Chapter 1 - chapter 1:The Cosmic Kickoff

I never believed in reincarnation until the truck hit me on that rainy Agra street. One moment, I was dodging traffic, humming Bollywood tunes; the next, darkness swallowed me whole. When light returned, I wasn't me anymore. I was a baby in 1940s Brazil, crying in a tin-roofed shack in Três Corações. My new name? Edson Arantes do Nascimento. But inside, I was still the guy from Uttar Pradesh, dreaming of cricket and chai.As toddler feet kicked a sock ball through dirt alleys, memories flooded back. "Pelé," they'd call me later, but right now, I was plotting. My old life flashed: failed exams, dead-end jobs, unfulfilled soccer fantasies watching Messi highlights on a glitchy phone. This was my shot. God, universe, or karma had rebooted me into the king of football.By age 5, in Bauru, poverty bit hard. Dad, Dondinho, a pro striker fallen on tough times, taught me the basics. I juggled lemons, socks, anything round. But I remembered modern drills—YouTube footwork, FIFA analytics. Neighbors laughed at the skinny kid outdribbling goats. "Esse moleque vai ser craque!" they'd shout.School was a joke; I preferred the streets. At 7, I joined a youth team, Baquinho. My first goal? A bending free-kick that kissed the post and bulged the net. Coach's jaw dropped. Inside, I smirked—reincarnated edge. I analyzed opponents like a chess master, predicting moves from my old life's video games.Trouble brewed. Street fights earned me the nickname "Pelé" after a comic character, but also scars. Dad's injuries mirrored my fears—football's brutality. Yet, I pushed. Nights, under flickering lamps, I sketched plays: tiki-taka before it existed, pressing like Klopp.By 10, scouts whispered. I led Bauru Juvenil to glory, scoring hat-tricks weekly. Fans mobbed me; I signed my first "shirt" on newspaper. But doubt crept—could I surpass the original Pelé's path? No, I'd redefine it. This body was mine now, fueled by two lifetimes' hunger.Word spread to Santos FC. Trials loomed. I trained till dawn, blending Brazilian flair with Indian grit. Mom cried, fearing the big city. "Vai com Deus, Pelé." I nodded, heart pounding. Rebirth wasn't luck; it was destiny's penalty kick. And I never missed.