The world ended on a Tuesday, amidst the symphony of a traffic jam and the suffocating embrace of humidity.
I was standing at the edge of the curb, waiting for the pedestrian signal to flicker from the angry, unmoving red to green. The air was thick, a heavy blanket of exhaust fumes, dust, and the moisture of a coming monsoon that refused to break. The chaotic noise of the city surrounded me—the relentless, impatient honking of auto-rickshaws, the deep rumble of heavy trucks, and the distant, buzzing chatter of a million people rushing to destinations that didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things.
I adjusted the strap of my backpack, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down my spine. I was twenty years old, a college student with average grades, average looks, and an average life. I wasn't the protagonist of my own story; I was barely a supporting character. I was the "Background Student A" you walked past in the hallway and forgot five seconds later.
And honestly? I was perfectly fine with that. Being the main character seemed exhausting.
I unlocked my phone, the screen's artificial glow offering a familiar, comforting escape from the sensory overload of the street. My thumb hovered over the reading app, tapping on the latest update of The Era of Chaos. It was a web novel I had been following religiously for four years. It was a sprawling, brutal urban fantasy epic involving demons, corporate hunters, dimensional rifts, and a protagonist who started from nothing and clawed his way to the top through sheer, bloody-minded determination.
"Finally," I muttered, scrolling past the author's lengthy ramblings in the footnotes. "Chapter 4,213."
The story was approaching its climax. The author, a sadistic entity known only by the pen name 'VoidWalker,' loved to kill off characters just when the readers started to like them. In the latest arc, the main character, Stark, was preparing for a duel against the Third Demon General in the ruins of Neo-Tokyo. The stakes were impossibly high. The world was on the brink of collapse. The Alliance of Races—Elves, Dwarves, and Humans—was fracturing under political pressure while the Abyssal Army marched closer.
I scanned the text, my eyes darting across the lines. I was a fast reader. I had to be. In a world that moved this fast, if you didn't consume information quickly, you were left behind.
Stark's mana capacity is only at 60% after the raid, I analyzed, frowning at the screen. The Demon General has a spatial lock ability. If Stark tries to use his Flash Step, he's going to get bisected. He needs to use the Void Relic he found in the Northern Ruins, but the backlash might cripple him.
I sighed, looking up from the screen for a moment to check the traffic light. Still red. A countdown timer showed fifteen seconds.
"Come on, Stark," I whispered to the fictional hero, oblivious to the people standing around me. "Don't be an idiot. Don't engage in close quarters. Kite him."
Beside me, a woman was arguing loudly on her phone. She was dressed in sharp corporate wear, looking stressed, her free hand gripping the wrist of a small boy, maybe five or six years old. The kid was visibly bored, vibrating with that limitless energy only children seemed to possess. He was tugging at his mother's hand, his wide eyes fixed on a stray dog that was sniffing at a wrapper on the other side of the road.
"I told you, the files were sent yesterday!" the woman shouted into her phone, her voice shrill with frustration. She turned her back to the street, completely absorbed in her crisis. "Check the server again! I am not losing this client because IT is incompetent!"
I went back to my phone. Stark had just engaged the enemy. The description of the magic was vivid. Violet flames danced along the blade, consuming the oxygen in the room... The air screamed as the dimensions rubbed against each other...
The writing was immersive. I could almost hear the crackle of the magic, feel the tension in the air. That was the beauty of The Era of Chaos. It felt real. Sometimes, more real than the concrete jungle I lived in. It was a world of magic, yes, but it was grounded in a gritty reality where actions had consequences and plot armor was thin.
Screech.
A sharp, dissonant sound broke my concentration.
It wasn't the usual honk of a car. It was the high-pitched, desperate squeal of brakes that hadn't been applied fast enough. It was the sound of physics fighting against momentum.
My head snapped up.
