Morning sunlight slowly leaked through the curtains of Vikram’s hotel room in Delhi.
The distant sound of traffic drifted upward from the busy streets below while someone outside argued loudly with an auto driver.
For several long seconds, Vikram simply stared blankly at the ceiling before suddenly sitting upright, his breathing becoming uneven instantly.
The palace.
Power.
Mayasabha.
The Supreme King Mudra.
Every memory remained perfectly clear.
Vikram immediately looked around the room.
Nothing appeared unusual; the television remained off near the wall, his half-open backpack still lay beside the chair where he had thrown it yesterday, and empty water bottles cluttered the bedside table.
Everything looked painfully ordinary.
For one small moment, Vikram wondered if maybe it truly had been a dream.
Then something cold touched his hand.
He slowly looked down and saw the golden coin resting in his palm.
Even in daylight, it looked unnatural; tiny golden patterns moved faintly beneath its metallic surface like trapped starlight.
On the front side was an intricate circular kundali design made from countless interconnected symbols and lines.
A kundali was an ancient cosmic chart representing destiny, spiritual alignment, life pathways, and the movement of energies tied to existence itself.
But this kundali looked alive, with symbols shifting slightly every few seconds as though calculating something beyond human understanding.
On the opposite side of the Mudra, three large letters were engraved deeply into the metal: B M V.
Above the letters rested a crown symbol.
Vikram stared at it silently, then groaned loudly and fell backward onto the bed again.
“So it wasn’t a dream,” he muttered toward the ceiling.
Unfortunately for his mental peace, it was very real.
Two days later, Vikram returned to Mumbai.
The city greeted him exactly as always: noise, heat, chaos, cars honking endlessly across crowded roads, street vendors screaming over one another, local trains overflowing with exhausted passengers hanging dangerously from doors, and construction drilling echoing somewhere nearby like warfare against human sanity.
Normal Mumbai.
Vikram quietly stepped out of the auto near his residential lane, carrying his backpack over one shoulder.
He wore his usual dark hoodie despite the heat while trying his absolute best to look like a man who wasn’t secretly carrying a cosmic artifact capable of deciding universe-level conflicts.
So far, nobody seemed suspicious.
His mother immediately opened the front door before he even knocked.
“There you are!” Anu exclaimed dramatically.
“Delhi returned my son alive.
Miracles happen.”
Vikram sighed tiredly.
“Hello to you too.”
Anu immediately grabbed his cheeks.
“Why do you look even more dead inside than before?”
“Travel,” Vikram said.
“Liar,” Anu replied.
Inside the house, the smell of fresh food filled the air.
His grandmother loudly watched some mythological serial from the living room while his father calmly read the newspaper.
Aditya glanced up briefly.
“Trip good?”
Vikram froze for half a second as memories of cosmic queens and universe-ending threats flashed through his mind.
“…Yeah,” he answered quietly.
“Normal.”
Somehow, that felt like the biggest lie he had ever spoken.
Nobody noticed, and Vikram intended to keep it that way.
That night, long after everyone slept, Vikram sat alone inside his room, staring at the Mudra beneath the dim yellow light.
The coin floated slightly above his desk now, with tiny golden particles drifting around it slowly.
Every instinct inside him still screamed that he should throw it into the Arabian Sea and pretend none of this ever happened.
But he couldn’t.
Somewhere deep inside, he already understood.
Power had chosen him for a reason, and something terrible was coming.
Far away from Vikram’s quiet room, across the endless chaos of Mumbai, violence entered Dharavi.
Rainwater dripped slowly from broken rooftops while crowded alleys overflowed with people even late into the evening.
Tiny shops remained packed beneath flickering lights, children ran barefoot through narrow lanes, and old radios played distant Bollywood songs buried beneath the noise.
A small roadside restaurant remained open near one crowded intersection.
Steam rose from boiling tea vessels while exhausted workers filled cheap plastic chairs after long shifts.
The place smelled of frying oil, masala, sweat, and rain.
Then he entered.
A young man wearing a black shirt, black jeans, and bright red sandals walked silently into the restaurant.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
Nobody understood why, but something about him felt wrong—not dangerous at first glance, but worse.
His face looked young, maybe twenty-five, with a sharp jawline, a slight beard, and a calm expression.
Yet his eyes carried something deeply unnatural; they looked emotionless and furious simultaneously.
He sat quietly at a corner table.
A small waiter boy hurried toward him carrying a stained menu.
The child looked barely thirteen, wearing a faded oversized T-shirt and loose pajama pants.
“What do you want, bhaiya?” the boy asked politely.
The man answered simply, “Tea.”
Nothing else.
The boy nodded quickly and ran toward the kitchen.
Several minutes later, he returned carefully holding a steaming glass of boiling tea.
While placing it down, one tiny drop spilled accidentally onto the man’s red sandal.
Silence.
The boy froze instantly.
“S-sorry.”
The man slowly looked down at the tea stain, then upward toward the child.
No expression changed on his face, which somehow made it worse.
The boy backed away nervously.
“I didn’t mean—”
The man stood up calmly and punched him directly in the stomach.
The child crashed violently into nearby tables.
