The world for Parth Sharma had shrunk to a circle of gold, 12.2 centimetres wide, shimmering 70 meters away. The monsoon air on this August evening was thick with the scent of wet earth and petrichor, a scent that rose from the very soil of Nashik. Below the elevated platform of the state-of-the-art archery range, the sacred Godavari River flowed, swollen and powerful from the rains, a silent, ancient witness.
This place was steeped in history. The locals said the very air here was different, sanctified by the memory of gods and exiled princes. This was the land of Panchavati from the Ramayana, a place of profound righteousness and deep sorrow. Parth felt it sometimes, a strange weight in the atmosphere, a feeling that the ground beneath his feet had seen epics unfold. It was a detail he tried to ignore.
He drew his bowstring back, the carbon-fibre limbs of his Hoyt recurve groaning. The motion was liquid, a thousand repetitions making it an extension of his will. His breathing slowed.
Just the target. Just the arrow. Nothing else.
It was a necessary mantra. The "something else" had been troubling him for months.
He was handsome, everyone said so. But it wasn't just his sharp features or athletic build. There was a light in him, a quiet intensity in his dark eyes that made people look twice. Coach Singh called it a "kingly presence," a natural aura of command that seemed utterly out of place for a 22-year-old athlete. Parth just found it awkward. It drew attention he didn't want. This aura, this glow, felt like it belonged to someone else.
He released the arrow.
For a split second, as the arrow flew, the world warped. It wasn't a sound this time, but a flash of light in his mind's eye.
He saw a reflection, but not in a mirror. He saw a pair of powerful hands, his hands, but they were adorned with intricate golden vambraces that hummed with a faint light. The vision panned upwards, over a broad chest covered in a magnificent golden breastplate, a kavacha so ornate and radiant it seemed forged from a captured star. He couldn't see a face, but he felt the power emanating from this figure—an unmatchable aura of calm authority and immense strength. It was the feeling he sometimes got when he caught his own reflection, amplified a thousand times. It was a glimpse of a god.
"Dammit," Parth muttered under his breath, his focus shattered.
The arrow struck the target, landing just outside the gold circle in the red. An eight. A score that felt like a failure.
He lowered his bow, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The irritation was a familiar, bitter taste in his mouth. These flashes were becoming more frequent, more intrusive. They weren't dreams anymore; they were glitches in his reality, fragments of a life he'd never lived, interrupting the one he was trying so desperately to build.
"Getting to you again, son?" Coach Singh's voice was low, careful not to attract attention from the other archers.
Parth didn't answer. He just unhooked his bow and methodically began to pack it away, his movements stiff with frustration.
"Your form is perfect, your release is clean," the coach continued, "but your mind is a hundred kilometres away. You need to sort this out. The aura you have can intimidate opponents, but not if you're fighting yourself on the shooting line."
Later that evening, in his small apartment overlooking a rain-slicked street, Parth switched on the television. He just wanted the noise.
"...and the markets are buzzing with anticipation for Hastina Corp's mega-announcement tomorrow," a news anchor said. "CEO Suyodh Mehra is expected to unveil 'CHAKRAVYUH', a project rumoured to be a next-generation AI security network."
The screen showed Suyodh Mehra, charismatic and smiling in a tailored suit.
And as always, the sight of him sent a jolt of pure, undiluted loathing through Parth's veins. It was an instinctual, primal hatred that made no sense. He had never met the man, yet he felt he knew the shape of his cruel soul better than his own. The name echoed in his mind, not from the news, but from the silent flashes of gold.
Suyodhana.
He shut the TV off, the silence amplifying the hum of the ceiling fan. He was tired, a bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion. He fell into a restless sleep, hoping for a dreamless night.
But the dream came. It was the same as the flash, but clearer, lingering. The vision of the golden armour, the radiant kavacha, the divine, powerful being that was somehow him. It felt less like a memory and more like his soul was trying to show him a photograph of his true self.
And then, for the first time, a sound accompanied the vision. It was not the roar of a battlefield, but a single, resonant word, spoken by a voice that felt like coming home.
Pārtha.
The name hung in the dreamscape, filled with love, authority, and a hint of gentle chiding. It was his name. He knew it was his name. And he had no idea what to do with it.