Dr. Viraj Mehta had always known that Mondays were cursed.

But this? This was next-level.

It all started with a bad cup of coffee and a questionable government experiment—which, in hindsight, should have been a warning sign.

The Lab, The Cat, And The Disaster Waiting To Happen

Viraj was a brilliant physicist, which, in practical terms, meant he spent most of his days sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, and buried under equations that made his head hurt.

For the past two years, he had been part of a classified government project aimed at understanding the nature of time itself. The goal? Controlled time travel—or, at the very least, preventing time from breaking if someone accidentally figured it out.

The lab was filled with high-tech equipment, whiteboards covered in quantum gibberish, and exactly zero safety measures. In the center of it all was the Quantum Temporal Stabilizer, the one-of-a-kind device designed to prevent paradoxes and stabilize temporal distortions.

It was also very, very expensive.

And Viraj was about to break it in the dumbest way possible.

As he leaned over his desk, squinting at an impossibly complex equation, his faithful (and mildly evil) cat, Schrödinger, decided it was the perfect moment to jump onto his keyboard.

Viraj yelped. His coffee cup wobbled.

And then, in one of those slow-motion horror moments, the entire cup tipped over—straight into the stabilizer’s exposed circuitry.

SPLASH.

"Oh no," Viraj whispered.

The machine hummed ominously. Its screen flickered, then blared a series of warnings in red text—which, in any lab, was never a good sign.

Viraj barely had time to shout, "Oh, this is bad—" before the entire room exploded in white light.

Rule #1: If You Accidentally Time Travel, You Don’t Get a Choice in Where You Land

Viraj woke up face-down in dirt.

For a few seconds, he just lay there, groaning in pain and trying to process what just happened.

The last thing he remembered was his coffee betraying him. And now, somehow, he was outside, feeling the sun beating down on his back.

Which was weird, because his lab was underground.

"Ugh," he muttered, pushing himself up. His glasses, miraculously still intact, slid down his nose as he blinked against the blinding light.

Something big and very loud stomped past him.

Viraj turned his head and nearly choked.

It was an elephant.

A fully armored war elephant, with a man on its back shouting commands in a language that sounded suspiciously like Latin.

"...Oh, hell no."

Viraj scrambled to his feet just in time to see hundreds of soldiers—dressed in ancient armor, carrying swords and spears—charging across a battlefield.

His scientific brain tried to process the situation logically:

This was not the lab.

This was not the 21st century.

He had somehow traveled back in time.

And worst of all—

That very angry man running toward him with a sword probably wasn’t looking to shake hands.

Rule #2: Don’t Look Like a Suspicious Time Traveler

"Who are you?!" the heavily armored soldier demanded, pointing his sword directly at Viraj’s chest.

Viraj swallowed hard.

The man’s armor, the war elephants, the chaos around him—it all clicked into place.

He wasn’t just anywhere in history.

He was in 218 BCE, standing in the middle of the Second Punic War.

And judging by the war banners and the commanding figure in the distance, he was now face-to-face with Hannibal Barca’s army.

Viraj let out a long, exhausted sigh.

Of course.

He had spilled coffee and landed in one of the most dangerous wars in history.

Mondays really were the worst.

"The first rule of time travel: Don’t get stabbed before you can figure out how to leave."

Dr. Viraj Mehta was having what could only be described as a very bad day.

First, he had accidentally spilled coffee on a top-secret government time stabilization device. Then, he had woken up in 218 BCE, right in the middle of the Second Punic War.

And now?

Now, he was staring down a very sharp sword while a Carthaginian soldier with the personality of a grizzly bear decided whether or not to murder him on the spot.

Rule #1: Try Not to Look Like a Spy (Too Late for That)

Viraj raised his hands very, very slowly.

"Look, I know this seems suspicious," he said, keeping his voice calm. "But I swear, I am not a Roman spy."

The soldier squinted at him. "Then who are you?"

Viraj took a second to consider his options.

Option A: Tell the truth. ("Hey, I’m actually from the future. Time travel accident. Ever heard of quantum mechanics?") Immediate execution.

Option B: Lie, but poorly. ("I, uh, got lost on my way to the market.") Immediate execution.

Option C: Lie convincingly and hope for the best.

Viraj cleared his throat. "I am a healer. A man of medicine. I was traveling with traders when we were attacked. I barely escaped with my life!"

The soldier didn’t lower his sword. "A healer?"

"Yes!" Viraj nodded enthusiastically. "I heal people! It’s kind of my thing. Very skilled, me. Wounds, fevers, battle injuries—you name it!"

(Okay, technically he was a physicist, not a doctor. But how different could ancient medicine and quantum mechanics really be?)

The soldier studied him for a moment, then grunted and grabbed Viraj’s arm.

"Come," he said. "Hannibal will decide your fate."

Viraj paled.

Oh. Cool. He was about to meet one of the greatest military strategists in history.

No pressure. No pressure at all.

Rule #2: When in Doubt, Shut Up and Observe

As the soldier dragged him through the camp, Viraj’s scientist brain kicked into overdrive.

This was incredible.

Tents stretched across the land, filled with thousands of warriors from different parts of the world—Carthaginians, Gauls, Numidians, Iberians. Blacksmiths hammered weapons, cooks stirred massive pots of stew, and war elephants—actual war elephants—stood tethered near the edge of the camp.

He was walking through history itself.

If only he wasn’t also one wrong sentence away from getting executed.

Rule #3: Don’t Accidentally Change History

Viraj had read enough science fiction to know that time travel was dangerous business.

One wrong move, one small accidental change, and he could butterfly-effect his way into rewriting history.

Did he just step into a war that Rome was supposed to win? Would his presence alter the course of civilization itself?

Before he could spiral too hard, his escort stopped in front of the largest tent in the camp.

