The Awakening of Kings

The light of the afternoon sun spilled across the campus—warm, golden, almost tangible. Seen from above, the college looked less like a place of learning and more like a miniature kingdom: thirty hectares crisscrossed with stone paths, lush gardens unfurling like green silk, and towers that captured the imagination like palaces from a forgotten dynasty.

At the heart of it all stood the main building, its white pillars gleaming, sending cascading shadows down broad marble steps that always caught the eye of passing students.

On those stairs, chaos reigned supreme. Students rushed up and down, laughter ringing with the shrill notes of mobile games.

They collided, unapologetic, their eyes flat against the glow of their screens—oblivious to everything but the pulse of notifications. Some darted past in pursuit of friends, others lingered by their bicycles, watching time run slow until the evening bell. The air trembled with restless youth—boundless movement, endless energy.

Yet in a still corner, tucked inside a half-lit classroom, sat Carlos.

He wasn't reading the open textbook in front of him. His eyes, heavy-lidded and distant, wandered through a cracked window. They did not see the fluttering trees outside, but rather the trailing shadows of classmates as they walked from the room, their steps so free, so elegant. His lips almost smiled—a quiet, wistful concession that never quite reached his tired eyes.

If only, he thought, one hand tightening around the handle of his cane. If only I could walk like them. Maybe… all of this would have been different.

The book, once important, slid from his mind. With mechanical care, Carlos assembled himself. Every gesture—from gathering his notes to rising—seemed rehearsed, like each movement required a silent struggle. He leaned into his cane, his faithful companion, and every footfall rang soft and deliberate in the vaulted chamber. By the time he reached the marble stairs, sweat lined his brow.

Each step downward became a feat of bravery: one step—pause. Another—steady. All around him, laughter and conversation flowed like a stream, but to Carlos, it passed just out of reach, the joy never touching him.

Outside, children shrieked as they raced bikes along the campus road. Some veered into gardens, chasing a stray ball. Couples leaned back on cool stone benches, the world spinning with their laughter. Life teemed everywhere—vivid, tireless.

A dull ache rose in his chest as he watched, but Carlos felt no envy. Their joy warmed him. At least they’re happy, he consoled himself. Even if I cannot be.

The walk home was familiar—almost too familiar. But today, his body faltered. The world twinned around him, everything doubling and swinging, edges blurred beyond recognition. His breathing fractured, sharp and panicked. His heartbeat thundered, rattling his ribs. Shadows spun.

He groped for composure, but his cane slipped, unsteady against the hard earth.

Then, all at once, it came: blackness. His knees folded. The world tumbled up to meet him. He crumpled beside the grass, just feet from home.

“Ugh—!” The sound was lost in a storm of weakness. He crawled, reaching for the gate, fingertips scraping empty air. Through eyes glazed with tears he saw only his sister’s smiling face—fourteen, radiant, too busy with youthful dreams to know how quickly a world could break.

I can’t leave her… His lips wavered. Not yet.

His body convulsed once more. Light faded.

And the world, as he knew it, was gone.

The Awakening

Carlos awoke, not to the grit of grass or the chill of exhaustion—but to silk. Sheets, impossibly fine, caressed his skin, embroidered with patterns more intricate than his mind could name. His body sank into a mattress softer than any dream.

He clutched the silk, stunned. The room—was that gold adorning the statues in each corner? Heavy curtains spilled amber light through windows too tall to exist. Bookshelves soared skyward, packed with leather-bound tomes. Above him, crystal chandeliers stole the daylight, refracting it into a thousand tiny suns.

A dizziness nagged him as he whispered, “Where… am I?”

No answer. He reached for his wrist, pinched hard. The sting was real.

With gathering resolve, Carlos—Or was he still Carlos?—rose, feet sinking into thick carpets, and moved unsteadily toward a massive silver-framed mirror.

The reflection nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

This was not the frail youth he’d known: Gone the thin face, the hollow cheeks. Now the glass showed a young man—handsome, angular features, brown eyes alive with energy and speckled with gold. Hair, a sunlit mass, framed his countenance. He reached up in awe, tracing unfamiliar bone and skin.

This isn’t me.

As if summoned by his doubt, agony struck—a spasm of pain behind his eyes. The world blurred, overlaying memories—two realities warring for supremacy. He fell to his knees, clutching his head. Foreign memories—vivid, relentless—crashed through him.

The Memories

A mother, radiant, beneath an open sky: “Do you know why they never took our country, my son?”

