Darkness.
Not the kind behind closed eyelids — but the kind that devours you whole. No sense of time. No up or down. Just the cold silence of death.
Then —A pulse.A breath.
Gasp.
He shot up with a jolt, his lungs screaming for air like they hadn't tasted oxygen in years. Sweat poured down his forehead. His heart thundered like a war drum.
White ceiling. Rotating fan. Crystal chandelier above, flickering in the morning sun. Expensive curtains fluttering from the cool breeze.
Where… am I?
His fingers gripped the silk bedsheets. Young hands. No scars. No wrinkles. No age.
And then it hit him — like a truck slamming into his chest.
This isn't my body. This isn't my world.
He was dead. He remembered. Thirty-four years old. Tech wizard. Stock market shark. Billionaire-in-the-making. Killed in a plane crash en route to a startup summit in San Francisco.
And now…
He was in 1986.India. No internet. No smartphones. No Google.And this body?
Krishna Rathod.Twenty years old. Son of Jay Rathod, a ruthless industrialist who controlled a silent empire — arms manufacturing, oil rigs, power plants.Mother: Kiran Rathod, daughter of one of India's most feared politicians.Elder brother: Avinash — business genius, groomed to lead.And Krishna? A disgrace.
Page 3 headlines from his new memories flashed through his mind:
"Rathod Heir Crashes Porsche Into Club Fountain – Again"
"Drunk Scandal: Krishna Rathod Thrown Out of Taj Ballroom"
"Rathod Jr. Linked With Bollywood Starlet In Drug Party"
This Krishna was wild. Spoiled. Reckless.But loved. Deeply loved by a family built on steel and blood.
The door slammed open. A woman rushed in — silk saree flowing, eyes swollen.
"Krishna! Beta! Thank god!" she cried, clutching his hand. "You scared us all — you've been out for two days!"
He looked at her. Tears in her eyes. Trembling lips. A mother's love, raw and pure.
"…Mom?" he said softly. The voice felt foreign. Lighter. Younger. But her expression melted into relief.
"Yes, baby… it's okay now. You're okay," Kiran whispered, stroking his hair like he was ten again.
Footsteps echoed outside the room.
The lion had arrived.
Jay Rathod stepped in — white kurta, broad shoulders, sharp gaze. The kind of man who didn't fear God because he was God in boardrooms and battlefield contracts.
He didn't speak. Just stared.
Krishna swallowed. "Dad…"
Jay walked up slowly… and wrapped him in a firm hug. Not warm. Not gentle. But strong.
"You're a Rathod," he said in a gravelly voice. "Don't die like a loser. Live like a king."
Live like a king…
He would.
But not the kind of king this world was ready for.
That night, he sat by the window.
Mumbai city lights twinkled below like stars had fallen to the earth. From the massive balcony of the Rathod estate, he could see it all — the endless skyline, the sea, the world at his feet.
He opened a drawer in his room. Inside: photos of parties, cigars, designer watches, and a revolver.
"This Krishna was burning his life away…" he muttered."Not anymore."
He glanced at the calendar: January 17, 1986.
"Perfect. Just in time."
The Harshad Mehta era was about to begin. The tech boom was decades away. Bollywood was raw. The world was sleeping.
And he had the blueprint.
From this moment forward, Krishna Rathod was dead.
In his place stood a man with a billion futures.