Darkness.
That was the first thing Ayush became aware of after the crash.
But it wasn't the kind of darkness that brings fear. It wasn't the cold void of death or the panicked abyss of fading consciousness. This was different. It was serene. Expansive. Almost peaceful. A darkness so complete it felt like the beginning of time, before the birth of stars.
Ayush stood—or rather, he existed—in the space between realms. He wasn't in pain. There were no wounds on his body. He had no body at all. He simply... was.
And then, light.
A shimmer of gold broke through the darkness like a divine chisel carving through stone. With each passing moment, the light grew stronger, richer, until Ayush found himself standing on a vast, cosmic plane.
Above him, stars rotated in solemn spirals. Celestial bodies drifted across skies that shifted in color—violet, indigo, crimson, and silver. He looked around, his warrior's instinct still intact even in death. There were no enemies here. Only eternity.
From the light, a sound emerged. A vibration so powerful it made the stars tremble.
"Ayush Deol."
He turned toward the voice.
What he saw would remain etched into his soul for all lifetimes to come.
A figure stood at the edge of the galaxy—tall, majestic, eternal. His matted locks cascaded like rivers of midnight, adorned with the crescent moon. A serpent coiled around his blue throat. The Ganges trickled from his hair. In one hand, he held a trident. In the other, a damaru—the drum that echoed through creation itself.
His third eye remained closed, but its presence was unmistakable.
Lord Shiva. Mahadev. Rudra. The Destroyer.
Ayush fell to his knees, overcome by humility and awe. "Mahadev…"
Shiva gazed upon him—not with warmth or judgment, but with the weight of truth.
"You died as you lived," Shiva spoke, "without hesitation, without fear. Your karma echoes across lifetimes."
Ayush said nothing. What could a man say to the one who dances the universe into creation and destruction?
"You have taken lives," Shiva continued, "and saved many more. You served without seeking glory. You chose to become a ghost so others could sleep in peace. Tell me, Ayush Deol, do you regret anything?"
Ayush paused. His mind flashed back to Vikram Batra's eyes as he died. To the Afghan girl he couldn't save during Operation Devi Shakti. To Rudra's blood on his hands. To the cries of families he couldn't reach in time.
"Yes," he whispered. "I regret the ones I couldn't save."
Shiva's face remained still, but his eyes glinted with something deeper than compassion.
"Even now, you don't speak of your own death. Only others."
"I was just a soldier. I did my duty."
"No," Shiva said, "you were Tandav. The storm that danced over the enemies of Bharat. But your dance is not yet complete."
Ayush looked up, confused.
"I offer you a choice," Shiva declared. "You may pass on to liberation. Or return—reborn, reforged. You will retain no fame, no identity, only purpose. With it, I shall grant you three wishes."
"I accept," Ayush said without pause.
"You don't wish to ask what the cost is?"
"If it protects my nation, the cost doesn't matter."
Shiva nodded. "Then speak your wishes. Choose not power, but precision."
Ayush breathed deeply.
"First," he began, "grant me physical strength beyond normal limits. Not supernatural—but the peak of what a human body can become. Strength, speed, endurance, resilience."
Shiva raised a brow, pleased.
"Second," Ayush continued, "I want the mind of a strategist. The ability to remember everything—faces, maps, languages, tactics. To absorb knowledge like a sponge."
"Not for ego," Shiva noted, "but for mission."
"Exactly."
"Third," he said finally, "I want to heal faster. Not magically. But biologically advanced. Able to resist exhaustion, infection, and injury more effectively than others."
Shiva smiled.
"Not a god. Not a demon. But the perfect soldier."
"I don't want perfection," Ayush said. "I want to survive long enough to protect what matters."
Shiva stepped forward. The ground beneath Ayush shimmered like burning gold.
"Then rise, Tandav reborn."
With a motion of his trident, Shiva channeled a current of cosmic energy into Ayush. Fire didn't consume him—it refined him. Memories of war, blood, loss, training, language, movement, logic—all imprinted into his soul like sacred etchings.
"You shall be reborn in Bharat, after her trial by fire. You will walk through warzones and leave behind peace. You will be hated, feared, forgotten—but you will never fall."
A small, black rudraksha floated into his palm.
"This shall appear when your purpose begins. It will bind you to me—not for power, but for clarity."
Ayush felt himself fading. The light dimmed. The stars drew back.
One last question escaped his lips.
"Will I remember this?"
"Only in dreams," Shiva said. "In battle, in silence, in fire—you will know I walk with you."
A beat of the damaru.
A flash of blue flame.
And then—
A cry echoed through a farmhouse in Punjab.
A child was born under the cover of monsoon clouds. Doctors whispered among themselves. The baby did not cry. He simply opened his eyes and stared at the world as if he had seen it all before.
Dharmendra held the child in shaking hands. "He's… different."
The astrologer bowed low. "This child is marked by Rudra. He will not be an actor. He will be a storm."
They named him Ayush.
And across the realms, a drum echoed.
The Tandav had begun.