A father, commanding, voice thunderous at a balcony: “Justice is for all, not only for the wealthy!”

A map, spread across a table: “We are the ocean’s heart. Between Africa, India, Arabia, Asia—a crossroads none can bypass.”

A birthday cake. A candlelit room. Children’s hands clap, laughter everywhere. “Happy Eighth, Charlie!” The year on the cake: 1990.

Fields of marching soldiers, thousands strong, rifles gleaming, voices roaring together: “Freedom! Freedom!”

Grief: the loss of a king. The slow dissolving of a queen, her sorrow too heavy to bear. Orphaned by the crown—a child forced to rule too early.

Two lives overlapped, pressure building.

“Am I Carlos… or Charlie Kings?” he whispered harshly.

The Command

A sharp knock. The heavy doors opened. A thin man dressed in black, precise and dignified Varin, the steward—with a notepad held to his chest.

“Sir,” a small bow, “the national report for 1999.”

Charlie took the report. His breath seized as he read.

text

Nation of Suriya – 1999 Report

GDP: $5,464,001,263

Per Capita: $474

Population: 258,303

Currency: 1$ \= 0.0002 Noks

Imports: $2,018,561,063

Exports: $1,365,183,001

His jaw hardened. The numbers—it was worse than any speech. Poverty. Exploitation. His people had only scraps while the corrupt thrived.

He moved to the window, both palms pressed to the glass. Below, the capital suffocated: smoke belching from chimneys, rivers foul, huts swallowed in dust.

He turned, voice steel-edged.

“Varin…”

“Sir?” The steward stood at attention.

“Gather every general. Every commander. In the palace. Now. This ends tonight.”

Later: The War Room

Jeep engines idled outside: soldiers ringed the palace. Within the war room, five commanders and General Cronos waited by the long table as Charlie entered, poised as a king.

“Sir, all present,” Varin announced.

Charlie met the general’s wary gaze.

“Uncle.”

“What is this about?” General Cronos—shoulders taut, eyes searching.

Charlie looked at him, the weight of two lives settling in his bearing.

“I’m giving you power equal to an executioner. I want a full investigation. Every governor, every official, every command. Root them out.”

Cronos blinked.

“You… want to purge the administration?”

Charlie’s answer was clear, unwavering.

“Thirty-eight villages. Five towns. And every house in the capital. Search them all. Inspect the police records. If you find anyone guilty of unforgivable crimes—deal with them. No mercy.”

Varin hesitated, a tremor in his voice.

“Sir, those factories—if you close them, we lose 500 million in exports. Our whole backbone—”

“I don’t care,” Charlie cut him off.

He looked back at his uncle.

“I trust you. I trust only you.”

He turned to the rest.

“Divide the army. Mobilize them. No warnings. No second chances.”

Every commander stood at attention.

“Yes, sir!”

General Cronos approached, pride clear in his eyes. He placed a strong hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

“You’ve grown, Char… You’ve truly grown.” A single tear fell before he faced the soldiers.

“Take 30% of the army—2,500 men. Go. Arrest those responsible. Bring me proof.”

The officers bolted from the room with renewed purpose.

Charlie crossed to the palace balcony. Outside, the city sprawled, bruised beneath a low sky. Sirens began to wail, the city’s new heartbeat. Down below, as news spread, crowds began to chant:

“King’s Orders! King’s Orders! King’s Orders!”

Charlie gripped the iron railing, his silhouette cut against the last rays of the sun. He smiled, not in boast, but in the solemn satisfaction of justice begun.

He whispered to himself, voice quiet and fierce—

“This… this feels good.”

Charlie stood tall on the balcony, his eyes sweeping over the city below where the army moved decisively into houses, carrying out investigations and removing those caught in corruption’s grasp without hesitation.

“We must do this—no matter the cost,” he said, the steel in his voice cutting through the late afternoon haze. “We need to purge this country of its rot.”

He turned away from the window and caught sight of Varin lingering nearby, his face marked by hesitation.

“Sir...” Varin began, his voice cautious, “about the factories. This decision—it might backfire.”

Charlie chuckled softly, a sound rich with dark amusement. He sauntered over to the couch and sank down, then motioned with his hand to the empty chair across from him.

“I’m fine standing,” Varin replied with a slight smile, refusing the offer.

“Suit yourself,” Charlie said with a faint grin, eyes fixed on Varin as he leaned forward slightly, his tone sincere but commanding. “Tell me, what do the people need most right now?”

Varin's brow furrowed in thought. “Food... and health care.”

