He opened his eyes again. The royal room remained, unwavering in its grandeur.
The Unlocked Mind
Then, a sudden, blinding flash. Not of light, but of pure, unadulterated information. It was as if a dam had burst in his mind, unleashing a torrent of images, sounds, sensations, and memories. The meticulous details of a complex cardiac bypass surgery, the scent of antiseptic and fear in the OR, the warmth of Priya's gentle hand on his shoulder, the devastating conversation with Meera's parents about their daughter's prognosis, the crushing pressure in his chest, the final, mocking words on his phone screen: "Book 3: The Celestial Physician - Chapter 284: An Unexpected Epilogue."
It wasn't a dream. It was his life. His previous life.
He gasped, a raw, choking sound. The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow, leaving him winded. He, Akash Waker, a cardiac surgeon, had died. And he was… here. In this body. In this room.
He clutched at his head, his small hands barely covering his temples. The sheer shock of it was overwhelming. His scientific mind, trained to observe and analyze, struggled to reconcile this impossible truth. Reincarnation. A concept he had dismissed as fiction, as spiritual solace for the desperate, was now his undeniable reality. He was Akash Waker. He remembered every grueling hour, every life saved, every life lost. He remembered the smell of his coffee, the feeling of worn scrubs, the quiet solitude of his apartment. It was all there, vivid and complete, crashing into the consciousness of this child's mind.
And then, another layer. Blended with his own memories, yet distinct, came the impressions of this life. The gentle faces of his Baron parents, their laughter, their quiet love for their only son. The familiar layout of this very room, the touch of the silk sheets, the taste of the sweet milk he was given each morning. The image of a playful younger sister, her tiny hand in his. This was the life of the boy whose body he now inhabited. A life of quiet privilege, of innocence, and now… of profound tragedy.
The two streams of consciousness, the world-weary surgeon and the sheltered noble child, collided, merging into a single, overwhelming identity. He was both. He was Akash Waker, the doctor. And he was Akash, the young Baron.
A Matter of Urgency
A soft, hesitant knock at the door, lighter than Priya's, but just as insistent, broke through the maelstrom in his mind.
He froze. He was alone. What would he say? What would he do? He was a six-year-old boy in this body, but his mind held the accumulated knowledge and weariness of a forty-year-old cardiac surgeon. The discrepancy was immense.
The knock came again, a little louder. Then, the heavy, ornate door swung inward, revealing a sliver of brightly lit hallway.
A woman stepped in, dressed in a simple, practical gown of deep blue, her dark hair pulled back neatly from a kind, if weary, face. She carried no chart, only the quiet authority of someone long accustomed to the rhythms of this household. She was a maid, perhaps, but one of high standing. The scent of soap and clean linen wafted gently from her.
"Young Master Akash?" she murmured, her voice soft, respectful, yet edged with urgency. Her gaze swept over the room, settling on him, still sitting upright in the bed, clutching the silken duvet. Her brow furrowed slightly. "You are awake." It was more a statement than a question.
Akash stared at her, his mind racing. He had to act. His previous life, his experiences as a surgeon making life-or-death decisions under pressure, instantly kicked in. The initial shock began to recede, replaced by a cold, sharp pragmatism. He recognized the underlying tension in the maid's voice, the slight tremor in her hands as she clasped them before her. She was worried. Very worried.
"Yes," he managed, his voice still a reedy, unfamiliar sound. He cleared his throat, trying to lower the pitch, to sound less startled. "I... I just woke."
"Forgive the intrusion, Young Master," she said, stepping fully into the room. She was perhaps in her late twenties, early thirties. "But the Duke's Young Master, Lord Cedric, has arrived and requests an audience with you. He is in the main receiving hall."
Cedric. The name, gleaned from the original Akash's memories and reinforced by his knowledge of The Celestial Physician, struck a chord. In the novel, Lord Cedric was a minor antagonist, a smug, arrogant young nobleman who frequently tormented the Baron's family, especially the young Akash, who was perceived as weak and sickly. The fact that a Duke's son was demanding an audience with a Baron's child, rather than the Baron himself, was unusual, and deeply unsettling. It bespoke of power dynamics shifting, of something being very wrong.
"Lord Cedric?" Akash repeated, feigning a child's mild confusion. "So early?"
"Indeed, Young Master. He insisted. He said it was a matter of… great urgency." Her eyes flickered with something he recognized as thinly veiled apprehension.
Akash weighed his options. To refuse would be disrespectful, even dangerous, given the power imbalance. To go immediately, however, would be a mistake. He needed time. Time to process. Time to assess. Time to understand the parameters of his new prison, or perhaps, his new opportunity. He couldn't walk into a potentially hostile situation as an emotionally unmoored child. He needed to find his center. He needed his armor.
