Year 1552, Kumbhalgarh Fort, Mewar
The first rays of dawn broke over the rugged Aravalli hills, painting the stone walls of Kumbhalgarh Fort in hues of gold and amber. The sound of conch shells echoed faintly through the courtyard as temple bells chimed, carrying prayers to the gods of the Rajputs.
Inside a royal chamber adorned with silken drapes and carved pillars, a young boy stirred from his sleep — gasping for air as though dragged from the depths of death itself.
He clutched his chest, breath trembling, eyes wide with confusion.
For a fleeting second, all he saw was fire.
A metal bird tearing through the sky… people screaming… the smell of burning fuel — then darkness.
And then — this.
He sat upright, his heartbeat drumming in his ears, staring at the unfamiliar surroundings. The heavy curtains fluttered in the breeze, revealing the rich patterns of Rajput art and weapons mounted neatly on the walls — swords, spears, shields polished to perfection. The faint sound of guards marching outside told him this was no dream.
> What the hell... where am I?
A flash of memory hit him — his last life.
He wasn't a saint. Not even close.
A selfish man who rose fast, stepped on others to climb higher, and lived life on his own terms.
He enjoyed money, women, and power — until fate laughed and sent his private jet spiraling into the earth.
> So… I died. Just like that.
And now I wake up here?
He ran his hand through his hair — softer and longer than before. His skin was darker, warmer.
A mirror stood near the window, and as he approached, the reflection staring back almost made him smirk.
He looked regal — a boy of about twelve, strong eyes, sharp jawline, and a hint of pride even in his young face. His hair fell over his forehead, and a faint mark of nobility rested between his brows.
> Not bad. Definitely not bad.
Guess the gods finally upgraded me.
His lips curved upward as he examined the rich robes he wore — fine cotton with gold embroidery. Everything screamed royalty. The memories from this body began to merge with his own — fragmented at first, then clearer.
Pratap Singh — son of Maharana Udai Singh II of Mewar.
Heir to one of the proudest Rajput thrones in India.
And right now, the "lion cub" of Mewar had just awakened with the mind of a man from another era.
---
Footsteps echoed outside. Two attendants entered, bowing respectfully.
"Kunwar Pratap, Maharani ji requests your presence at the courtyard after your morning meal," one of them said softly.
He nodded absently, still gazing at his reflection.
The moment the boy's voice reached his ears, something strange happened — a faint echo in his mind.
> (He seems… different today… so sharp...)
Pratap's eyes narrowed.
> Wait... that voice — I didn't hear it. I felt it.
Another whisper followed from the second attendant:
(Better not anger him. He was furious yesterday...)
A slow grin spread across his face.
> Interesting... I can hear what they think.
Now that's a power worth having.
He turned away, dismissing them with a lazy wave. As they left, he flexed his hand — feeling the strength coursing through his body. It wasn't ordinary. His muscles felt controlled, dense, powerful — every movement perfectly balanced.
He picked up a sword from the rack — light but solid — and gave it a few experimental swings. The blade cut through air with a hiss. His grip was natural, instinctive.
> This body's still young, but with this strength... I could tear through a grown man.
Super Soldier Serum, huh? Guess it worked even in this life.
A flicker of excitement rushed through him.
His last life had been full of ambition — but limited by laws, politics, and weakness. Here? There were no limits. This was a land of kings and conquerors, where strength and cunning ruled.
> Perfect place for me.
He moved toward the balcony. The view beyond stretched endlessly — the mountains wrapped in mist, and down below, the banners of Mewar fluttered in the wind. Soldiers trained in the courtyard, their swords clashing in rhythm.
It was beautiful… and fragile.
He knew the history. Mewar stood proud but surrounded by enemies — powerful kingdoms, greedy sultans, and soon, the rising Mughal Empire under Akbar.
And he, Maharana Pratap Singh, was destined to face it all.
But this time, history would not repeat itself.
> In my last life, I fought for myself.
In this one, I'll build something that lasts forever — through my bloodline, through my will.
No betrayal. No defeat.
A faint memory of the crash flashed again — the roar of the engines, the helpless fall.
He clenched his fists. Never again.
The sound of the temple bell brought him back. He looked at the rising sun, its glow reflecting in his eyes. It was the same color as the fire that once ended his life. Now, it symbolized his rebirth.
He whispered under his breath — words that came naturally, almost like an oath:
> "If the gods gave me a second chance… I'll make Mewar eternal.
I'll be the lion they all fear — and worship."
A knock broke the silence. His personal guard entered, carrying a ceremonial dagger wrapped in silk.
"Kunwar, this khanda was prepared for your coming-of-age ritual. Your father wished you to train with it."
Pratap took it in his hand. The blade shimmered — ancient yet light.
He could feel the lineage of warriors who held it before him. His reflection stared back from the steel — confident, cold, and proud.
> So this is my legacy.
Then let's see how sharp it can become.
He swung once — the sound sliced through the still air.
A few rose petals from a nearby bowl fluttered down, cleanly halved before they touched the floor.
The guard's eyes widened. "Kunwar—"
But before he could speak, Pratap smiled faintly and sheathed the blade.
> "Tell Maharani ji I'll join her soon. I just wish to… enjoy the morning air."
The man bowed and left quietly.
When he was alone again, Pratap walked toward the open balcony. The wind brushed his hair, carrying the faint call of peacocks from the forest below.
For a boy of twelve, he stood with the calm pride of a king.
> History may remember Maharana Pratap as a noble hero…
But I'm not that man.
I'm the one who'll make sure this world kneels before Mewar.
The drums began to sound in the distance — a call to training, a call to battle, or perhaps fate itself announcing the awakening of a lion.
And high above Kumbhalgarh, under the rising sun, the reincarnated soul smiled.
> Let the game begin.