The first thing he learned about the world was that it did not wait.
It did not wait for a child to grow, for hunger to fade, or for kindness to arrive. It moved forward relentlessly, crushing those who failed to move with it.
He learned this lesson beneath the cracked roof of an abandoned temple storehouse, where rain leaked through broken tiles and rats scurried freely, unafraid of human presence.
That was where he spent his earliest years.
No mother's warmth wrapped around him at night. No father's hand guided his steps. There were no bedtime stories or gentle scoldings. Only the cold stone floor, the distant sound of temple bells, and the ache in his stomach that never fully disappeared.
He had no name.
People called him "hey," or "boy," or sometimes "that orphan." When asked where his parents were, the answers changed depending on who asked—dead, gone, never existed. Eventually, people stopped asking altogether.
Oddly enough, he did not resent them.
Resentment required energy, and energy required food.
Instead, he learned to observe.
He noticed how people bowed before stone idols but ignored living children. He noticed how charity flowed freely during festivals but vanished the next morning. He noticed how even the cruelest men justified their actions using words like fate and necessity.
From a young age, he understood something most adults never did:
The world does not run on good or evil. It runs on convenience.
When he was seven, an old priest found him sleeping on the temple steps.
"Why don't you pray?" the priest asked, half out of curiosity, half annoyance.
The boy looked up at the towering idol of Shiva, cracked and weathered from years of neglect. He tilted his head slightly before answering.
"I don't know what to ask for," he said honestly.
The priest scoffed. "Everyone asks for something."
The boy shook his head. "If I ask and don't receive it, I'll get angry. If I receive it, I'll become greedy. Either way, I lose."
The priest stared at him for a long time.
From that day onward, the priest left food near the steps. He never spoke of it.
Years passed.
The boy grew lean, sharp-eyed, and quiet. He learned how to make himself invisible when needed and noticeable when it mattered. He worked wherever he could—washing dishes, cleaning floors, carrying sacks of grain, standing guard at night for shopkeepers who paid him barely enough to survive.
He never stole.
Not because he was virtuous, but because he had drawn a line for himself early on.
"If I cross it once," he thought, "it'll be easier the second time."
So he endured.
As he grew older, his body hardened, shaped by labor rather than comfort. His mind grew sharper, shaped by observation rather than education. He listened more than he spoke and remembered more than he revealed.
People trusted him without knowing why.
Shopkeepers left him alone with their stores. Hospital staff let him work night shifts without supervision. Women felt safer when he stood nearby, even if they couldn't explain it.
He did not see himself as special.
"I just mind my own business," he would shrug.
But his definition of "his business" was different from most.
He believed that if someone crossed a certain invisible line—one that separated necessity from cruelty—then remaining silent was the same as participating.
He never called it dharma.
He didn't need a name for it.
That belief followed him into the night the world finally noticed him—and then erased him.
Rain poured relentlessly, blurring the neon lights of the city into streaks of color. The streets were half-empty, the kind of emptiness that invited trouble rather than peace.
He had just finished a late shift at a small private hospital. Twelve hours of moving patients, cleaning spills, listening to muted groans behind curtains. His body ached, but his mind was calm.
That was when he heard the scream.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic.
It was desperate.
His steps slowed.
Down a narrow side street, beneath a flickering streetlight that barely held back the darkness, a girl stood frozen. Three men surrounded her, their laughter thick with alcohol and entitlement.
He could walk away.
People did it every day. People survived by doing it.
He stood there, rain soaking into his clothes, weighing the consequences with a clarity that surprised even him.
"If I interfere," he thought, "I might die."
If I don't, something inside me will.
He exhaled slowly.
"…Troublesome," he muttered.
Then he stepped forward.
"She said no," he said, voice calm, carrying farther than he expected.
The men turned. One laughed openly. Another's eyes hardened. The third pulled out a knife, the blade catching the streetlight.
"You lost, hero?" the tallest one sneered. "Wrong place."
He looked at the knife, then at the girl, whose hands trembled as she clutched her bag.
"No," he replied quietly. "You are."
The first punch came fast. He took it squarely, teeth rattling. Pain flared, sharp and immediate. He welcomed it—it meant things had started.
He fought without elegance or pride. Elbows, knees, desperation. One man went down clutching his face. Another slipped in the rain and didn't get back up.
The knife found him anyway.
Once—his side.
Twice—his shoulder.
The third time—deep.
The pain was blinding.
But the girl ran.
Footsteps faded. Voices cursed. Then silence returned, broken only by rain and his labored breathing.
He collapsed beneath the streetlight, staring at the sky.
It was strange how calm he felt.
"So this is it," he thought dimly.
Sirens echoed in the distance, far enough to feel insulting.
As warmth drained from his body, a faint smile touched his lips.
"At least… I didn't cross my line."
The world went dark.
--Chapter1 ended--