The electromagnetic field generator hummed with a dangerous intensity that made Dr. Sharath Krishnamurthy's teeth ache. Numbers cascaded across his computer screen—power readings, magnetic field strength, quantum flux measurements—all climbing toward theoretical limits that existed only in his equations. The laboratory's cooling system struggled against the heat radiating from the massive device at the chamber's center, its superconducting coils glowing with an ethereal blue light.
"Sharath, the containment field is fluctuating," called Dr. Elena Vasquez from the monitoring station, her voice tight with concern. "We're seeing resonance patterns I've never encountered before."
He didn't look up from his calculations, fingers flying across the holographic interface as he adjusted parameters in real-time. Three years of work had led to this moment—the first successful attempt at creating a stable micro-wormhole using artificially generated exotic matter. The implications were staggering instant communication across galactic distances, perhaps than-light travel. Nobel Prizes would be just the beginning.
"It's holding," he muttered, sweat beading on his forehead despite the laboratory's chill. "The exotic matter is maintaining coherence. Elena, are you recording everything?"
"Every microsecond. Sharath, seriously, look at these quantum fluctuation readings. Something's not—"
The world exploded into light.
Sharath felt his consciousness torn from his body with violent suddenness, reality fracturing around him like glass. The familiar weight of his physical form dissolved, replaced by something impossible—a sensation of falling upward through dimensions that human language could never describe. Colors that had no names seared across his perception and sounds that transcended audio rang through his disembodied awareness.
*This is death,* he realized with crystalline clarity. *The containment field collapsed. I'm dying.*
But death, it seemed, was not an ending.
His consciousness tumbled through what felt like an endless tunnel of swirling energy, fragments of his life flashing past like scattered photographs: his childhood in Chennai, his parents' proud faces at his MIT graduation, Elena's laugh when he'd first explained his wormhole theory, the countless late nights spent chasing equations that danced just beyond comprehension.
Then, with a sensation like breaking through the surface of deep water, everything changed.
*Cold. Wet. Confined.*
The first sensations to register in his new existence were overwhelming in their immediacy. He tried to open his eyes but found his eyelids too heavy, too new. He attempted to move his arms and felt only small, weak limbs that barely responded to his will. The horror of realization struck him like lightning.
*I'm an infant. I've been reborn.*
But even as panic threatened to overwhelm him, his scientific mind began cataloging impossibilities. The air itself seemed to shimmer with energy patterns visible even through his closed eyelids—flowing streams of what looked like luminescent particles moving in complex mathematical patterns. It wasn't random; there was structure here, organization, laws governing phenomena that didn't exist in the universe he'd known.
Through his infant eyes, now slowly learning to focus, he could see his new mother's face hovering above him. She was beautiful in a way that spoke of nobility—high cheekbones, intelligent eyes, and skin that seemed to literally glow with health. When she spoke, her words carried melodic qualities that suggested a language evolved for more than mere communication.
"My little scholar," she whispered in what his analytical mind immediately recognized as having Sanskrit-like grammatical structures but with vocabulary he'd never encountered. Somehow, impossibly, he understood every word. "Such serious eyes you have. What thoughts hide behind them?"
*More than you could imagine,* he thought, trying to reconcile his adult consciousness with his infant body's limitations. *I need to understand where I am. What I am. What those energy patterns in the air represent.*
His new father appeared beside his mother, and Sharath's enhanced perception immediately cataloged details that his infant eyes shouldn't have been able to process. The man wore clothing that combined medieval aesthetics with clear signs of advanced engineering—fabric that seemed to regulate its own temperature, clasps that moved without mechanical contact, and an amulet around his neck that pulsed in rhythm with the energy patterns flowing through the air.
"He watches everything," his father observed, voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to command. "See how his eyes track the mana flows? I've never seen an infant show such awareness."
