The first thing Rudra noticed was the silence.
It wasn't the dead, manufactured silence of a soundproof Mumbai high-rise. It was a living silence—punctuated by the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets and the low hum of a ceiling fan swinging lazily overhead. Tick. Woosh. Tick. Woosh.
Rudra gasped, his eyes snapping open. He sat up violently, his hands clutching his chest, expecting the crushing pain of a heart attack.
There was no pain.
He looked down. He wasn't wearing his Italian silk suit. He was wearing a white cotton kurta. His hands... they were different. The calluses from years of golf were gone. The skin was taut, unblemished, youthful.
"Where...?"
He swung his legs off the bed. The floor was cold stone, not hardwood. He looked around. High ceilings. Teak wood pillars. A massive mosquito net draped like a canopy. The smell of burning camphor and wet earth—the smell of the monsoon in Vidarbha—filled his lungs.
This was his room. But not his room in 2026. This was the Wada—the ancestral mansion in Nagpur.
A calendar on the wall, featuring a picture of Lord Vitthal, fluttered in the breeze. June 12, 1970.
Rudra stumbled toward the mirror on the heavy wooden wardrobe. The face staring back was sharp, angular, and terrifyingly young. No grey in the beard. No bags under the eyes. Just the raw, burning intensity of an eighteen-year-old Rudra Pratap.
"I'm back," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I'm actually back."
Suddenly, the heavy wooden door creaked open.
"Rudra? Why are you shouting, Bala?"
Rudra froze. The voice. It was soft, commanding, and impossible.
A woman in a crisp Paithani sari stood at the doorway, holding a brass cup of tea. Her hair was tied in a neat bun, her face radiant with a stern kindness.
"Aai?" (Mother?) Rudra choked out.
Sumitra Pratap frowned, walking over to check his forehead. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Did you have a nightmare about the exam results again? Your father already told you, pass or fail, you are joining the business."
Rudra looked at her. In his previous life, she had died of cancer in 1995. He hadn't been able to save her because the foreign drugs were held up by red tape—the same red tape he had fought his whole life.
Tears welled in his eyes. He grabbed her hand, pressing it against his forehead. It was warm. Real.
"No nightmare, Aai," he said, his voice steeling over the emotion. "Just a very long, bad dream. But I'm awake now."
Sumitra looked confused but patted his head. "Drink your chai. Your Grandfather is waiting in the courtyard. The party workers are coming early today. Don't be late."
As she left, Rudra stood alone in the room. He looked at his palms.
I have fifty-six years before I die. Fifty-six years to change everything.
A sudden, translucent blue text materialized in the air before him, hovering like a hologram.
[System Initialization Complete.][User: Rudra Pratap.][Current Era: 1970 AD.][Net Worth: ₹450 (Cash in Pocket).][System Status: Active.]
Rudra stared at the text. He reached out to touch it, his hand passing through the light.
[Welcome to the Transactional System.][Motto: Everything has a price.]
Rudra's lips curled into a smile. It was a cold, predatory smile that didn't belong on an eighteen-year-old's face.
"Everything?" he whispered. "Good. Because I plan to buy it all."