The name followed him out of the dream. Pārtha.
Parth awoke just before his 5:00 AM alarm, the single word echoing in the pre-dawn stillness of his room. It wasn't a foreign name. It felt like his own, a name he had answered to for a lifetime, now wrapped in layers of fog. He sat up, running a hand through his thick hair, a familiar wave of frustration washing over him. These were no longer just annoying glitches; they were colonizing his sleep, his mind.
He needed to move. He needed the burn in his lungs and the ache in his muscles to silence the whispers in his head. Dressed in running gear, he stepped out into the cool, damp air of Nashik. It was Thursday, August 7th. The monsoon mist hung low, shrouding the streets in a soft grey veil and mingling with the fragrant smoke from early morning incense sticks.
His route was always the same, a path that led him along the ghats of the Godavari. Here, the ancient and the modern coexisted. Elderly Brahmins in white dhotis performed their morning rituals, their Sanskrit chants swallowed by the mist. Temple bells pealed with a timeless rhythm. A few feet away, students in tracksuits and headphones ran with grim determination, their world confined to the music in their ears.
Parth was an anomaly between these two worlds. He felt the pull of the ancient rituals, an inexplicable familiarity with the chants, yet his focus was on the modern goal: shaving seconds off his time for the Olympic trials. As he ran, his powerful, rhythmic strides commanded an unconscious respect. People seemed to part for him, their eyes drawn to the quiet, dignified intensity that clung to him like a second skin. It was his aura, the "kingly presence" Coach Singh mentioned, and today it felt like a heavy cloak.
He finished his run at a small, dilapidated tea stall near Ram Kund, a place he favoured for its strong, milky chai. The old vendor, a man with a deeply wrinkled face and kind eyes, handed him a small clay cup.
"You look troubled today, beta," the old man said, his voice raspy. He squinted at Parth. "You have the eyes of a king, but the worries of a soldier on the eve of a great battle."
Parth gave a weak, dismissive smile, unnerved by the comment. "Just training pressure, kaka."
The old man simply nodded, his gaze lingering on Parth for a moment too long, as if trying to place a face from a forgotten story.
Back at the academy, the atmosphere was buzzing. The main common area, which had a large-screen television, was more crowded than usual. Today was the day of Hastina Corp's big announcement. The launch of 'CHAKRAVYUH' was being livestreamed globally at 10:00 AM. Parth tried to ignore it, focusing on stretching, but the gravitational pull of the event was too strong. His teammates were chattering excitedly about the technology, about the sheer power wielded by a man like Suyodh Mehra.
Reluctantly, Parth stood at the back of the room as the broadcast began. The production was slick, a masterpiece of corporate propaganda. Then, Suyodh Mehra walked onto the stage. He was met with thunderous applause, his smile radiant, his charisma palpable even through the screen.
"We live in an age of chaos," Suyodh began, his voice smooth and commanding. "An age of variables, uncertainties. We promise security, but deliver only arguments. We promise order, but live in strife.
'CHAKRAVYUH' is not just a product. It is the end of the argument. An indisputable, logical framework for a safer world. A system of total awareness that eliminates the variable of human error, of human malice."
The other athletes were captivated, but Parth felt a cold dread snake its way up his spine. He saw past the polished words to the core desire beneath: control. Absolute, unyielding control.
As Suyodh raised his hand to gesture towards a graphic of the globe being encased in a digital grid, Parth's vision flickered.
The common room vanished. He was on the chariot again. The noise, the chaos, the despair. Across the blood-soaked field of Kurukshetra, on an opulent chariot adorned with the sigil of a roaring mace, stood the enemy king. The prince of the Kurus, his face contorted with envy and rage, lifted his heavy mace and pointed it directly at him.
The face of the enemy king was Suyodh Mehra's.
The vision slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. The face on the television and the face in his ancient memory merged into one.
Suyodh on the stage made a pointing gesture.
The Kuru prince in his vision pointed his mace.
The two images overlaid, a perfect, terrifying match.
Parth gasped, stumbling backward. The glass of water in his hand slipped, shattering on the floor and making several people jump.
"Parth!" Coach Singh was at his side instantly, grabbing his arm to steady him.
Parth couldn't speak. He stared at the screen, at the smiling, triumphant face of Suyodh Mehra, but all he could see was the snarling face of a long-dead king, his sworn enemy. The visceral hatred he felt now had a face, a name, a history written in blood.
The coach led him away from the stunned onlookers and into his small, cluttered office. He sat Parth down, his expression grim. The usual concern had been replaced by genuine alarm.
"This is not just stress anymore," Coach Singh said, his voice low and serious. "I've seen athletes with performance anxiety, with psychological blocks. This is different. What you have... it's deeper."
Parth looked at his coach, his eyes wide with a terror he couldn't articulate.
"A psychiatrist in Mumbai won't understand this," the coach continued, leaning forward. "But this is Nashik. There are people here who understand the troubles of the mind, and the soul. There is a Pandit in the old city, near the Kalaram Mandir. They say he doesn't just read horoscopes; he reads the echoes of past lives. They say he helps those who are haunted." He paused, studying Parth's pale face. "We go see him. Tomorrow."