*Mana,* Sharath filed away the term. *So the energy patterns have a name. They're calling it mana, like in fantasy games, but this is real. This is observable, quantifiable phenomena.*
As the days passed—though measuring time proved challenging when his only reference points were feeding and sleeping cycles—Sharath began systematic observation of his new world. His infant body might be helpless, but his mind remained sharp, perhaps even enhanced by whatever process had brought him here.
The house where he'd been born was clearly constructed with advanced understanding of both engineering and the mysterious mana that flowed everywhere. Walls curved in mathematically elegant arcs that seemed to channel and concentrate the energy flows. Lighting came not from candles or even electricity, but from crystalline formations that converted mana directly into photons through processes that made his physicist's heart race with curiosity.
*They've solved the energy crisis,* he realized during one of his observation sessions. *Not through technology as I understood it, but through direct manipulation of some fundamental force. If I could understand the principles...*
His new parents treated him with a careful attention that spoke of his value to them. His mother, whom he learned was called Lady Darsha, sang to him in that melodic language while demonstrating what could only be called minor miracles—making flowers bloom with a touch, purifying water with a gesture, healing small cuts with concentrated thought. Magic, but magic that followed observable patterns, magic that had rules.
His father, Lord Darsha, was clearly a man of importance. Servants addressed him with titles that suggested administrative authority, and visitors who came to pay respects to the new heir spoke of regional governance, trade negotiations, and the complex political landscape of what Sharath was beginning to understand was a feudal society enhanced by widespread access to magical energy.
*Medieval social structures with advanced energy manipulation,* he cataloged. *They've taken a different technological path entirely. Where we developed external tools and machines, they've learned to directly interface with fundamental forces.*
But it was the language that fascinated him most. As his infant brain developed, he found himself absorbing the Sanskrit-like tongue with supernatural speed. More than that, he began to recognize that the language itself was structured to interact with mana flows. Certain syllables created resonances in the energy patterns, certain combinations of words could apparently focus and direct the mysterious force.
*It's not just communication,* he realized during one evening's observation session. *The language is an interface. They've evolved their communication system to serve as a direct control mechanism for energy manipulation. That's why the grammar feels so precise, so mathematical. It IS mathematical.*
His parents began to notice his unusual alertness early. Where other infants might sleep twenty hours per day and show only basic responses to stimuli, Sharath found himself aware and observant for longer periods, his eyes tracking the movement of people, the flow of mana through household objects, the complex patterns of daily life in a magical noble household.
"He's too aware," Lady Darsha confided to her husband one evening, unaware that their infant son understood every word. "I've raised children before—this level of focus isn't natural for one so young."
"Perhaps he's blessed," Lord Darsha replied thoughtfully. "The kingdom needs bright minds, especially in these uncertain times. If the boy has gifts, we should nurture them carefully."
*Gifts,* Sharath mused. *If only they knew. I have thirty-five years of advanced scientific training trapped in an infant's body, in a world that's somehow made magic into physics. The possibilities are...*
But even as excitement built in his mind, he forced himself to be patient. His infant body was still developing, his vocal cords not yet capable of the complex sounds his new language required. For now, observation was all he could manage. Observation, analysis, and careful planning for what he might accomplish once his body caught up with his mind.
As his first month of life in this new world drew to a close, Sharath had already begun to see the outlines of a future that combined his knowledge of Earth's physical sciences with this world's mastery of direct energy manipulation. The implications were staggering technologies that could advance this medieval society by centuries, solutions to problems they didn't even know they had, innovations that could transform not just kingdoms but the fundamental nature of civilization itself.
*But first,* he reminded himself as Lady Darsha lifted him for his evening feeding, *I need to grow. To learn their systems completely. To understand not just the science of this world, but its politics, its culture, its possibilities and limitations.*
Through the window, he could see the lights of the city below, each one a point of converted mana, each one representing potential. Somewhere in that maze of medieval streets and magical technology lay the future he would build, the synthesis of two worlds' knowledge that could change everything.
*This is just the beginning,* he promised himself as sleep finally claimed his infant body. *I died as one man. I'll live as something entirely new.*