The first thing I felt was warmth.
Not the suffocating darkness that had swallowed me, not the blank silence of the void, but real warmth—soft, golden, alive.
My eyes blinked open.
A ceiling stretched above me, pure white, smooth and spotless. For a moment I lay still, my breathing uneven, until memory surged back like a crashing tide.
The truck.
The void.
The voice.
The two wishes.
I sat up sharply, chest rising and falling. My hand pressed against the mattress beneath me—it was soft, impossibly soft, nothing like the stiff cot I had known back in the hostel. My gaze swept across the room, and my breath caught.
This wasn't just a room. It was luxury.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along one wall, revealing a skyline filled with towers of glass and steel. Evening light spilled across the horizon, painting the buildings in gold. The bed beneath me was vast, draped in silver sheets that shimmered faintly. A thick carpet cushioned the floor, so plush that my toes sank when I moved. On a small glass table nearby, a vase of fresh purple flowers glowed faintly in the fading sun.
I froze.
This was not my world.
And then—memories not mine surged through me.
I staggered, clutching my head as images forced themselves into my mind. A boy's life. His documents. His habits. His history. This was my parallel self's body. Here too, I was an orphan. But unlike before, my parents had left behind a fortune. A lawyer handled it, sending me allowances every month that ensured I lived like this—surrounded by things I could never have even dreamed of in my old life.
My heart hammered as the fragments settled. Slowly, unsteadily, I stood and walked toward the mirror across the room.
And I froze again.
The face staring back was my own—yet not.
Sixteen years old, the same as before. My hair, brown and tousled, framed my forehead. My skin was smoother, my eyes brighter, my features more defined, almost sharper than I remembered. But what drew my gaze most was not the face. It was the earrings.
Golden. Ancient. Glowing faintly with an otherworldly sheen.
Kavach and Kundal.
I raised my hand, trembling, and touched them. A pulse ran through me instantly—strength, defense, the unshakable certainty of survival. Power flowed under my skin like molten gold.
They were real.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. And then I remembered the second wish.
The bow.
Almost without thinking, I raised my hand.
Light gathered above my palm. Golden threads of brilliance wove together, forming curves, edges, and a string that shimmered like sunlight condensed into silk. In moments, it appeared.
A bow.
Pure gold, radiant as the heart of the sun. Its limbs glowed with intricate designs that seemed to shift when I blinked. The string hummed faintly, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
The weapon wasn't just in my hand. It was connected to me.
A word formed in my mind, not mine but etched there as though carried by the bow itself.
Agni Astra.
I pulled the string. Sparks leapt into the air, blooming into flame. An arrow of fire formed, blazing, its heat licking my skin without burning. My chest vibrated with its power. This wasn't simple fire—it was endless. I could feel it. The flames could grow infinitely, burning as long and as far as I willed.
A shiver ran through me. This was the first Astra.
And then, another whisper echoed in my mind, deeper.
This was only the beginning. Every six months, a new Astra would awaken. Fire today… others tomorrow. One by one, the divine weapons hidden within this bow would reveal themselves.
My breath caught.
Every six months, more power. More astras. More abilities that once belonged only to gods.
I released the string. The arrow of flame vanished, collapsing into sparks that scattered into the air. The bow shimmered and dissolved into golden motes, flowing into my wrist. A symbol etched itself into my skin—lines curling like fire, glowing faintly before settling.
I flexed my hand. With a single thought, I could summon it again. It wasn't just a weapon. It was part of me.
I stood there, staring at the mark on my wrist, when a sharp vibration snapped me back.
A phone buzzed on the bedside table.
I picked it up. Sleek, modern, expensive. The lock screen glowed. Instinctively, my parallel self's memories stirred, and the password surfaced clearly. My fingers typed it without hesitation.
The phone unlocked.
And then I saw it.
A message.
Peter Parker.
"Are you coming to school tomorrow? There's an assignment you haven't submitted. The teacher asked me to remind you—it's the last day."
The words froze me in place.
My hand went cold. My throat locked.
And then—it happened.
A flood of memories surged into me, sharper and heavier than before. Everything this body's Ansh had lived—the classes, the teachers, the endless homework, the neighbors, the quiet routines, the occasional glimpses of a boy with messy brown hair and nervous energy.
Peter Parker.
Spider-Man.
The phone slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud. My legs weakened, and I leaned against the bed, gasping for breath.
There was no doubt anymore.
I staggered to the window, pressing my palms against the glass. Outside, the city spread in glittering lights. And there, towering above the skyline, one building rose higher than the rest.
STARK.
The letters blazed proudly at its peak.
My chest tightened. My shaking hand grabbed the remote, and the TV flickered alive.
Iron Man soared across the screen, red and gold armor blazing under the camera's lights. A news anchor spoke excitedly of his latest exploits. Then the footage cut—Spider-Man swung between skyscrapers, pulling civilians out of danger, his mask bright red against the night.
My heart pounded in my ears.
This was real.
I fumbled for the phone again, lifting it with trembling fingers. The date blinked at me from the corner of the screen.
December 29, 2011.
The blood drained from my face.
I knew what was coming.
The Battle of New York. Loki. The Tesseract. The sky tearing open as Chitauri poured through in endless waves. The Avengers' first war.
It hadn't happened yet—but it was close. Very close.
My golden earrings shimmered faintly. The symbol on my wrist pulsed with quiet fire. My reflection in the glass showed a boy of sixteen—yet not the same boy as before. Stronger. Stranger. Something more.
But all of that faded against the truth now burning in my mind.
This was Marvel.