Customers screamed instantly while glass shattered across the floor.
Before anyone could react, the man grabbed the boy by his hair and slammed his face against the table repeatedly.
Blood spread across the wood as everyone inside the restaurant panicked.
“What are you doing?!” the chef screamed while rushing forward.
The attacker calmly turned toward him and grabbed the chef’s face with one hand.
The chef struggled desperately until the man shoved him directly into the wall hard enough to crack the concrete.
His body became partially embedded in the surface.
People began running outside, screaming.
The boy cried helplessly on the floor as the attacker calmly picked up the boiling tea glass and crouched beside him.
“Drink.”
The child stared upward in horror.
“Please…”
The man smiled slightly for the first time and forced the boiling tea into the boy’s mouth.
The screams that followed echoed through the entire street.
Police arrived within minutes.
Four officers tackled the man outside the restaurant after a brutal struggle involving batons and tasers.
Yet throughout everything, he only smiled, as though he enjoyed every second of it.
By midnight, the attacker sat inside a Mumbai police station, stripped nearly naked and tied tightly to a metal chair.
His body was covered in bruises from bamboo beatings, but he still smiled.
Blood dripped slowly from his split lip onto the floor while several exhausted officers stood nearby, breathing heavily.
One older officer stepped forward finally.
Gray hair, heavy eyes, and years of frustration were carved into his face.
He crouched before the prisoner quietly.
“What is your name?”
The man tilted his head slightly, then answered calmly, “King.”
Several officers laughed immediately.
The older officer sighed.
“Full name.”
The prisoner’s smile widened slowly.
“King.
The ruler of Earth.”
More laughter filled the room.
Then suddenly, a deep voice echoed inside the prisoner’s mind.
Only for him.
Heavy.
Ancient.
Burning with rage.
WHAT SIN IS YOURS?
The smiling man closed his eyes briefly, then whispered softly inside his own mind.
“Wrath.”
Something invisible stirred deep within him.
The older officer slapped him hard across the face.
“Enough nonsense.”
The prisoner slowly turned his head back, then spat blood directly into the officer’s eye.
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The station exploded into shouting instantly.
“You bastard!”
An officer raised the bamboo again, and the prisoner moved.
The ropes around his body snapped apart effortlessly—not torn, but breaking like weak thread.
Before anyone could process what happened, his fist crashed into one officer’s throat hard enough to collapse it instantly.
CRACK.
The body dropped lifelessly, and silence lasted for one horrifying second before chaos erupted.
The prisoner stood calmly amidst the screaming officers while blood ran across the station floor.
Someone fired a gun.
BANG.
The bullet never touched him.
He moved sideways impossibly fast, faster than human reflexes allowed.
The next officer rushed forward desperately with a baton.
King caught the weapon mid-swing, then drove the broken half through the officer’s eye.
Screams filled the station as another policeman fired repeatedly.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
King moved through the bullets, not dodging randomly but precisely, as though he could see them before they moved.
The deep voice inside him laughed softly.
GOOD.
King grabbed another officer by the neck and slammed him through a desk hard enough to shatter the wood.
Someone tried tackling him from behind, but King snapped his arm backward without looking, shattering the attacker’s bone instantly.
The station became a slaughterhouse within seconds.
Bodies crashed against walls while blood spread across the floor beneath flickering tube lights.
Officers screamed orders nobody could follow, and gunshots echoed endlessly.
And through all of it, King smiled because he loved it.
The older officer stumbled backward in horror while watching his entire station collapse around him.
“What are you?” he whispered.
King slowly turned toward him and calmly walked forward.
The old officer fired his revolver desperately.
Empty.
Click.
King grabbed his face gently, almost kindly.
“You laughed earlier,” he said softly, then twisted.
CRACK.
The body dropped lifelessly.
Silence returned to the station, with only burning wires crackling faintly overhead.
King calmly walked across the blood-covered floor, collecting weapons from fallen officers.
Guns, ammunition magazines, and tactical knives were stuffed into a black police backpack casually as he stepped over the bodies.
Then he looked around the destroyed station once more and set it on fire.
Flames spread rapidly through broken desks and fallen papers while smoke filled the building and alarms screamed uselessly into the night.
Outside, terrified officers arriving as backup froze upon seeing him emerge from the burning station, carrying the backpack over one shoulder.
Fire reflected in his emotionless eyes.
Nobody moved.
Nobody dared.
King slowly looked upward toward the dark Mumbai sky, then smiled.
“I am coming,” he whispered softly.
“Supreme King.”
The voice inside him echoed again, this time pleased.
CONGRATULATIONS.
King’s smile widened slightly.
I AM IMPRESSED.
Something invisible unfolded within his body.
Power.
Violence.
Rage itself sharpening into something monstrous.
The voice continued.
I GRANT YOU BERSERK MODE.
King’s veins darkened briefly beneath his skin.
THE GREATER YOUR RAGE BECOMES, THE STRONGER YOUR ABILITIES SHALL GROW.
THE MORE PRECISELY YOU WILL FIGHT.
King closed his eyes and smiled wider than ever before.
Behind him, the police station burned against the Mumbai night like the beginning of something terrible.