Charlie nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. “Good. Now listen—we’ll give them a salary. Food. A bed to sleep in.”

Varin pursed his lips, weighing the weight of the promise. “That’s going to cost a lot, sir.”

Charlie’s smile deepened, eyes locking with Varin’s. “Think about it. If we shut down these factories, what will we lose?”

“About five hundred million dollars, sir,” Varin answered, the hesitation still there.

“And how much would it cost to actually take care of our people?” Charlie asked, voice calm but insistent.

“Thirty dollars a month per person,” Varin replied, beginning to understand where this was headed.

“And how many people do we have?”

“Just under three hundred thousand.”

Charlie’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest. “Multiply that.”

Varin worked the numbers silently, then answered. “Around nine million dollars a month, sir.”

Charlie nodded, eyes glittering with the spark of a plan. “So listen, Varin. One hundred million dollars a year—that’s all we need to give our people a comfortable life. And we still have exports worth over eight hundred million.”

Varin’s eyes widened as understanding dawned. “Sir... that’s a massive shift... but won’t giving them so much without work make them lazy?”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Charlie said softly, leaning back, a hint of a smile curling his lips. “Because we’re going to change the game.”

Varin blinked. “Change how, sir?”

Charlie’s gaze sharpened, a fire lighting within. “I want you to arrange a meeting—with those who handle silicon, glass, laboratories, batteries... the people who manage silver and copper.”

Varin’s confusion deepened. “Sir... are you saying you want to take over these companies now?”

Charlie shook his head emphatically. “No. Not just a few. The whole lot. Every company in this country.”

Varin swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Sir, if you do that... they’ll have no choice but to leave. That could work in our favor.”

Charlie smiled grimly. “Exactly. Now get them here. No late arrivals.”

“Yes, sir.” Varin turned and strode out, his footsteps echoing with urgency.

Charlie’s eyes drifted to the glass full of pens on the table and the pad beside it. He walked over and picked them up, then settled onto the couch, the weight of responsibility settling comfortably on his shoulders. With careful strokes, he began to write.

In the far reaches of the world, the United States reigned as a monopoly. Yet fear gnawed at the global heart—fear of pollution, of overpopulation. Myths spread like wildfire, whispering of apocalypse and doom. But on the horizon, as 2015 approached, a new monopoly emerged—China, powered by the promise of clean energy.

Solar power—the beacon for China and India, though still bound by limitations.

Here, however, desperation gripped the people. Survival was the only goal. If Charlie could ensure they had proper food, enough money for daily needs, this country could rise.

A superpower in five years.

Five years—the time any nation needs to claim greatness—if free of corruption, political strife, and internal decay.

Solar energy would reduce imports, produce abundant power, fuel advanced machinery, and create jobs—while cleaning the air.

And they had the resources: rare earth metals abundant yet wasted. Except the coasts remained poisoned, haunted by the scars of tsunamis.

Factory owners fed their workers minimal rations, paid a paltry forty dollars for twelve hours of labor.

Now, Charlie began to document his plan to change everything. The future pressed in on him—bright and unyielding.

He noted the country’s workforce:

Factory and industrial workers: approximately 60,000

Drivers and laborers: around 100,000

Unemployed: about 83,000

Self-employed: roughly 20,000

He grimaced, muttering under his breath, “What are those unemployed doing to deserve being idle?”

He drafted a harsh truth:

“Because of this move, at least 30,000 men might die. Seventy thousand will lose their jobs from these filthy factories."

He paused, then inked his solution: "We’ll reassign most of them as construction workers for new industries—leaving about 30,000 employed in less polluting factories.”

He studied his work, then nodded, determination reflecting in his eyes. “This is the best course, given the timeline.”

Hours later, Charlie sat before the men he had summoned. Their faces were drawn, eyes wide with fear, trembling with uncertainty. They had witnessed the bloody purge in the capital.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Charlie began steadily. “But you must hand over your industries to me.”

Their surprise was palpable, the tension hanging thick in the room.

“But,” he continued, locking eyes with each of them, “you will receive five million dollars a year for managing these companies.”

Faces shifted from fear to guarded hope.

“But let me be clear,” Charlie warned, voice steel-hard, “any corruption, any betrayal—will be your last day.”

Silence followed.

They all nodded in agreement and handed over the documents detailing their companies.

After accepting an advance payment of one million dollars as salary, they left. Charlie remained seated, engrossed in the documents, his pen racing across the pad.

“Varin,” he called.

