Prologue
The sun hung low over the Chenab like a hammered copper plate, bleeding orange into the dust-choked horizon. March in Kot Addu: not yet the furnace of May, but already the air tasted of baked earth and diesel exhaust. Temperatures hovered in the mid-80s°F by late afternoon, the kind of dry heat that made sweat evaporate before it could cool you. A faint haze of smoke from distant sugarcane fields drifted across the flat alluvial plain, mingling with the ever-present fine silt kicked up by passing tractors and the occasional dust devil spiraling lazily over fallow cotton patches.
Rai Arsh Parhar wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his faded gray kurta, the fabric already stiff with salt and grime. Twenty-five years old, eldest of the Rai Parhar clan, electrical engineer by degree from UET Lahore, but in practice a man who spent more days up steel poles than behind desks. Today the fault was on a 132 kV feeder line feeding the outskirts—some insulator string had cracked under thermal stress, tripping the relay at the substation. Routine. Annoying. But necessary.
He stood at the base of the lattice tower, safety harness clipped, tool belt heavy against his hips. The line hummed above him, a low, constant vibration that spoke of contained power, waiting. In the distance, the Indus canals glinted like silver veins, irrigating fields of young wheat and the first flush of mango orchards. Peacocks called from the scrub along the riverine belt—sharp, mocking cries that carried far in the still air. Somewhere a diesel pump chugged rhythmically, pulling water for someone's plot.
Arsh didn't rush. He never did. Saraiki men of the Parhar bloodline—claiming descent from old Parihar Rajputs who once rode these plains centuries ago—learned early that haste was for fools and outsiders. Settle disputes with few words, fix what's broken with steady hands, protect what's yours without fanfare. His father had drilled it into him before the old man's heart gave out three years back. His mother still wore the small gold ring she'd pressed into his palm the day he left for university: "Beta, yeh yaad rakhna—ghar di hifazat hamesha dil vich rakhni ae." Keep the home's protection always in your heart.
He climbed methodically, boots ringing on the galvanized rungs. At the cross-arm, he paused, squinting against the glare. The damaged insulator dangled like a broken tooth, porcelain cracked clean through. He pulled out his multimeter, checked for residual charge—habit, even though the line was isolated. Satisfied, he reached for the replacement string in his bag.
That's when it happened.
No warning rumble. No flash of lightning. Just a sudden, blinding white light that erased the world.
It wasn't heatstroke. It wasn't a transformer exploding. The light poured in from everywhere and nowhere—pure, absolute, swallowing sound, color, gravity. Arsh felt his stomach lurch as if the tower had vanished beneath him. His hand tightened instinctively on the steel rung, but there was nothing to grip. The Chenab, the fields, the peacocks, the hum of the line—all gone.
Silence. Then pressure, like being pushed through a membrane of cold silk.
When sensation returned, he was no longer on the tower.
He stood on smooth, featureless white. Floor, walls, ceiling—endless, seamless, glowing faintly. No horizon. No sky. Just an immense plaza under an impossible light that came from everywhere at once.
In the center floated a sphere. Not metal, not glass—something between liquid mercury and captured starlight. It pulsed once, slowly.
A voice—not heard in ears, but in the mind—spoke without inflection.
"Welcome to God's Dimension. You have been selected. Survival is mandatory. Death is permanent. Missions will commence shortly. Prepare."
Arsh stood motionless. No panic. No questions shouted into the void. His heartbeat was steady, the same calm rhythm it held when facing down a village hothead with a gun or troubleshooting a live line in a storm.
He glanced at his hands—still callused, still bearing the faint scar from that jackal hunt years ago. His kurta was intact, tool belt still heavy at his waist. The small gold ring from his mother glinted on his finger.
Then, in the corner of his vision, something flickered.
A translucent panel. Blue-edged. Words scrolling in clean English, then shifting seamlessly to Urdu script as if reading his preference.
[System Initialized]
Host: Rai Arsh Parhar
Talent: Infinite Comprehension – Active
Inventory: Empty
Points: 0
Hidden Quest Unlocked: Observe. Adapt. Survive.
Reward: 100 Points + Basic Analysis Unlock
He blinked once. The panel vanished as quickly as it appeared, invisible to anyone else.
Arsh exhaled slowly through his nose. The sphere pulsed again, brighter.
Around him, figures began to materialize—ten strangers, men and women in street clothes, pajamas, office wear. Some cried out. Some dropped to their knees. One vomited.
Arsh said nothing. He simply watched them, cataloging faces, postures, fear levels. His mind already turning, already dissecting.
The voice spoke once more.
"First mission: Horror genre. Prepare for transfer in T-minus 30 minutes."
Arsh flexed his fingers. Felt the familiar weight of the multimeter still clipped to his belt. Felt the quiet fire in his chest—the same fire that had carried the Parhar name through centuries of dust and war and change.
Whatever this place was, whatever rules it played by—he would learn them.
Master them.
Break them if needed.
From the sun-baked lanes of Kot Addu to this white void at the edge of reality, one truth remained unchanged.
Rai Arsh Parhar didn't shout. He didn't beg. He didn't break.
He arrived.
And things got settled.