He was born to the sound of conch shells.
Not the war-torn cries of Kurukshetra.
Not the hollow echoes of a broken world.
But celebration.
Life.
Victory.
A kingdom rejoicing beneath the golden blaze of the sun.
The first thing Karna felt was warmth.
Not pain.
Not death.
But warmth—gentle, radiant, all-encompassing.
It wrapped around him like an embrace long forgotten.
Voices followed.
Distant at first.
Then clearer.
"The prince…!"
"He breathes!"
"Auspicious! This child is blessed!"
Karna's eyes fluttered open.
Light flooded his vision.
Too bright.
Too pure.
For a brief moment, he thought—
Surya…
But this was not divinity.
This was the mortal world.
Above him, carved ceilings stretched into vast domes, painted with celestial patterns.
Gold-lined pillars stood like silent guardians.
The air smelled of incense, sandalwood, and royal silk.
Hands lifted him.
Gentle.
Reverent.
As though he were something sacred.
"He has the aura of a warrior," an old voice murmured.
"A king," another corrected.
"No… something more."
Karna could not speak.
Could not move.
But his mind—
His mind was awake.
And it remembered.
Fragments.
Broken.
Incomplete.
A battlefield.
An arrow.
Darkness.
A voice—
You should not have died that day.
His tiny fingers curled instinctively.
Something deep within his soul stirred.
Not power.
Not yet.
But instinct.
The echo of something vast.
Something unfinished.
Years Passed
The child was named:
Aditya Varma
Prince of the Solar Dynasty.
He grew beneath the shadow of greatness.
His father—a king revered across lands.
His mother—a queen known for wisdom and grace.
From the moment he could walk, the kingdom adored him.
From the moment he could speak, they feared him.
Because he was different.
At the age of five—
He picked up a training bow meant for older children.
And broke it.
Not from clumsiness.
But because his grip was too precise.
Too perfect.
At seven—
He defeated three instructors in sparring.
Without understanding how.
At ten—
He asked a question that silenced the royal court:
"If a warrior knows he will lose… should he still fight?"
No one answered.
Because the way he asked it—
Was not like a child.
It was like someone remembering defeat.
The Dreams
They began soon after.
Not nightmares.
Not visions.
But fragments.
He would stand in a field of ash.
A broken chariot wheel beside him.
A bow in his hand—
but never complete.
And always—
a presence behind him.
Calm.
Watching.
Waiting.
Every time he turned—
He woke up.
The Weight of Memory
Aditya Varma was loved.
Respected.
Praised as a prodigy.
But within him grew something else.
A quiet unease.
A feeling that none of this belonged to him.
That this life—
This kingdom—
This name—
Was borrowed.
Temporary.
Wrong.
Sometimes, he would look at his reflection in polished metal.
And feel nothing.
Other times—
He would whisper a name he did not understand.
"…Radheya…"
The First Fracture
It happened when he was thirteen.
The kingdom held a grand festival.
Warriors from distant lands gathered.
Archers, swordsmen, kings, mercenaries.
All to witness the prince's first public display of skill.
Aditya stood before them.
Calm.
Composed.
A bow in his hand.
The crowd cheered.
But he heard none of it.
Because something felt—
Familiar.
Too familiar.
The stance.
The grip.
The tension of the string.
His body moved before thought.
He drew the bow.
Released.
The arrow vanished.
Not flew—
Vanished.
A distant mountain trembled.
Then—
Split.
Silence fell.
The crowd stared.
The king stood.
Even the wind seemed to retreat.
Aditya lowered the bow slowly.
His hands trembled.
Not from fear.
But from recognition.
"…this…"
he whispered.
"…I know this…"
And then—
Pain.
A sharp, unbearable pain tore through his mind.
Images flooded him.
Too fast.
Too many.
A battlefield.
A chariot.
A man with a bow—
No.
Not a man.
Himself.
Another name echoed within him.
Not Aditya.
Something older.
Something heavier.
Something carved into the soul itself.
Karna.
He staggered.
Dropped the bow.
Fell to his knees.
The world blurred.
Voices called out.
But they were distant.
Irrelevant.
Because in that moment—
For the first time—
The wheel of regression tightened its grip.
The Truth Begins to Surface
That night, he did not sleep.
He sat alone beneath the open sky.
The moon watched silently.
The stars flickered like distant memories.
Aditya clenched his fists.
"I have lived before."
The words felt unnatural.
Impossible.
Yet undeniable.
"I died."
His breath trembled.
"…and I have returned."
The wind shifted.
For a brief moment—
He thought he heard it again.
That voice.
Soft.
Eternal.
Watching.
"…the cycle has begun…"
Aditya looked up at the sky.
At the stars.
At something far beyond them.
And for the first time—
Fear touched his heart.
Not of death.
Not of war.
But of something far worse.
Endlessness.
Far beyond his understanding…
The universe watched.
And the wound he carried—
Remained unhealed.