Transmigrating on a train track! Ready to Die Again.

{ Year 1459 }

{ Queen's Quarters, Royal Palace }

"Praise be to the Majesty!"

A guard well equipped with ironclad armor intruded upon the sacred confines of Queen Veera's quarters as she readied herself for the grand ball.

One look at Queen Veera—the regent of the Empire—made the guard tremble remembering the stories of her walking down the blood soaked halls with previous Emperor's head.

Within the Queen's gaze welled an icy glare, capable of sending shivers down the bravest spine, while her countenance resembled a fleeting breeze in a barren desert, carrying the essence of a lush rain-forest.

~whoosh ~whoosh. The Queen's faithful maid swiftly intercepted the trespassing guard, revealing concealed weapons from hidden recesses of her attire.

The guard, trembled with fear, dared not raise his gaze beyond a meager 20 degrees, his sweat-soaked back drenching him in discomfort.

"My Queen, urgent tidings I bear," he blurted, his voice quivering with apprehension, fully aware of the dire consequences that loomed before him.

"... Prince Vikram is nowhere to be found within the palace walls. His guard lies unconscious outside the Party Hall," the guard hastily revealed his purpose.

An eerie silence enveloped the chamber, capturing Queen's attention. Her gaze slowly veered away from her own reflection in the mirror, fixating upon the image of the quaking guard standing behind her.

Her eyes, sharp as daggers, pierced into his soul, conveying a myriad of emotions.

Even the lowest commoner in the Empire's farthest corner was knowledgeable enough to never bring a bad news about her brother to the majesty. Vikram's rhetorical complaint about a country's climate could unleash the Queen's wrath with the declaration of war, let alone someone putting hands on her brother.

The pale guard on his knees regretted that he was the one breaking the news of missing Vikram to this cold and ruthless monster.

However, unbeknownst to his wild dystopian fantasy of destruction and carnage, Queen showed none of such reaction. Her face twitched slightly but returned to the cold face like nothing happened.

"Declare a emergency and deploy all my Royal Guards. Find him! Search every nook and cranny of this castle," the Queen commanded with usual calmness, her voice carrying her unwavering faith in her brother. "I don't care if you must overturn the whole Capital. I want his whereabouts before the midnight bell rings."

She believed that nothing in the whole continent could harm Vikram—The mightiest war general of the Empire. Especially now that he had defeated every last one of her enemies in the longest battle Empire had fought.

'Please be safe, brother'. Yet, in her heart she still prayed that nothing would befall the infamous Rakshasha.

**

Away from the cold room of the Queen's chamber. It was a night of revelry. A grand party was thrown in honor of Vikram the Second—the Rakshasha.

The Capital buzzed with excitement as guests from all corners gathered to celebrate Empire's triumph over the twelve ancient tribes of the continent. The air inside the party palace was thick with anticipation, but little did they know that the star of the evening had gone missing, and their lives hung in balance of uncertainty.

**

From from the party hall and amidst the loud festivities, Vikram somehow managed to evade the watchful eyes of the partygoers and patrolling guards.

Sneaking through the shadows, he had swiftly made his way into the inner sanctum of the royal palace—the Queen's very own bedroom.

~creak. The sound form the rustic drawer in Queen's bedroom caught Vikram off guard, momentarily startling him.

He froze; carefully hearing for any footsteps that might be coming his way.

~huff. Relieved that his presence went unnoticed, a twisted smile garnered his face ear-to-ear.

Vikram was here for the rare chance to explore the Queen's personal quarters when everyone was busy with the victory celebration. This was one of the very few "dangerous" adventures that he could enjoy after having conquered the whole continent.

With sly grin he carefully navigated Queen's wardrobe eyeing a treasure—a bottle of Soma wine, a hidden gem within the Queen's domain that she had been saving for a long time.

"This will show her! Thinking she can use me as a trophy general? In her dreams!" Vikram chuckled childishly, a rare emotion for the 35-year-old General, and a glimmer of defiance in his eyes.

The idea of turning the tables on his sister brought wicked satisfaction, albeit temporary.

*****

{ After A While }

{ Near Castle's Abandoned Security Tower }

{ Vikram's Secret Study }

Vikram, lost in a world of disappointment and unanswered questions, found solace in his study.

The room exuded an air of secrecy, its shelves lined with books and artifacts collected throughout his conquests.

From the window, Vikram gazed out at the vibrant town square. The once bustling and festive atmosphere now seemed distant and disconnected from his current state of mind. A cacophony of emotions surged through him, each one vying for his attention.

He was aware of the commotion his actions had made, and in the past, he had found immense pleasure in wreaking havoc and causing chaos in his step-sister's personal space. But tonight, as he left his sister's room, something was different.

The destruction that once brought him amusement now held no appeal just after few moments. The thrill of the childish mischief seemed to have lost its luster just as it come. He didn't know, since when?