The steward appeared promptly.

“The displaced workers will become construction laborers for these new industries. We need to scale up quickly,” Charlie instructed, hands steady.

Varin scanned the notes. “Sir, only the silicon and laboratory segments have the formula.”

“That’s what counts,” Charlie replied. “Give it to the labs to produce in mass. Add everything they require. Calculate our spending.”

“Yes, sir.”

The hours dragged on into night.

“Sir,” Varin reported finally, “it will take about 250 million dollars to execute all this.”

Charlie nodded, his face unreadable. “Approve it. Move fast. And tell me when the army’s mass attest finishes. We must know the real strength.”

“Understood, sir.” Varin bowed and left.

Charlie picked up the phone, determination etched into every line of his face.

“Hello, is this the PA for the robotics industry?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“We want to send funds for nanotech robots, robotic hands, automation…”

A long list poured from his lips.

“There’s a huge cost, sir, and it’ll take at least a month to prepare.”

“That’s acceptable. Quote me the price. Arrange the contract. We move fast.”

After a pause came the reply:

“Who’s this?”

“I’m from the country of Suriya. We need your tech. We want to start an industry.”

“As long as you pay, we’ll send it.”

“Send the contract or export it here,” Charlie said firmly. “You will receive advance in one hour and full payment upon delivery.”

“We’ll dispatch everything within three days.”

Charlie hung up, a faint smile playing at his lips.

“I knew I could rely on Japan,” he murmured.

“But this will cost nearly seven hundred million dollars for the robots and extras.”

He stood, walking to the balcony, eyes fixed on the city where factory smoke had already ceased rising.

“Things are getting interesting,” he said softly, voice low.

Just one day after rebirth, and the future was already shifting beneath his feet.

Charlie’s mind raced faster than ever before, heavy with the burden of a king’s responsibility—the kind bestowed upon only one in a billion. Yet, no word had come from his people. The weight of silence pressed upon him.

Glancing up, he noticed the date on a simple wall calendar hanging nearby: 3/1/2000 (D/M/Y).

He breathed out slowly, a fierce spark lighting his eyes. “By the same day next year,” he murmured, voice steady yet charged with conviction, “their lives will be better than anyone in this world could ever imagine.”

With those words, he pushed himself up and strode back to his room. The echo of his footsteps quiet in the dim hallway. As his hand touched the door, his gaze faltered, his mind drifting to her—

His sister.

Is she alright? he wondered silently. There’s no one else in this world for her but me.

That thought weighed heavy on his heart.

He entered the bedroom, its dim light wrapping him in a melancholy embrace. Without ceremony, he sank onto the bed, the fabric cool beneath him. With a soft click, he switched off the light.

The darkness encased him, and sleep beckoned slowly.

But sleep was restless. Through the blackness, distant voices whispered and wavered like fragile wings.

“Brother... brother... Brother... wake up, brother!” The voice cracked with urgency, trembling with tears. “Wake up, brother... please.”

His eyes fluttered open. The voice was unmistakable—Aivi.

He turned his head slowly, confusion knitting his brows. There she was—his sister, just as he remembered: tear-streaked cheeks, trembling lips.

“Aivi...” he breathed, voice hoarse.

Her eyes, swollen and red, met his. “Brother, you’re finally awake!” Her voice was a fragile mix of relief and disbelief.

His surroundings shifted suddenly, becoming familiar—the worn wooden frame of his childhood bed, the faded walls of their small home. The scent of old wood and dust.

Beside them stood a large man, his presence commanding yet wary. His face rough-hewn, eyes grave.

“Who are you, mister?” the man demanded, stepping forward, voice low but firm.

Charlie tried to show calm. “I’m no one. Just... take care of this boy’s health. He seems to have serious problems.” With that, he turned and began to walk away.

Aivi clung to him tightly, her shoulders shaking with every sob. He steadied her with gentle hands.

“It’s okay, Aivi. It’s okay now.” His voice was soothing, whispering calm. “Look at me.”

He moved her gently, cupping her tear-streaked face with both hands. Her red-rimmed eyes blinked, nose twitching as she sniffed hard.

His lips brushed her forehead tenderly. “It’s all going to be alright.”

She wiped at her cheeks, a faint smile breaking through tears.

“Look,” he said, sitting up slowly, legs dangling from the bed as if he was ready to rise. He flexed his toes deliberately.

Aivi’s eyes widened, frozen in wonder.

“Why are you just staring?” he teased softly. “I can walk now... see?”