The soldier turned to him. "Do not speak unless Hannibal allows it."

Viraj nodded quickly, deciding that was excellent advice.

The soldier pushed aside the heavy fabric flap, motioning for him to step inside.

Viraj took a deep breath and entered the tent.

The First Meeting with a Legend

The inside of the tent was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of burning oil and parchment.

At the center sat a man unlike any Viraj had ever seen.

Hannibal Barca.

The famous general was younger than Viraj expected—maybe in his late 30s—but his presence was overwhelming. His eyes were sharp, calculating, as if he was constantly five steps ahead of everyone else in the room.

Viraj barely had time to process this when Hannibal spoke in flawless Latin:

"Who is this man?"

The soldier beside Viraj bowed. "He claims to be a healer, my lord. We found him alone in the desert."

Hannibal’s gaze settled on Viraj.

"A healer?" he repeated, unimpressed. "Dressed like that?"

Viraj glanced down at himself.

Right. He was still wearing his stained lab coat, a T-shirt that said 'Entropy Happens,' and sneakers.

Absolutely nothing about him said ‘qualified ancient battlefield doctor.’

Hannibal gestured to a wounded soldier nearby—a man groaning in pain, a deep gash running down his arm.

"If you are a healer, prove it," Hannibal said.

Viraj’s stomach dropped.

Oh.

This was not going to end well.

---

Next Part: Emergency Battlefield Medicine—How to Treat a Wound When Your Only Degree is in Physics

"History never looks like history when you are living through it." — John W. Gardner

“The best way to gain someone’s trust is to pretend you know what you’re doing. The worst way? Actually not knowing what you’re doing.”

Dr. Viraj Mehta was many things—a physicist, a caffeine addict, an occasional troublemaker—but one thing he absolutely was not? A doctor.

Which was deeply unfortunate, considering that Hannibal Barca himself had just ordered him to prove his medical expertise by treating a bleeding soldier in 218 BCE.

Rule #1: If You’re Going to Lie, Be Ready for the Consequences

Viraj stared at the injured man in front of him. The soldier was sweating, groaning, and clutching his upper arm, where a deep gash oozed blood onto the dusty ground.

Okay. Deep breaths.

Viraj had exactly three pieces of useful knowledge in this situation:

1. Blood loss was bad.

2. Infections were worse.

3. Screaming ‘I have no idea what I’m doing!’ was not an option.

He had to think fast.

Rule #2: Use What You Know (Even If It’s Not Much)

Viraj crouched beside the soldier, trying his best to look like he did this sort of thing all the time.

“Alright,” he muttered under his breath. “How hard can battlefield medicine really be?”

Answer: Very.

The ancient world did not have antiseptics, antibiotics, or sterile medical tools. What they did have was a lot of guesswork, superstition, and horrifyingly bad ideas (looking at you, medieval ‘cure everything with leeches’ crowd).

Viraj needed to improvise.

He took a deep breath and started thinking like a scientist.

Step 1: Stop the Bleeding

“Okay, uh… bandages. I need bandages,” Viraj said, gesturing wildly.

One of Hannibal’s attendants handed him a strip of rough, dirty cloth. Viraj winced. Ancient battlefield hygiene was a disaster waiting to happen.

No antiseptic. No gloves. Just whatever cloth was lying around, probably last used to wipe someone’s sword.

Great.

“Alright, we’re gonna work with what we have,” he muttered. He pressed the cloth firmly against the wound, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.

The soldier groaned in pain.

“Yeah, I know, buddy. I wouldn’t like this either,” Viraj muttered. “But unless you want to pass out, we’re doing this.”

Hannibal watched, his expression unreadable.

Step 2: Prevent Infection (Or at Least Try)

Viraj’s modern brain was screaming at him. He needed alcohol, iodine, or literally anything remotely sterile—but this was 218 BCE. The best they had was…

“Wine,” Hannibal said suddenly, as if reading Viraj’s thoughts.

Viraj’s eyes widened. Oh. That could actually work.

Wine had mild antiseptic properties—not great, but better than nothing. He nodded quickly. “Yes! Pour it over the wound.”

A nearby attendant handed him a clay flask, and Viraj did his best to clean the gash, hoping it would at least kill some of the bacteria.

The soldier hissed in pain but didn’t protest.

Viraj exhaled. So far, so good.

Step 3: Stitch It Up (Without Modern Anesthesia, Because Life Is Unfair)

Viraj suddenly realized something very, very important.

He had no idea how to stitch a wound.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. He had read about suturing techniques before, but reading was very different from actually stabbing someone’s skin with a needle and hoping for the best.

The soldier was watching him expectantly.

So was Hannibal.

Viraj gulped. There was no backing out now.

Step 4: Guess. Hope. Pray.

“Alright,” he muttered. “How hard can it be?”

He took the needle and thread from an attendant. His hands shook slightly as he made the first stitch. The soldier gritted his teeth but didn’t scream.

Viraj took that as a good sign.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t remotely professional. But after a painstaking few minutes, the wound was stitched and bandaged.

He sat back, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Hannibal finally spoke.

“You are not entirely useless,” he said, his voice unreadable.

Viraj let out a nervous laugh. “High praise. Really.”

Rule #3: If You Impress a Warlord, Expect Consequences

Hannibal studied him for a long moment. “A man of science and medicine… and yet, you appeared out of nowhere.”

Viraj’s stomach twisted.

Hannibal wasn’t just a brilliant strategist. He was dangerously observant.

“I will ask again,” Hannibal said slowly. “Who are you, really?”

Viraj forced a smile.

“Well,” he said, “that’s… a long story.”

---

Next Part: Lying to Hannibal Barca—A Beginner’s Guide to Not Dying in 218 BCE

"History never looks like history when you are living through it." — John W. Gardner