Rudram Senai's life was a masterclass in insignificance. Every day, he moved through the city like a shadow that refused to exist—dodging speeding bikes, scolding ungrateful customers, scraping together coins that barely covered breakfast. By evening, he felt less like a person and more like a collection of aching limbs and rumbling stomachs.
His home—or what passed for one—was a tiny, crumbling hut perched on the roadside in the middle of a highway. The wood was warped, the roof sagging, the walls coated in dust and faint traces of past storms. He dumped his bag onto the uneven floorboards and collapsed onto the cot, muscles screaming for mercy.
Despite the hardships, there was one bright spot: his mobile phone. It was his sanctuary, his escape, the only thing that felt like his own. Tonight, it would also be the harbinger of something far stranger than he could imagine.
Scrolling frantically through his favorite webnovel app, Rudram finally found it: Unchanged Destiny. The title gleamed like a beacon in his otherwise drab existence. He clicked it.
What began as "just a chapter" spiraled into dozens, then hundreds. Chapter 1, 2, 3… blur into each other—150, 200, maybe 300. Who could say? He devoured every word, laughing, groaning, yelling at the characters, gasping at twists that hit harder than he expected.
By the time he reached the final chapter, Rudram flung his arms into the air and screamed. The sound was raw, jagged, painfully warm. It was release, catharsis, an outpouring of every frustration and longing he hadn't realized he was carrying.
And then he noticed the time: seven a.m.
"Sh…sh—shit. Nine… work… I… can't…" Every fiber of his body refused to obey. He could force himself up, drag himself through another exhausting day—but not now. Not after that. Not after the story had filled him with a strange, bittersweet exhaustion that made every thought too heavy to lift.
He surrendered to sleep, letting it swallow him whole. And as consciousness drifted away, only the echoes of the story remained, warm and lingering in his chest.
When Rudram awoke again, the world felt… different. Something was wrong—not the kind of wrong that screams danger immediately, but the quiet, subtle wrong that seeps under your skin and refuses to leave.
His eyes blinked open. Evening—or at least, that's what the dim amber light brushing the room suggested. Relief washed over him. Five p.m. Perfect. Time to sleep, finally.
Then he looked down at himself. His body was clothed properly, a neat nightdress replacing the undergarments he usually favored for comfort. He lifted a hand to touch it, then froze. The room—no, not his hut—was gone. The tent? The hut? Where was everything? His mobile? That phone he had paid three years of installments for, sometimes skipping meals just to keep it?
Panic prickled at the edges of his mind. "No… no… this can't be happening."
And then he saw it: the glint of his mobile across the room. Relief surged almost absurdly. "Yes… my baby." He lunged, heart hammering.
Footsteps—soft, deliberate—stopped him in his tracks. A woman approached. Rudram's mind screamed: Hide, now!
He shoved the phone into his pocket and flattened himself under the bed, barely daring to breathe. Humor, the faint rebellious spark he clung to in modern life, bubbled faintly: Well, at least she's not a demon… yet.
Survival overrode everything. Muscles coiled, mind sharpened. One wrong move, one twitch, and it was over.
The lady entered. Calm, unarmed, regal. Rudram's fingers tightened around her neck instinctively. "Where… where am I? Who are you? What is this place?!"
She froze, eyes wide, about to scream. His hand clamped over her mouth, and for a tense moment, they were suspended in a fragile stalemate. Then the sound of heavy footsteps thundered in the hall—bodyguards. Professionals. Muskets ready. Seconds later, they would be inside.
Rudram's gaze darted to a pair of scissors on a table. Improvised weapon. He grabbed it and, with her as a shield, prepared to face the inevitable.
The door burst open. Muskets leveled, eyes like hawks. Rudram's decision was instantaneous: survival. He abandoned the lady, leapt through the window, and landed with a thud on the ground below. Pain, shock, disbelief—but alive. He melted into the streets of Sintria, heart racing, thoughts spinning: I can't die here. Not now.
His landing should have been fatal. Five stories up, no bushes, no water, nothing. Yet he was unscathed. Not a scratch. His mind reeled. This world didn't obey the rules he knew. Every instinct screamed: run, hide, survive, learn.
Sintria stretched endlessly around him—stone streets, merchants shouting, servants hustling bundles of goods, the faint smell of roasted meat and smoke in the air. On the surface, a perfect medieval city, but tension lurked beneath: politics, secrets, invisible lines dividing life from death.
The bodyguards appeared again. Muskets leveled, surrounding him.
"Wha… tha… haaaail! It didn't even take me three sec—" Rudram began, sarcasm flaring, before a sharp blow to the back of his head knocked him out cold.
When he awoke, he was confined to a chair. Wristbound, muscles tense. And there she was—the princess of Sintria, calm, regal, eyes wide at the sight of him.
"You… saved me," she said softly.
Flashes struck him—coronation hall, assassins, blur of steel, searing pain. Somehow, he had stopped the assassination attempt.
"Wait… I did? I—oh…" Chandram pressed his palms to his forehead. "Highness… may I have a moment? I just woke up here…"
She inclined her head faintly. "Very well. But time is not always as flexible as it seems, Chandram."
Alone, Chandram processed the impossible. He wasn't just in another world—he was in the hero's body. Subtle differences gnawed at him: clothes, skin tone, facial expressions, behaviors. And in the timeline he remembered, the princess should be dead. Somehow, fate had put him in the hero's stead.
Knowledge from Unchanged Destiny clicked. This world was diverged, reversed. If he truly had the hero's power, it might also be reversed.
He whispered, "Twilight." Nothing. "Twilighter… Not so Twilight… Twight… Twilighty…" Still nothing. Exhausted, he lay down and realized the key: the world was reversed. The power was creation—but reversed.
He drew a deep breath. "Reverse… Twilight."
Energy surged. Reverse creation. Time, atoms, matter—all bending backward. The power was overwhelming, uncontrollable. His body trembled, muscles burned, energy drained. He collapsed, unconscious.
Even as he lay sprawled, the air shimmered unnaturally. Threads of energy twisted and coiled, tugging at walls, floors, and furniture. Dust lifted and swirled, tiny objects spinning backward midair. The guards froze, suspended in motion. Candles bent their flames backward, briefly unburning before relighting.
Yet no life was born. Flowers did not sprout. Dust, objects, even motion could reverse—but creation itself remained beyond him. Chandram's power was immense, chaotic, but incomplete.
The princess stepped back, eyes wide. No awe, no kneeling. Just measured surprise. "You… this… is unusual," she said carefully, assessing him with calm curiosity.
Chandram's mind, still partially unconscious, sensed every particle of the room, every heartbeat of the guards, every shifting shadow. He could manipulate matter, reverse motions, even pause fragments of time—but life itself remained beyond reach.
The room hummed faintly with energy. Walls flexed, objects shifted subtly. The guards' muskets floated midair, rearranged briefly, then returned harmlessly. Chandram was a storm barely contained, a force aware of its potential, yet unable to wield it fully.
The princess observed, calm but cautious. She didn't idolize him, she didn't fear him excessively—she simply noted, processing the implications. "You… are extraordinary… but… you are still… human."
Chandram's breathing slowed. His energy pulse waned. Subtle distortions lingered—warped floorboards, objects slightly misaligned, faint echoes of time bending—but the immediate chaos receded.
For the first time since awakening in this strange world, he allowed himself a thought: This is just the beginning. I don't understand it yet—but I will.
The princess inclined her head, acknowledgment in her eyes but no exaggerated reverence. Chandram, part ordinary boy, part nascent master of reversed creation, lay at the edge of an impossible journey, where power, understanding, and survival would collide in ways no one could predict.