He stood, arms out to steady himself. “I can walk, Aivi. Look—”

He began to jump lightly, his feet landing with surprising strength on the floor.

“I can jump... I can even do sit-ups.”

“How... how is that possible, brother?” Her voice trembled, a mix of awe and disbelief.

Charlie shrugged, smiling with an expressive tilt of his head. “Beats me. What do you think?”

She pondered quietly, her brows knitting. “Maybe you just woke up from sleep... and your legs are back.”

He shook his head, lips compressed in doubt. “Maybe. But... what time is it?”

Aivi glanced toward a worn cloak hanging on a chair, then gestured to a calendar pinned nearby.

“It’s night. Almost midnight. The date says 11:54, 01/03/2026 (M/D/Y). Wait, weren’t you in Suriya?”

She blinked, confusion clouding her gaze. “What’s Suriya?”

He bent closer, brushing loose strands of hair from her face softly. “Nothing important. Hey, did you eat?”

Aivi nodded silently.

Charlie smiled warmly. “Great. How about we go outside? Just for tonight?”

Her face lit up instantly. “Really? You mean it?”

He nodded. “Yes. Let’s go.”

“Yay!” she giggled, hugging him tightly before leaping off the bed.

Hand in hand, they walked quietly to the door. Charlie closed it behind them, the soft click a promise of a new beginning.

The night air was cool but alive as they stepped onto the familiar footpath. Shops remained open, windows casting amber glows onto the pavement.

Charlie took in the sights, a quiet smile hidden behind steady eyes. He made mental notes—he couldn’t always afford the finer places, but he knew where to find the simplest meals.

Even at midnight, the streets were alive, bustling with late diners and night owls. He spotted a Chinese restaurant with a faded neon sign.

“We can get full meals here for half price,” he said, slipping a few bills and coins from his pocket. “Twenty bucks, more or less.”

He scanned the menu board, worn but clear:

Chicken Fried Rice – $15

Egg Fried Rice – $10

Vegetable Fried Rice – $10

Pot Noodles – $10

“That’ll be enough,” he said softly to himself and stepped inside.

The restaurant buzzed quietly with conversations, the aroma of spices wrapping around them. He noticed more Indian and American faces than Chinese—a small cultural patchwork.

At the counter, he ordered, “One Chicken Fried Rice, please.”

The woman behind the counter handed him a numbered token. He moved to the food counter, watched as rice was scooped into a box, five chunks of chicken placed carefully atop, more rice pressed down firmly by a spoon despite the rain tapping against the window.

“Here you go, kid,” she said, sliding the container forward with a smile.

Charlie took the food boxes carefully, bracing against the damp chill outside as he walked Aivi back home.

“Why chicken, brother?” she asked softly.

He shrugged with a tired grin. “Because it’s late, and the Indian restaurants and vans have closed for the night. We can’t make the trip downtown anymore.”

She nodded in quiet understanding as they entered the house.

Inside, Charlie frowned. “Where’s my phone, Aivi?”

“Right on the bed table,” she replied.

He moved to the kitchen to fetch plates and set the dining table. Returning, he picked up the cracked phone, grimacing at the spiderweb of broken glass.

“Two hours of work just to fix this again,” he muttered, powering it on.

Messages blinked in the dim light. Tilting the phone with difficulty, he squinted at the screen.

“You’ve received $10,000 into your account 1635xxxxxxx,” read the notification.

He blinked, stunned. “Is this for real?” he mumbled, hastily opening the banking app.

Chase Bank—balance: $15,732.

His mind spun. “How did ten thousand dollars just appear? Was it a mistake?”

“Brother, let’s eat,” Aivi’s voice floated from the living room.

Setting the phone aside, unsure what to think, Charlie stood and joined her at the dining table.

After they ate their fill, Carlos tucked Aivi into bed, her soft breathing steady in the quiet room.

He retreated to his own bed, eyes lingering on the phone balance before slipping it into his pants.

His eyes closed.

But sleep did not come easy.

He dreamt again. The same old bedroom, the soft pillows, the bounce of a bed he hadn’t felt before.

He shot upright, heart hammering. The familiar surroundings surrounded him, the calendar’s date catching his eye:

4/1/2000.

“It’s real,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “I’m back.”

Slowly, as breath steadied in his chest, he sat on the edge of the bed and steeled himself.

“I don’t understand what’s happening... but I know I have work to do.”

The burden of a king’s life awaited.

He rose, determination firm in his gaze, and prepared to face the day ahead.