Celestial Harmony Village, Year 2984 ADR

  Golden slivers of sunlight pierced through the gaps in the wooden shutters, casting faint patterns on the dirt floor of the modest orphanage. Outside, the village stirred to life—merchants setting up stalls, blacksmiths stoking their forges, and farmers guiding oxen to the fields. The crisp morning air carried the distant hum of conversation and the scent of fresh tea.

  Inside a small room, nestled on a straw mattress, a young boy stirred. His small frame shifted as his dreams took a darker turn, his brows knitting together in distress. Then, abruptly, his eyes snapped open.

  Pain.

  A sharp, searing agony split through his skull, as if a vice had clamped down on his mind. He clutched his temples, breath shallow, his body trembling under the invisible force tearing through him. Images and memories surged forward—a chaotic flood, overwhelming and relentless.

  Machines. Equations. Voices—some distant, some achingly familiar.

  "Dr. Amar, the calculations—"

  "Energy levels are—"

  "Amar, get out—"

  The boy gasped, his small body trembling as the memories continued to crash over him, relentless and unforgiving. He saw his childhood in India and felt the hunger, the cold, and the burning curiosity that had driven him to learn and to question.

  He remembered his adoptive parents, their kindness, their sacrifices, and the sense of purpose they had instilled in him. He saw the years of study, the endless nights spent poring over textbooks, the thrill of his first scientific breakthrough, and the overwhelming pride he felt when his research paper was published.

  And then, he remembered the experiment—the blinding light, the sense of weightlessness, and the strange, ethereal presence that had observed him in those final moments.

  The pain began to subside, leaving behind a dull ache and a sense of disorientation. The boy—Amar, no, Wuji—sat up slowly, his small hands shaking as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He looked around the room with blurry eyes, at the rough wooden walls, the simple furnishings, the unfamiliar surroundings.

  It took a moment for the reality to sink in. He was no longer Dr. Amar Kumar, the renowned physicist. He was Wuji, a eight-year-old boy in an unfamiliar world, an orphan once again, without the warmth and love of his parents, without the comforts of his previous life. A wave of sadness washed over him, a deep, aching sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him.

  Then, a gentle but worried voice broke through his thoughts.

  "Wuji, are you okay?"

  He turned his head and saw a woman in her thirties sitting beside him, concern etched across her face. A damp cloth rested in her hand, the faint scent of medicinal herbs lingering in the air. It was then that he remembered—he, or rather, Wuji, had been bedridden for the past week, his body burning with fever. And the woman before him, the one who had cared for him all this time, was Qin Jingwen, the orphanage’s owner. But to everyone here, she was simply "Mother."

  Seeing him lost in thought, she spoke again, her voice softer this time.

  "Wuji, are you alright?"

  He blinked and nodded. "Yes, Mother." He attempted to sit up, but his body, still weak from illness, refused to cooperate.

  Qin Jingwen frowned and gently pushed him back down onto the bed. “You just woke up, and you’re already trying to move?” She let out a weary sigh, shaking her head. “Do you have any idea how worried I was when you lost consciousness yesterday? I thought I was going to lose you.” Her voice softened, but there was no mistaking the firmness in her tone.

  “For now, your only job is to rest, eat, and heal. Understand?”

  His mind buzzed. Lost consciousness? Did that mean the previous owner of this body had died—or was on the brink of death—when he took over? So, I… possessed him?

  His thoughts raced to the ancient Indian scriptures, the ones that spoke of the soul—the Atma—and the cycle of reincarnation. But this didn’t feel like reincarnation. He hadn’t been reborn; he had taken over another person’s body. That was transmigration, wasn’t it? But how? And why? Who—or what—had caused this? His logical mind sifted through possibilities, each question spiraling into another mystery.

  A gentle yet firm voice cut through his thoughts.

  “Wuji, did you hear what I said?”

  Snapping back to reality, he met her concerned gaze.

  “Yes, Mother,” he said, his voice steady, yet his mind still reeling from the revelation.

