A five-and-a-half-year-old boy slowly opened his eyes. The morning rays slipped through the cracks of clouds, touching his face with soft warmth. His head throbbed gently, and his clothes were torn and damp from rain and seawater. Confusion filled his small eyes as he looked around.
Instead of home, instead of his mother's warm voice, he saw tall green forests surrounding him. Giant trees rose high, their leaves shining like emerald glass. Strange birds flew across the sky, their wings glowing faintly in colours he had never seen before. The air smelt different—fresh, wild, and unknown.
He sat up slowly, his tiny fingers brushing the rough sand beneath him. The beach stretched far, covered with white sand that sparkled like crushed pearls. Waves crashed gently against rocks, singing a song both calm and lonely.
"Where… am I?" He whispered, his voice trembling.
His last memory flickered—a loud explosion, screams, his mother's panicked cry, then cold water pulling him down, darkness swallowing everything.
Now, there was silence, only broken by the wind dancing through the trees.
As he tried to stand, his knees wobbled. He felt weak, hungry, and scared. But before he could move further, he felt something—eyes watching him. Many pairs of them.
He turned around.
Twenty figures stood in a circle around him. Men and women, all wearing simple yet strange clothing, unlike anything he had seen in Delhi. Some had long white hair shining like silver threads, while others looked young but carried an aura so strong it made the air heavy. None of them smiled, yet none looked cruel either. Their presence was powerful—almost otherworldly.
The boy froze. "W-who are you?" He stammered.
For a long time, no one answered. Then, one of them stepped forward—an old man with eyes deep like the sea. His voice echoed softly, but every word sank into the boy's heart.
"We are your masters," he said. "And you… are the ones destined to inherit us."
The boy blinked, not understanding. "M-my masters? But I don't even know you…"
The old man's face softened. "You will, in time. We are fated to find you, and you, us. From this day, this island shall be your home, and we... your teachers."
The circle of people bowed slightly, their movements slow and graceful, as if following an ancient ritual. A gentle breeze passed between them, and the forest itself seemed to bend in respect.
The boy didn't know why, but he felt something inside him stir—a warmth spreading from his chest to his fingertips.
He looked around the island once more. Now, for the first time, he noticed its beauty. Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks touched by clouds. Crystal-clear rivers ran like silver threads down their slopes, connecting to lakes so calm they mirrored the sky. The trees glowed faintly under the sunlight, and soft, floating lights—like living fireflies—moved between branches.
Every sound here carried life. Even the waves seemed to hum softly, like they were alive.
He heard the voices of those twenty people again, chanting something strange—words in a language he didn't know. Suddenly, light bloomed around them, forming faint symbols in the air. They didn't touch him, yet he could feel them—like gentle ripples brushing against his soul.
One by one, the lights faded. The group's eyes turned toward him again. The old man nodded.
"This land, he said, "is not part of your world. You have been brought here by fate. Each of us will teach you what we know. You will become our only heir."
The boy, still trembling, asked softly, "Why me?"
The answer came not in words but in feeling.
The old man pointed to the back of the boy's neck. "Because of that mark—the Seven Stars. You were chosen long before you were born. The world has plans for you, Mukul Sharma."
Mukul froze at the mention of his name. None of these strangers should have known it. His heart pounded as the realisation hit him—this was no dream.
The wind grew stronger, carrying a strange sound from deep within the forest. The old man looked toward the mountains and smiled faintly. "Your journey begins here."
He turned to Mukul again. "You will cry, you will fall, and you will rise stronger. This island will break you and rebuild you. But remember, child—destiny chose you not for who you are now, but for who you are meant to become."
Mukul took a shaky breath. His small hand balled into a fist. He didn't fully understand what they meant, but deep down, he felt something—a spark of courage, maybe fate itself whispering in his heart.
He looked at them, those twenty strange and powerful people who called themselves his masters, and nodded weakly.
If this was destiny… then he would face it.
Far across the shining ocean, stars began to appear in the sky—seven of them, glittering brighter than any others, forming a faint circle above the island. The masters looked up at them in silence, their eyes reflecting ancient knowing.
The boy named Mukul Sharma, marked by the stars, stood beneath their light. Lost, scared, yet strangely calm, he whispered to himself—
"My journey… begins here."