Chapter Title: The Dragon King's Awakening
The icy touch of a thousand swords piercing his heart was the last thing Aryan remembered. As the Dragon King, the undisputed ruler of the Nine Heavens, he had lived through countless eons of war, conquering primordial demons and bringing peace to a fractured universe. He was a god among men, a being whose very breath could stir the oceans. Yet, in his final moments, it wasn't a god who killed him—it was the treachery of his own kin. The people he had bled for, the generals he had raised, had turned their blades against him in the dark.
But as the world faded into a cold, black void, his dying thoughts weren't consumed by vengeance. They were of her—Diya. His wife, his only soulmate, who had shielded him with her frail, mortal body, whispering her love even as her life's light flickered out.
"I will find you..." he had promised, his voice thick with the golden blood of a dragon. "Even if I have to crawl through the abyssal hells or wait for eternity, I will find you."
A sharp, rhythmic beep-beep-beep jolted Aryan's consciousness back to reality.
His eyes snapped open, and he gasped for air, his lungs burning as if they were inhaling fire. Every nerve in his body screamed in agony, a dull, throbbing pain that felt alien compared to the sharp stings of spiritual weapons. His hand instinctively flew to his chest, searching for the gaping holes where the swords had entered. But instead of cold steel and the metallic scent of blood, he felt the thin, scratchy fabric of a hospital gown.
The haunting silence of his palace was gone, replaced by the mechanical hum of a heart monitor and the distant sound of heavy traffic. He wasn't in the Nine Heavens. He was in a cramped, white room that smelled overwhelmingly of chemicals and sickness. Sunlight filtered through a dusty, grease-stained window, illuminating a world of concrete and glass.
"Patient in Room 402 is awake! Nurse! Call the doctor, quickly!" a voice cried out from the doorway.
Aryan ignored the chaos. He lifted his hands, staring at them with a mixture of horror and disbelief. They were pale, thin, and lacked the calluses of a warrior who had held a celestial blade for ten thousand years. He clenched his fists, feeling the pathetic weakness of his muscles. This body was a vessel of glass, easily shattered.
He closed his eyes, plunging into the depths of his own soul. Amidst the vast, cold darkness of this new vessel, he found it. His Dragon Core—the source of his divine power. It was no longer a blazing sun; it was a tiny, flickering spark, damaged and fragile, but undeniably alive.
A cold, predatory smile slowly spread across his lips. The heavens had tried to erase him, but they had failed.
The door burst open, and a middle-aged man in a white lab coat rushed in, accompanied by two young nurses. The doctor began shining a blindingly bright flashlight into Aryan's eyes.
"Can you hear me? Focus on the light. Do you know your name?" the doctor asked, his voice strained with surprise.
Aryan stared back, his gaze so sharp and ancient that the doctor involuntarily stumbled back, his flashlight trembling. "Where... is this place?" Aryan's voice was dry and raspy, yet it carried an undertone of authority that seemed to chill the very air in the room.
"You're in the City General Hospital, Aryan," the doctor replied, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "You've been in a coma for twenty-one days after a horrific accident. A truck hit your motorcycle at high speed. Honestly, son, no one expected you to wake up. Your injuries... they were catastrophic."
Aryan? So that was the name of this weak mortal. And a truck? A mere metal carriage had nearly snuffed out this life? How humiliating.
"My family?" Aryan asked, searching through the fragmented, painful memories of this brain. He saw images of a small, leaky apartment, a pile of unpaid bills, and a woman with tired eyes who never stopped praying.
"Your mother... she's been here every single day," a nurse whispered, her eyes filled with pity. "She just left an hour ago to go to her second job at the textile mill. She's been working herself to the bone to keep you on life support."
Pity. It was a sensation the Dragon King had never experienced. He felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest—not from an injury, but from the residual emotions of the previous owner of this body. A deep, agonizing love for a mother who had sacrificed everything.
