My name is Ansh Agrawal. I am sixteen years old. People say that life at this age is supposed to be filled with dreams, laughter, and the certainty that the world lies ahead, waiting to be conquered. But for me, life has always been a quiet storm of loneliness, pain, and unfinished dreams.
When I was five, my parents died. I don't remember much of that day anymore—just the hollow feeling that followed, the way the world seemed too big and too empty without them. My relatives didn't take me in. They gave me the inheritance my parents had left behind, a modest amount of money that could keep me alive but never let me live. It paid for food, for school, for the small rented place I called home. It gave me a roof but never comfort, security but never love. From then on, I learned what it meant to be truly alone in the world.
Even so, I found a reason to breathe. Cricket. It wasn't just a sport to me—it was my heartbeat, my passion, my dream. I grew up clutching a bat that was too heavy for my small hands, swinging at shadows in the orphanage courtyard, imagining myself under the lights of a roaring stadium. Cricket gave me purpose when everything else seemed meaningless.
But fate is cruel. At thirteen, I injured my right leg badly. A fracture that didn't heal properly, a mistake that left me with a limp. I could walk, yes, but not run like before. Not chase the ball like I once did. Not move with the sharp footwork that cricket demanded. Every trial, every chance, ended in rejection. "You don't have the speed," the coaches said. "You'll only hold the team back."
Their words buried themselves into me deeper than the injury ever did.
I tried to fight. I worked small part-time jobs to support myself, stretching the money left behind by my parents. I studied when I had to, worked when I had no choice, but every night I returned to cricket in my heart. I watched others play from the sidelines, my soul aching each time I saw a boy my age swing the bat or dive across the field. They had opportunities, families, coaches. I had nothing but my will, and even that wasn't enough to break through the wall my body had built against me.
As I walked home one evening, these thoughts weighed heavily on my shoulders. The streets were narrow, bathed in the fading gold of the setting sun. My bag hung loosely on my back, and with each step my injured leg throbbed faintly, a cruel reminder of what I had lost. I thought about my life, about how far I had come alone, about the dreams I had buried but could never forget. If only I had been given a chance. If only there was a world where I wasn't bound by weakness, where fate didn't crush passion so easily.
The sound of tires screeching pulled me out of my thoughts.
"Get out of the way, kid!" a voice shouted.
I turned my head instinctively.
A truck was barreling down the road, headlights blazing, far too close. My body froze. My mind screamed at me to move, but my injured leg faltered. I tried to leap aside, but I was too slow. The last thing I felt was the raw impact, pain shooting through every nerve as if my entire being had shattered in a single instant.
The world turned dark.
I floated in silence. There was no ground beneath me, no sky above me, no pain, no warmth, no heartbeat. Only emptiness. I wondered if this was death, if this was the end of everything.
And then I heard it.
Ding!
A sound that echoed in the void, sharp and mechanical, breaking through the nothingness.
"You are the lucky one," a calm, emotionless voice declared.
Lucky? The word struck me as cruel. I had lost my parents, lost my dream, lost my very life. What part of that was luck?
But the voice continued, unbothered by my silent despair.
"You have been chosen. You will receive two gifts."
My fading consciousness stirred. Two gifts?
"Gift one: Peak Batting Skills."
The moment the words sank in, visions erupted in my mind. I saw myself gripping a bat with flawless ease, my body moving in perfect synchronization with the game. Every shot I had ever admired, every technique I had once struggled to replicate, flowed from me like second nature. Cover drives that split the field like poetry, hook shots that soared beyond boundaries, delicate flicks that defied bowlers' expectations. It wasn't just talent—it was mastery, as though cricket itself had been engraved into my soul.
"Gift two: Injurless Body."
A warmth spread through me. I saw a body unshackled by pain, strong legs that could sprint tirelessly, lungs that could endure hours on the field, reflexes sharp as lightning. Muscles honed to perfection, bones unbreakable, a physique designed for the relentless demands of the sport I loved. A body that could chase dreams without fear of breaking down.
The voice resonated once more, its tone carrying a finality that etched itself into my very core.
"These gifts are your foundation. You can continue to develop through your own hard work. Talent has been granted. Fate has been reset. What you achieve from this point forward will be yours to decide."
The sound faded, leaving behind silence, but inside me a fire had begun to burn. For years, I had dreamed of nothing but cricket. For years, I had cursed the chains of my body. And now, here in the void of death, I was given the one thing I had prayed for all my life—another chance.
The darkness around me shifted. I felt my soul being pulled, stretched, lifted into something vast and unknown. A force tugged me forward, stronger than gravity, more absolute than death. My very identity trembled as if being rewritten.
This was not the end.
Somewhere beyond this void, something awaited me.
A second chance.
A new world.
A new life.
The transmigration had begun.