"Please inform Lord Cedric," Akash said, trying to infuse his voice with a newfound, subtle authority that belied his apparent age. His years of issuing instructions in the operating room, of commanding respect from his team, now served him. "That I require two hours. I have just awakened, and I am not yet… presentable. I will meet him in the receiving hall at the conclusion of that time."
The maid blinked, surprised by the firmness in his tone. The 'Akash' she knew would have meekly agreed, or perhaps even started to cry from the unexpected demand. "Two hours, Young Master?"
"Yes," Akash affirmed, holding her gaze. "Two hours. No less."
She hesitated for a moment longer, then dipped a quick curtsy. "As you wish, Young Master. I shall convey your message." She turned and quietly exited the room, pulling the heavy door shut behind her, leaving Akash alone once more in the crimson-and-gold silence.
The Weight of New Reality
He exhaled slowly, the breath feeling far too shallow in his small chest. Two hours. Not much, but enough. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet, surprisingly small and delicate, touched the plush rug. He felt incredibly light, almost buoyant, a stark contrast to the persistent ache of his old, worn-out body.
Then, a fresh wave of grief, sharp and painful, surged through him, an echo of the original Akash's profound loss. His now fully unlocked memories of this life, coalesced into a horrifying clarity.
His mother and father were killed by a landslide in the way of meeting royal family.
The tragic scene played out in his mind: the overturned carriage, the rush of earth and stone, the frantic, muffled screams. He felt the overwhelming sorrow of the young boy who had witnessed it, the crushing despair as his entire world shattered. He passed out from the pain, cried himself to sleep for days, and in that moment of profound agony and vulnerability, Akash Waker had awakened in his place. The tears, hot and stinging, poured down his face, a fusion of two sorrows.
But even as the grief threatened to consume him, something else asserted itself. The pragmatism. The resilience. The relentless drive for survival and solution that had defined his life as a surgeon. He had seen too much suffering, too much death, to be paralyzed by his own. He had faced impossible odds in the operating room and found a way.
He had to be strong. For this boy. For this life.
He pushed himself off the bed, his legs still a little wobbly. He walked towards the large, ornate mirror on the far wall. The glass, polished to a perfect sheen, reflected his image.
A boy. A very small boy. He was thin, almost delicate, dressed in a loose, silk nightshirt. His face was pale, tear-streaked, framed by dark, unruly hair. He reached up, his fingers brushing against the smooth, unfamiliar skin. He saw the echoes of the child he himself must have been, long, long ago. He hadn't seen a reflection of himself like this in decades, free of the fatigue, the lines of stress, the subtle wear and tear of a life lived on the brink.
Then the age hit him. Six years old. He truly forgot that. He was six. A mere child. Yet inside, he was a forty-year-old man, a highly trained professional, carrying the weight of a thousand lives he had saved, and a hundred he had lost.
Only one thing was different. His eyes.
They were not the tired, hazel eyes he remembered. They were a startling, vibrant crimson, like polished rubies, or perhaps, like fresh arterial blood. They glowed, an internal fire, alien and intense, a stark contrast to the pale face, and the tears still tracing paths down his cheeks. He blinked, but the color remained, unwavering. It was otherworldly. And a new source of apprehension. Was this a symptom of his reincarnation? A magical trait, perhaps, or a marker of his foreignness in this world? He didn't know. But it was impossible to ignore.
He was no longer just Akash Waker, the surgeon. He was Akash, the Baron's son, with the memories of a past life, and now, these strange, crimson eyes.
He remembered something else from his newly unlocked memories, a fragment that suddenly took on a new, urgent meaning. He had a younger sister in this life, a little more than a toddler, who had remained at the estate. A wave of fierce, unbidden protectiveness surged through him. He had no family in his old life. Now, he had one. He had to protect her.
And the maid's tone, the undercurrent of fear when speaking of Lord Cedric, the Duke's Young Master. It suggested that the fragile security of this household, the loyalty of its staff, was already compromised. His father, the Baron, had been a minor noble, loyal but not wealthy. He didn't have the kind of money or influence to withstand the machinations of a powerful Duke. The loyalties of the household would likely be bought, or coerced, by the higher-ups. This visit from Cedric was not a courtesy. It was a hostile takeover.
He looked back at his reflection, at the small, pale boy with the extraordinary crimson eyes. This body was weak. This status was precarious. He, the man who had fought for lives in the sterile confines of an operating theater, now had to fight for his own survival, and for the survival of his new family, in a world where magic and political intrigue held sway.
He, Akash Waker, the cardiac surgeon, now a six-year-old boy with a lifetime of medical knowledge and a pair of unsettlingly red eyes, had to be strong. He had to be smarter, faster, more ruthless than he had ever been. The battlefield had simply shifted from the human body to the treacherous landscape of a fantastical realm.