Perhaps it was the toll of the bloody war he had fought or the vile politics that stained their world. Whatever the cause, tonight Vikram found himself contemplating deeper thoughts than he had originally intended.

Settling into the worn reading chair, Vikram's attention shifted to the moonlight filtering through the window, casting an eerie glow upon the iron chains adorning the chair. It gave off an unsettling vibe, amplifying the mysterious atmosphere of the room.

With a sense of reverence, Vikram kissed the bottle of precious wine he had acquired, savoring its significance. Pouring himself a glass, he indulged in the rich flavors, momentarily setting aside his troubled thoughts.

His gaze wandered to the table where a golden plate, engraved with peculiar symbols, caught his eye. The plate, known as the Shri Yantra1, was a sacred symbol of the twelve pagan tribes—a trophy he had claimed during the war. However, the engravings were tainted with black bloodstains, adding an eerie touch to the otherwise intricate design.

Lost in a wave of memories, Vikram picked up the Shri Yantra, holding it with a reminiscent gaze. It was a connection to his past, to Kaya, the daughter of the 12th tribe leader, and his lover for many years.

In a deceptive display, Vikram pretended to toss the Shri Yantra out the window. However, his once-remarkable marksmanship failed him, revealing that his aim had deteriorated.

Instead of soaring through the air, the sacred device stumbled through the room, careening off furniture and ultimately finding its resting place beside his chair, seemingly guided by an unseen force.

The failed throw, through chance or deliberate design, served as a poignant reminder of his weakened resolve and added a touch of unexpected mystique to the scene.

Yet, he acted as though the device held no significance, diverting his attention back to the thick hardcover book before him.

The book held a special significance for him. It was his only remaining source of happiness in a world that had left him empty after twelve years of war.

The once-thrilling act of teasing his sister no longer brought him the same joy it had in the past, so he thought this book written in an extinct language called the Ancient Tongue might provide some excitement to his otherwise mundane and meaningless life.

There was a void within him that he was trying to fill through the act of teasing his sister or running away from the celebration, a feeling that there was nothing left for him to achieve or find fulfillment in after conquering the Continent.

With expectation and fast hands, he opened the book titled "Anecdotes from the Inglorious Empire."

However, Vikram's expectations swiftly transformed into profound disappointment.

This book was the third volume of the renowned Diaspora Trilogy from previous Era, of which the first two parts held a special place in Vikram's heart because they had kept him sane in the quagmire of war filled with filthy politics and petty ambitions.

Regrettably, the third installment deviated significantly from the main story line, leaving Vikram feeling a profound sense of betrayal.

The author of the Diaspora Trilogy, KRM, was the target of Vikram's scathing curses as he bemoaned, "How dare you change the timeline!"

Frustration grew within Vikram as he tossed the empty wine glass aside, his disappointment fueling his emotions.

The questions piled up in his mind, unanswered and unsatisfied.

He questioned the relevance of the devices held by the twelve tribes in the book, the sacrifice of the children of Annapurna during the climax of the first volume, and the purpose of the war itself in the second volume.

Overwhelmed by the weight of his unfulfilled expectations, Vikram succumbed to sleep, seeking temporary solace in the numbing embrace of Soma wine. As consciousness slipped away, a single tear escaped his eye, falling onto the Shri Yantra, a silent testament to his inner turmoil.

*****

{ After a long sleep }

When Vikram awakened from his slumber, he found himself thrust into an unfamiliar reality.

His body bound and his voice stifled by a gag, he lay helpless upon the cold, unforgiving train tracks.

A surge of icy fear coursed through his nerves, intensifying with the piercing sound of the approaching train's horn.

Time seemed to stretch infinitely as Vikram desperately tried to make sense of his situation, he struggled against his restraints, his futile attempts at liberation only amplifying the sense of impending doom.

~choo ~choo. The train, like an unstoppable force of nature, drew nearer with each passing second, its rumbling roar drowning out all other sounds.

In the face of certain death, Vikram's mind raced; his thoughts a flurry of frantic pleas and desperate pleas for mercy. Yet, his body remained unresponsive, paralyzed by a cruel twist of fate.

The realization of his powerlessness weighed heavily upon him, a bitter reminder of the limitations of his once invincible self.

The train thundered closer, its headlights piercing through the darkness, casting an eerie glow upon Vikram's immobilized form. His heart pounded with a mixture of terror and resignation, his eyes wide with a primal instinct to survive.

In the midst of this dire predicament, a surge of regret and introspection washed over Vikram. The grandiosity of his past triumphs and ruthless conquests now seemed trivial and hollow in the face of impending oblivion. The longing for redemption, for a chance to rewrite his story, consumed his thoughts.

Yet, as the train hurtled closer, its thunderous approach drowning out all rational thought, Vikram's struggles ceased. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable, his mind filled with a kaleidoscope of memories, both glorious and haunting.

And in the final moments before the train's catastrophic collision, Vikram found a sliver of acceptance, a fleeting peace amidst the chaos.