He rested on the bed, deep in thought after the intense pain and the realization of his awakened ability.
'But still? There is no mention of any kind of magic or powers in this world, so how is it possible that I managed to awaken one of my previous powers? Is it possible that there are people with superpowers hidden from the mainstream world? What if my transmigration in this world becomes a catalyst in the awakening of the latent powers on this planet? Seriously, such a situation would be catastrophic for Earth. People randomly awakening powers around the world would be dangerous for global stability. Well… no point in playing the guessing game now. Better leave it for the future me.'
He glanced at the clock, noticing the time.
'It's already 6 in the morning; no point in sleeping now. Better go for a morning exercise to start my day.' He grabbed his running shoes placed on the shoe rack and went outside.
The door creaked softly as Rajveer stepped out into the stillness of the early morning. The chill of January air wrapped around him like a light shawl. It wasn't quite enough to make him shiver, but it was enough to awaken his senses. He paused at the threshold of the apartment building in Goregaon West, the cracked concrete stairs beneath his feet cool and slightly damp from the night's condensation.
The sky above was still cloaked in deep navy hues, the first blush of dawn just barely smearing the eastern horizon with a trace of violet. Mumbai hadn't yet stirred to life. The roads, usually chaotic and buzzing with rickshaws, honking cars, and street vendors, were now strangely peaceful. A few distant horns echoed like afterthoughts in a city still dozing.
He took a deep breath—his lungs filled with the mingled scent of earth, dew, faint smoke from a distant chai stall, the distinct tang of coastal air, and quite a bit of air pollution. It was sharp, grounding. Real.
"Damn! There's definitely a major pollution problem. It looks like the scientists and engineers of this world still haven't found a carbon-free source of energy. Building a fusion core is possible, but it will take time, I guess," he lamented, inhaling the smoke present in the air.
"Alright," he muttered, stretching his arms high above his head. His body still ached faintly from the transformation before—but movement felt good. Alive. Renewed.
Wearing a loose grey hoodie which tightly hugged his torso, faded track pants getting tighter with every step, and slightly worn sneakers he found in the corner of the room which didn't even fit him, Rajveer began a slow jog down the narrow lane leading to the main road. His steps echoed lightly against the pavement.
Stray dogs blinked lazily at him from under parked scooters. A paperboy on a rickety cycle passed by, dropping folded newspapers at doorsteps with practiced grace.
The early morning jog took him past shuttered shops, temples where incense had just begun burning, and the faint sound of a radio playing an old Lata Mangeshkar song in someone's home. The melody was haunting, nostalgic—foreign and yet oddly familiar.
Sweat soon clung to his temples. His breath grew heavier. But with each step, the weight in his chest lessened.
By the time the first rays of the sun pierced the skyline and painted the buildings gold, Rajveer was standing still at the edge of a quiet park, hands on his hips, chest heaving.
After thirty minutes of running through the quiet backstreets, he finally arrived at Shivaji Park.
He looked up.
A new sky. A new sun. A new world.
'Whatever happens, I hope I will be strong enough to solve it.'
The pale morning sun cast long shadows across Shivaji Park, the air still tinged with that familiar Mumbai winter crispness—just cold enough for shawls, monkey caps, and steaming cutting chai. The grass glistened with dew, and the city's usual hustle felt distant under the hush of dawn.
Rajveer stood alone near the center path, where a patch of open ground allowed enough space for his workout. He wore simple navy blue joggers with white stripes down the sides and a faded sleeveless banyan tucked loosely into the waistband. No brand logos, no stylized gym gear—just a man and his discipline.
He bent into a slow stretch, the defined lines of his back and shoulders flexing beneath the thin cloth. Each movement was deliberate, fluid—the kind born of habit, not showmanship. Yet, it was hard not to look.
An older group of morning walkers, mostly retired uncles in woolen sweaters and monkey caps, paused their discussion on politics when Rajveer dropped into a set of push-ups. One of them nudged the other, muttering, "Today's generation… all they know is showing their skin in public. No decency, I am telling you."
Others chimed in too.
"Yeah, this Bollywood is destroying our culture."
"Government should ban them."
"They should be burned alive."
They continued passing their comments while walking further away from Rajveer, their voices fading in the background. He ignored these old fossils and their orthodox comments.
'What kind of person says something like that? Burning someone alive? Disgusting. No matter the world, there's always someone clinging to hate and ignorance. Even my previous worlds had their own sets of problems. Reading from newspapers about communal riots, caste discrimination, daylight murders, rapes, and corruption, I knew there are problems in Indian society, but even their mindset is also messed up. I hope we can change it in our current generation from this old mindset.'
He continued his exercise, ignoring the negative attention he was getting, especially from the older men, while smiling at those who genuinely appreciated his dedication.
A few meters away, a group of college girls in tracksuits borrowed from elder siblings—oversized and mismatched—had abandoned their skipping ropes and were stealing glances at him, giggling.
Even the chaiwala by the iron gate missed his measure and spilled a few drops as he stared at Rajveer. The young man was jogging in slow strides around the gravel path, his muscles taut and sweat glistening in the cold.
No one took out a camera; no phones buzzed. But the way people looked at him—with half-curious admiration and lingering glances—said enough. He didn't need a screen to go viral. He was already a moment that would be talked about at dinner tables and college canteens.
A mother immediately shushed a small boy, wrapped in a hand-knitted sweater, who pointed excitedly and exclaimed, "Ma, that person looked like a superhero!" She smiled embarrassingly at Rajveer while stealing glances at his body herself.
Rajveer smiled at the kid and kept running, breath steady, rhythm perfect. He wasn't seeking attention—it just followed him.
In a world before selfies and filters, Rajveer was a walking poster for something timeless—raw charisma, quiet strength, and that impossible-to-fake aura of someone born to stand out.