Just then, the door creaked open again. A woman entered, her clothes worn and dusty, her face etched with lines of exhaustion far beyond her years. She was carrying a small plastic bag with a single tiffin box. When her eyes met Aryan's, the bag dropped to the floor, spilling its contents.
"A-Aryan?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "My son?"
She rushed to the bedside, her rough, calloused hands grabbing his. She didn't care about the machines or the doctors; she only saw her child. Tears streamed down her face, wetting the hospital sheets. "I knew you'd come back. I told them... I told them my boy wouldn't leave me."
Aryan looked at her. In his past life, he was an orphan of the stars, born from fire. He had never known a mother's touch. But as this woman sobbed against his hand, the Dragon Core within him throbbed. This woman's soul was pure, her love a shield stronger than any magical barrier he had ever seen.
"I am here, Mother," he said softly, the word 'Mother' feeling strange yet right on his tongue. He reached out with his weak hand and awkwardly patted her hair.
As he comforted her, his mind was already turning cold and calculating. This body was weak, this family was poor, and this world was devoid of spiritual energy. But it didn't matter. He was the Dragon King. He would hunt down the richest, most powerful men in this city and make them bow. He would gather the rarest herbs and minerals to forge his body anew.
And most importantly, he would find Diya. If he was here, she was here. She might be a beggar, a princess, or a student—but he would find her.
"Rest now, Mother," Aryan whispered, his eyes glowing with a faint, dangerous golden hue that no one noticed. "From this day on, no one will ever make you cry again. This world thinks I am a victim of an accident. They have no idea that a god has just woken up in their midst."
He looked out at the smog-filled city skyline. It was a jungle of steel, but to him, it was just another kingdom waiting to be conquered. The Dragon King had returned, and heaven help anyone who stood in his way.As the heavy door clicked shut behind the doctors, the sterile silence of the room returned, broken only by the soft, rhythmic sobbing of the woman who called herself his mother. To the Dragon King, emotions had always been a secondary concern—tools to lead an army or fuel a flame. But here, in this fragile human shell, the woman's grief felt like a physical weight pressing against his soul.
"Aryan, my dear child," she managed to choke out, her voice thick with tears as she wiped his forehead with a damp cloth. "I thought I had lost you. When the police called about the accident... when they said you might never wake up... I felt like my world had ended. Your father left us with nothing but debts, and if you had gone too..."
She couldn't finish the sentence. Her hand, rough and weathered from years of manual labor, trembled as it touched his cheek.
Aryan remained still, his ancient mind struggling to process this level of unconditional devotion. In the Nine Heavens, power was the only currency. Here, in this cramped hospital room, he was looking at a power he didn't yet understand—the power of a mother's love. For a moment, his cold, regal facade flickered. The 'Human Touch' he had long forgotten began to seep into his new heart.
"Don't cry," he said, his voice stronger now, vibrating with an intensity that surprised even himself. "The debts... the pain... it all ends today. I promise you, Mother, from this moment on, the world will bow to us instead of us bowing to the world."
The woman looked at him, startled. Her son sounded different. His eyes, once filled with the worries of a struggling college student, now held the depth of an endless abyss. There was a majestic aura radiating from him, something that made the small, dingy room feel like a throne hall.
"You... you've changed, Aryan," she whispered, half in awe and half in fear.
"I have seen the edge of death and come back, Mother," he replied calmly. "It changes a man."
He looked toward the window again. His Dragon Core was greedily absorbing the thin, polluted spiritual energy of the city. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He needed to leave this hospital. He needed to find a place where the earth's veins were strong, where he could cultivate and regain his true form.
But more importantly, he felt a strange, magnetic pull in the air. Somewhere in this sprawling concrete jungle, a soul was calling out to him. It was faint, like a whisper in a storm, but he knew that rhythm anywhere.
Diya.
Whether she was a princess in this life or a commoner, it didn't matter. He would find her. He would protect her. And the heavens help anyone who stood in his way this time.
"I am the Dragon King," he vowed silently as his mother held his hand. "And this world is about to witness a legend it is not prepared for."