Chapter 1: The Reincarnation

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.”

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