Chapter 4: Ground Zero
The spark entered the woman's womb with the gentleness of a falling feather, yet its impact resonated across the spiritual planes of existence. In that instant, the woman—a simple farmer's wife named Meera—stirred in her sleep, her hand instinctively moving to her belly. A warm, comforting glow spread through her, and she smiled without waking, dreaming of fields of golden wheat beneath a peaceful sky.
Beside her, her husband Vikram slept on, oblivious to the cosmic miracle that had just taken root in his bloodline.
Nine months passed on Earth—a blink in the cosmic timeline, but an eternity for the soul waiting to be born.
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In a modest village nestled in the heart of an island nation, the cries of a newborn pierced the morning air. The sun had just begun to rise over the rice paddies, casting golden light across the thatched roofs and dirt paths. It was a simple place, untouched by the great machinations of the world's powers. Here, people lived and died by the rhythm of the seasons, their concerns limited to harvests, marriages, and the occasional visit from tax collectors.
Meera held her son to her chest, tears streaming down her weathered face. Vikram stood beside her, his calloused hands trembling as he reached out to touch the baby's cheek.
"He's beautiful," Meera whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Look at his eyes, Vikram. They're so... deep. Like he's already seen the world."
Vikram chuckled, wiping a tear from his own eye. "He's just a baby, Meera. All babies have deep eyes when they're first born."
But even as he spoke, Vikram felt something strange—a subtle awareness that his son was different. Special. There was a weight to the child's gaze, an ancient stillness that seemed utterly out of place in a newborn.
The village elder, an old woman named Gauri who had delivered nearly every child in the village for the past sixty years, peered down at the infant with narrowed eyes. She had seen many births, but none quite like this. The child had not cried at first. He had simply opened his eyes and looked around the room with an expression of calm assessment, as if taking stock of his surroundings before deigning to announce his arrival.
Then, as if deciding the world was acceptable, he had let out a single, piercing cry—enough to satisfy tradition, but no more.
"Strange child," Gauri muttered, shaking her head. "But healthy. Strong lungs, too."
She handed the baby to Meera and began cleaning up, her mind already turning to other matters. The village had its own rhythms, and strange births were quickly forgotten in the face of daily survival.
But the child—Krishak, as his parents would name him—remembered everything.
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In the days that followed, Krishak lay in his cradle, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling, and began to piece together his situation.
I am... reborn.
The thought came slowly, filtered through the limitations of an infant brain. It was like trying to read a book through frosted glass. The memories were there—two million years of celestial cultivation, the forging of the twin arts, the long journey through the void—but they were distant, hazy, as if viewed from the bottom of a deep well.
His body was weak. So terribly weak. He could barely move his arms, could not speak, could not even control his own bowels. The indignity of it would have made him laugh if he still possessed the capacity for such levity.
This is what it means to start from ground zero, he thought. I knew it would be difficult. I did not realize it would be humiliating.
Yet, even in this reduced state, he could feel something stirring within him. The compressed Origin energy he had carried from his previous life was there, buried deep in his soul, waiting to be awakened. But it was dormant for now, inaccessible until he could begin cultivating properly.
And he would need to cultivate. Not just to regain his power, but to survive.
Even as an infant, Krishak could sense the spiritual energy of this world. It was thin, barely present—a pale shadow of the rich, vibrant energy that had flowed through the Heavenly Universe. Earth was a low-tier world, perhaps even lower than that. Its cultivation system, if it could be called that, was primitive at best.
But that was perfect.
Anil—no, Krishak now—had not chosen this world by accident. Its backwardness was its greatest virtue. In a place where power was measured in guns and bombs rather than spiritual energy, his cultivation would go unnoticed. He could build his foundation in secret, rising through the ranks while the world remained ignorant of the storm gathering in its midst.
First, I must survive infancy, he thought grimly. Then, I must learn to walk. To speak. To understand this world's language and customs. Only then can I begin to cultivate.
It would take years. Perhaps decades. But time was something Krishak had in abundance.
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The village where Krishak was born was called Sundarpur, a name that meant "beautiful town" in the local tongue. It was a misnomer, for Sundarpur was anything but beautiful. It was a collection of mud-brick houses clustered around a central well, surrounded by rice paddies that stretched to the horizon. The roads were dirt, the buildings were humble, and the people were poor.
But they were kind. That much Krishak quickly realized.
His parents, Meera and Vikram, worked tirelessly from dawn to dusk. Vikram was a farmer, spending his days bent over the rice paddies, his skin baked brown by the sun. Meera tended to the home, cooked the meals, and sold vegetables at the weekly market. They were not wealthy, but they were content. And they adored their son.
Krishak watched them with eyes far too old for his face. He studied their habits, their mannerisms, the way they spoke to each other and to the other villagers. He absorbed the language, memorizing words and phrases, cataloging the rhythms of their speech.
By the time he was six months old, he could understand nearly everything said around him. By his first birthday, he could form simple sentences.
His parents were astonished.
"He's a genius!" Vikram exclaimed one evening, watching as Krishak pointed to a bowl of rice and said, "Hungry. Eat."
Meera laughed, scooping her son into her arms. "He's just quick, that's all. Smart like his father."
Vikram beamed, puffing out his chest. "Of course. He gets it from me."
Krishak remained silent, allowing his parents their moment of pride. But inside, he was already planning. His first year had been spent observing and learning. Now, it was time to begin the foundation.