The traffic light for the vehicles had turned yellow, transitioning to red. Most cars were slowing down, obeying the law. But in the distance, a private bus—one of those massive, colorful behemoths that ruled the city roads with reckless abandon—was accelerating.
The driver was trying to beat the light. He was going too fast. Way too fast. The engine roared, belching black smoke as the massive vehicle barrelled down the center lane.
I looked to my left. The corporate woman was still screaming into her phone, her back turned to the road, her situational awareness non-existent. Her grip on the child's wrist had loosened.
In that split second, the boy saw his opportunity. The stray dog across the street barked, tail wagging, and the child's face lit up.
"Puppy!"
It happened in slow motion. That cliché about time slowing down when you're about to die? It's true. It's a survival mechanism of the brain, overclocking the processor to analyze every threat.
The boy pulled his hand free. He stepped off the curb. He was small, wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with a cartoon dinosaur on it. He took three steps onto the asphalt, his eyes locked on the dog, completely unaware of the ten-ton death machine hurtling toward him.
The bus was fifty meters away. Forty.
The driver slammed on the horn, a deafening blast that shook the air. He slammed the brakes, too, but friction is a cruel mistress. A heavy vehicle moving at eighty kilometers an hour doesn't stop on a dime. The tires locked. Smoke billowed as the bus skidded, drifting sideways, transforming into a wall of metal and rubber.
The mother turned around, phone dropping from her hand. Her scream was a sound that didn't belong in the human vocal range. It was pure, primal terror.
The boy froze. He stood there, right in the center lane, staring at the oncoming monster like a deer in headlights.
I was ten feet away.
I didn't think. I didn't calculate the distance. I didn't weigh the pros and cons. I didn't think about my unfinished degree, my parents waiting for me at home, or the unread chapter on my phone.
My body moved before my mind gave the command. It was instinct. It was the only choice.
I dropped my phone. It clattered to the ground, forgotten.
I lunged.
My sneakers gripped the pavement, launching me forward. I covered the distance in two strides. The heat from the bus's engine washed over me, a wave of hot, oily air that tasted of burning rubber. The grill of the bus looked like the maw of a beast, getting larger with every fraction of a second. I could see the driver's face through the windshield—eyes wide, mouth open in a scream I couldn't hear.
I reached the boy.
I didn't try to grab him. There was no time to grab and pull. I slammed my shoulder into his small chest, shoving him with every ounce of strength I possessed.
"Move!" I roared.
The boy flew. He tumbled backward, scraping his knees, landing safely on the sidewalk near his mother's feet.
Then, the world went dark.
CRUNCH.
The impact wasn't painful. Not at first. It was just... heavy. It felt like the entire sky had collapsed onto my ribs. There was a sickening sound of breaking bone, like dry twigs snapping under a heavy boot.
I was thrown. I felt the sensation of flight, brief and violent, followed by the unforgiving hardness of the road meeting my body. I rolled, tumbling like a ragdoll, scraping skin and tearing clothes, until friction brought me to a halt.
Silence.
For a moment, there was absolute, ringing silence. The city had stopped.
Then, the pain arrived.
It wasn't a sharp sting. It was an overwhelming, all-consuming fire. It started in my chest, radiated down to my legs, and exploded in my head. I tried to gasp for air, but my lungs refused to inflate. They were crushed.
Ah... so this is it.
I lay on my back, staring up at the evening sky. It was a dull grey-blue, tainted by smog. A few pigeons flew overhead, circling, indifferent to the tragedy below.
Voices started to bleed in. Screams. Shouts. The sound of running feet.
"Oh my god! Call an ambulance!"
"He saved the kid! Did you see that?"
"Don't move him! Don't touch him!"
I tried to turn my head to see if the boy was okay, but my neck wouldn't obey. I could only stare upward. My vision was blurring at the edges, a creeping vignette of darkness that was slowly erasing the world.
I'm dying, I realized. The thought was surprisingly calm. I'm actually dying.
