Veda opened his eyes.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights humming softly like dying insects. The sharp sting of antiseptic clung to the air. A hospital room. Again.
He stared upward without moving.
Bandages wrapped his chest, arms, and head. Every breath pulled against bruised ribs. This body felt wrong. Too light. Too young. Eighteen years old and already carrying the silence of a corpse.
"Good morning."
Young Veda floated beside the bed, cross legged in the air, chin resting on his palm. His smile was bright and untouched, but his eyes carried something ancient.
Veda slowly turned his head.
His face remained stone.
"You said you would guide me," he said quietly. "When I needed help, you stayed silent."
Young Veda's smile widened.
"I was watching, child. I wanted to see what you would do." He drifted lazily toward the foot of the bed. "A new universe. Same parents, different blood. Their real son died screaming in that ritual chamber, and another soul slipped into his body. Such an interesting beginning."
Veda pushed himself upright.
Pain shot through his ribs. His arms trembled slightly from the effort, but he ignored it. He sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor, eyes fixed on the floating figure.
Young Veda's voice softened into something smooth and dangerous.
"In this world, your father is not some weak office worker. He is a Commander level warrior. One of the strongest men in the Eastern Dominions."
Veda listened in silence.
"His father is King Mahavira Raj Das. The Lion Lord of Singharaj. A ruler feared across kingdoms. Entire bloodlines disappeared after speaking against him."
Young Veda drifted toward the window.
"Then your father was born. Arjuna Raj Das."
He turned back.
"Arjuna's mother, Isha, was a commoner. A flower seller from the streets. The King married her because she was beautiful, and the royal court never forgave her for it. The other queens saw her as filth standing beside royalty."
Veda's eyes remained cold.
"When Arjuna was eleven, they poisoned her slowly. He watched her choke on blood in the middle of the palace while the court laughed. He begged for help. Screamed until his throat tore apart. His father sat on the throne and watched in silence."
For the first time, Veda's jaw tightened.
"Arjuna left the palace that same night," Young Veda continued. "He burned the word 'Raj' from his name and disappeared into war. He forged himself through battle, pain, and endless bloodshed until he became something terrifying. Revenge was the only thing left alive inside him."
A faint smile crossed Young Veda's face.
"He joined the Dark Hunters Society and rose through the ranks like a storm. Soldiers feared him. Enemies prayed they would never see him on the battlefield. But despite all his strength, no one truly loved him."
A brief pause.
"Except your mother."
The name lingered in the room before Young Veda spoke it.
"Priya."
Veda had never heard the name spoken with such weight.
"She was an orphan," Young Veda said softly. "When she was a child, a Void Deva possessed her. She lost control and slaughtered everyone in the orphanage. Children. Caretakers. Every last soul inside that building died screaming."
His expression did not change.
"The government took the surviving child and turned her into a weapon. People called her a curse. A monster. The White Blade Witch. When she fought, her hair turned white as bone and her sword burned with pure light."
Young Veda gazed out the window as if watching distant memories.
"Arjuna met her on the battlefield. Two broken people standing in the middle of war. He did not fear her darkness. She did not flinch from his rage."
A small smile touched his lips.
"They fell in love the only way wounded people can. Desperately. Violently. Like they were trying to crawl inside each other's scars."
Veda remained silent.
"Arjuna wanted a powerful son," Young Veda continued. "Someone so strong that no one would ever be able to hurt him again. He believed strength was the only thing this world could not steal."
His eyes shifted toward Veda.
"Priya only wanted love. Arjuna was the first person who ever touched her without fear. She believed if she gave him the perfect child, he would stay beside her forever."
Young Veda floated closer.
"Then you were born. Veda Das of this world."
The room seemed quieter after those words.
"Arjuna trained the boy from the moment he could walk. Swords. Combat drills. Energy control. Broken bones treated as lessons. Praise withheld like a drug. Every mistake became punishment. Every weakness became shame."
Veda's bandaged hands rested quietly on his knees.
"The boy stopped smiling. Stopped speaking unless spoken to. He became a machine that only understood one command. Become stronger."
Young Veda's voice grew quieter.
"He wanted his father's approval more than anything else in the world. Just once, he wanted to hear the words 'I am proud of you.' But Arjuna did not know how to love a child. He only knew how to forge weapons."
Silence settled over the room.
"And Priya watched it happen," Young Veda said. "She watched her son slowly disappear. He stopped calling her 'Maa.' He walked past her in silence. Ate alone. Slept with his door locked."
Young Veda looked down at the floor.
"He never hated her. That was the cruelest part. He simply forgot she was there. His father's voice drowned out everything else in his life."
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead.
"Priya cooked his favorite meals every day and left them outside his room. They always went cold. She stood outside his training hall listening to him scream through drills, but never entered because Arjuna said softness would ruin him."
Young Veda's eyes darkened.
"For eighteen years she waited for her son to look at her. Just once. One glance. One word. One 'Maa.' That moment never came."
The room fell silent.
Veda finally spoke.
"This boy destroyed himself chasing something he was never going to receive."
Young Veda looked at him carefully.
Veda's voice remained calm.
"And he forgot the one person who was always waiting for him."
For the first time, Young Veda seemed pleased.
"Yes," he said softly.
He floated closer until they were nearly face to face.
"The boy wanted his father's pride more than air itself. So he attempted to form a contract with a high level Angel. He died screaming in that ritual chamber. His soul was devoured."
Young Veda smiled.
"And you took his place."
Silence stretched between them.
"Now listen carefully," Young Veda said. "Your parents are not weak people. Your father is one of the deadliest Commanders in this world. Your mother is the White Blade Witch. Both of them are dangerous in different ways."
His smile sharpened.
"Your father does not see you as his son. He sees a failed investment. He poured eighteen years into creating the perfect warrior, and now a stranger wears that face. He will watch you closely. Test you. Push you until something breaks."
Young Veda tilted his head slightly.
"And if you prove useless, he will discard you without hesitation."
Veda met his gaze steadily.
"My mother?"
Young Veda's expression changed.
"Priya knew the moment you hugged her that you were not her real son. But she does not care."
His voice softened.
"She has been starving for affection for eighteen years. You gave her a single moment of warmth, and she clung to it like a dying person reaching for air. She will protect you with everything she has."
Then his eyes narrowed.
"But she is also watching you. Waiting to see what kind of man now lives inside her son's body."
Young Veda floated inches from Veda's face.
"So tell me, Ghost of Death."
He smiled.
"What are you going to do now?"
Veda did not answer immediately.
The weight of two lives pressed against his chest. A dead boy's memories. A broken family. A new world filled with powerful people carrying old wounds.
Young Veda watched him carefully, his ancient smile slowly widening.
Then he vanished.
The room became quiet again.
Morning light spilled through the window, pale and unforgiving.
Veda remained seated on the edge of the bed, bandaged hands resting on his knees. His expression revealed nothing.
But deep inside him, something cold had begun to move.
Something patient.
Something sharp.