It felt anticlimactic. I wasn't a hero. I was just a guy who liked reading. I shouldn't be dying here, on dirty asphalt, surrounded by strangers.
A face appeared above me. It was the woman. Tears were streaming down her face, ruining her makeup. She was saying something, mouthing words I couldn't hear over the ringing in my ears. She looked terrified, guilt-stricken.
Is the kid okay? I wanted to ask. Is he safe?
But when I opened my mouth, only a bubble of blood came out. It tasted metallic, like chewing on a handful of coins.
My body was growing cold. The humid heat of the Indian summer was fading, replaced by a deep, shivering chill that seemed to seep from my very marrow.
My phone. Where was my phone?
I remembered dropping it. It was probably smashed. I'd never know how the fight with the Demon General ended. I'd never know if Stark saved the world.
Dammit.
A bitter laugh tried to escape my throat but turned into a gurgle. Of all the things to regret, I was regretting an unfinished story. But that story had been my escape. My solace.
The darkness encroached further, leaving only a pinhole of light. The noise of the crowd faded into a distant hum, like the ocean heard through a shell.
I hope... I hope it was worth it.
I felt a strange sensation of detachment. The pain was receding, not because I was healing, but because the nerves were shutting down. The connection between my consciousness and my body was being severed.
The last thing I saw was the blinking red light of the pedestrian signal.
Don't walk.
And then, everything stopped.
Void.
Absolute, suffocating nothingness.
There was no light, no sound, no time. I was a speck of consciousness floating in an infinite ocean of ink. Was this hell? Heaven? Or just the cessation of existence?
I tried to recall who I was. The memories were there, but they felt distant, like watching a movie through a foggy window. The bus. The boy. The pain.
I died, I affirmed to the darkness. I am dead.
Time lost its meaning. It could have been seconds, or it could have been centuries. I drifted in the abyss, untethered.
But then, a ripple.
A sensation.
It wasn't physical touch. It was... pressure. Like being squeezed through a straw. The void began to compress around me, crushing me, molding me. It was a terrifying, claustrophobic constriction that made me want to scream, but I had no mouth.
What is this? Let me go!
Suddenly, the pressure released. A rush of cold air hit my skin—skin that felt incredibly sensitive, raw, and new.
Sensory data flooded in like a tidal wave. Not the dull, hazy senses of a spirit, but sharp, visceral input.
Smell. The scent of old parchment, medicinal herbs, and polished wood.
Sound. The chirping of crickets? No, something deeper. A low hum that resonated in my bones.
Touch. Soft fabric. Warm hands.
"Waaaaaah!"
A scream tore from my throat. But it wasn't a man's scream. It wasn't my voice. It was high-pitched, thin, and desperate.
What the hell? Why do I sound like a squeaky toy?
I tried to open my eyes, but the light was blinding. It stung. My vision was a blur of shapeless blobs and washed-out colors. I tried to move my arms to defend myself against the giant shapes looming over me, but my limbs flailed uselessly, jerky and uncoordinated. I had no motor control.
"It's a boy, my Lady! A healthy, beautiful boy."
The voice was booming, echoing like thunder. It spoke a language I shouldn't have known—a melodic, rhythmic tongue—yet the meaning registered instantly in my brain, translated by some mechanism I couldn't understand.
A boy? Who's a boy?
I felt myself being lifted. Huge, warm hands wrapped around me. A rough cloth was wiped over my sticky skin. I was shivering. My instincts took over, and I cried harder, my tiny lungs pumping with surprising vigor. I couldn't stop it. The impulse to cry was overwhelming.
"Hush now, little one. Hush."
A softer voice. Weak, tired, but filled with a warmth that cut through the fear.
I was lowered into a pair of arms that felt fragile but secure. The scent of lavender and sweat filled my nose. I forced my eyes open again, blinking fiercely against the harsh light.
The blurry shapes coalesced.
I was looking up at a woman. She was gigantic. Her face was pale and exhausted, strands of damp black hair sticking to her forehead. She had kind, dark eyes that were looking down at me with an intensity that made my soul tremble. She lay in a large, four-poster bed made of dark timber, surrounded by what looked like antique furniture.
Wait. Is this…?
I tried to speak. Who are you? Where am I? Did I survive?
"Waaaaah! Gaaah!"
Dammit.
"He has your eyes, Vikram," the woman whispered, stroking my cheek with a finger the size of a sausage. Her touch was gentle, reverent.
A man stepped into my field of vision. He was tall, with sharp features, brown skin, and a thick mustache that twitched as he smiled. He wore a tunic that looked like a blend of traditional Indian kurta and something stiffer, more militaristic, with silver embroidery on the collar. He looked relieved, tears glistening in his eyes.
"He is strong," the man said, his voice thick with emotion. "Look at him kick. A true heir to House Varma."
House Varma?
The name sounded Indian. Was I still on Earth? Did I survive the crash and get adopted by a wealthy family while suffering from severe brain damage that made me think I was a baby?
No. That didn't explain the tiny hands.
I managed to bring one of my hands into view. It was tiny, wrinkled, and pink. The fingers were impossibly small.
Reincarnation.
The word hit me like a lightning bolt. I had read enough web novels to know the tropes. I died saving a kid, and now I've been reborn.
Yes! My inner voice cheered, a stark contrast to the wailing of my physical body. I'm not dead! I've got a second chance!
"What shall we name him?" the man asked, leaning closer.
The woman looked down at me, her eyes searching mine. For a second, I stopped crying and stared back, trying to look intelligent. Trying to look like I understood. I focused my gaze, trying to convey that I was more than just a blank slate.
"Manas," she said softly. "His name is Manas."
Manas. Mind. Intellect.
It wasn't a bad name. It felt... right. Like it fit the person I used to be and the person I would become.
"Manas Varma," the man repeated, nodding solemnly. He reached out and touched my forehead.
And that was when I knew for sure that I wasn't on Earth anymore.
As his finger touched my skin, a warm, golden ripple spread through my body. It wasn't just body heat. It was energy. A tangible, humming vibration that flowed from his fingertip, washed over my scalp, and settled in my chest. It felt like liquid sunlight. It soothed the raw nerves of my new body and stopped my shivering instantly.
Magic, I realized, awestruck. That was magic.
I looked past the man's shoulder, towards the window. The curtains were drawn back, revealing the night sky.
My heart—my tiny, newborn heart—missed a beat.
Hanging in the sky were two moons.
One was a brilliant, cratered silver, familiar yet too large. But just below it, nestled like a shy sibling, was a second moon—a pale, violet orb that cast a strange, ethereal glow over the room.
Two moons.
I had been reincarnated into a fantasy world. A world with magic, nobles, and two moons.
I looked around the room with renewed scrutiny. It wasn't just old-fashioned. On the bedside table, next to a clay pitcher of water, was a device that looked like a tablet, but it was made of polished stone and emitted a soft, holographic blue light. On the wall, a lamp burned without oil or electricity, fueled by a crystal embedded in the sconce.
It was a mix of the archaic and the advanced. Urban Fantasy? High Fantasy? I didn't know.
I didn't know if there were dragons or dungeons or demon kings. For all I knew, I was in some generic, peaceful slice-of-life fantasy where my biggest worry would be learning table manners.
But as I looked at the loving expressions of my new parents, wrapped in warm blankets in a home that smelled of safety, I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
I made it, I thought, my eyelids growing heavy as the exhaustion of birth took over. I'm alive. And this time... I'm not going to be a bystander. I'm going to live a long, happy life.
I let out a soft coo, closed my eyes, and drifted off to sleep, blissfully unaware of the nightmare that awaited this world. Unaware that the moon outside was the same moon described in chapter one of The Era of Chaos. Unaware that I was now an extra in the very story I had died reading.
For now, I was just Manas. And I was alive.