  -----

  A month had passed since Amar found himself reborn in this unfamiliar world as Wuji. Seated cross-legged on the orphanage roof, he let the cool evening breeze brush against his skin, its touch grounding him in this strange new reality. Over the past weeks, he had sifted through the memories of this eight-year-old boy—learning who he was, how he had lived, and the fragments of a past that was now his own.

  From these memories, one thing stood out—this boy had been timid and shy, yet insatiably curious, much like Amar himself had been in his previous life. The resemblance was unsettling, almost as if fate had mirrored his childhood in another world. He didn’t know why he had transmigrated here or why he had taken over this boy’s body, but the eerie coincidence between them was undeniable… and terrifying.

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  His thoughts wandered to the final moments of his past life—the catastrophic quantum experiment, the brief yet overwhelming presence he had felt as death claimed him. Could that entity be responsible for his rebirth? The idea lingered at the edges of his mind, unanswered.

  He exhaled slowly and turned his gaze to the village below—Celestial Harmony Village—nestled under the rule of the Golden Lotus Kingdom. The setting sun bathed the streets and rooftops in hues of gold and crimson, casting long, inky shadows that stretched across the worn paths like calligraphy on ancient parchment. For a fleeting moment, the scene felt almost familiar, a distant echo of the world he had left behind.

  But as his eyes lifted to the sky, that fragile illusion shattered.

  Two moons hung in the sky.

  Back on Earth, this would have been a scene straight out of a fantasy novel. Yet here, it was reality. The Azure Moon, vast and luminous, dominated the heavens, completing its cycle every thirty-five days. Meanwhile, the Crimson Moon, smaller but more mysterious, followed a longer one hundred and five-day cycle, its dim glow barely visible against the twilight.

  Wuji exhaled, adjusting to yet another strange facet of this world. Even time itself moved differently. Here, a day lasted twenty-eight hours, a month spanned thirty-five days, aligning with the Azure Moon’s cycle, and a full year comprised twelve such months, each named after celestial and elemental phenomena.

  But what truly intrigued him was something else—the timeline system.

  He had come across references to BDR and ADR, which immediately reminded him of Earth’s BC and AD. The more he saw it, the more it gnawed at his curiosity. Finally, he turned to Mother Jingwen for answers.

  “Mother, what do BDR and ADR mean? We use them for dates, but I don’t understand.”

  She glanced at him, then smiled. “BDR stands for Before Divine Reckoning, and ADR is After Divine Reckoning.”

  The name alone hinted at some grand historical event—something powerful enough to reshape the world’s timeline. His brows furrowed as he pressed further.

  “Then… what is the Divine Reckoning?”

  Mother Jingwen’s expression turned thoughtful, but after a brief pause, she shook her head. “I don’t know much,” she admitted. “Only that long, long ago, a catastrophic war changed everything. Whatever happened back then… it was enough to mark the beginning of a new era.”

  “That’s it?” Wuji frowned. “No one remembers more?”

  She let out a soft chuckle, ruffling his hair. “I run an orphanage, not a scholar’s hall, little one. If you want real answers, you’ll have to read history books or find a teacher willing to tell you.”

  That only deepened his curiosity. He wanted to read historical texts, to uncover the truth behind the Divine Reckoning. But there was one problem—he couldn’t read the script of this world.

  Though he had picked up Yulian, the spoken language, the written form remained a mystery. If he wanted answers, he had to master the Yulian script first. But words alone might not hold the full truth.

  His gaze drifted beyond the orphanage, toward Celestial Harmony Village, where history seemed to linger in every shadow and whisper through every street. Perhaps the answers he sought weren’t just buried in books but woven into the world itself—hidden in the customs passed down through generations, in the quiet wisdom of the elders, and in the silent stories etched into weathered walls and timeworn beams.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, lanterns flickered to life, their warm glow spilling onto the winding streets. The village pulsed with quiet energy—shopkeepers securing their stalls, children darting through alleyways, elders gathered outside their homes, their murmured conversations blending with the evening breeze. Even in stillness, the place felt alive.

  Every structure, from the humblest wooden hut to the grandest estate, carried an ancient elegance—sloping roofs that curved like the sweep of a calligrapher’s brush, sturdy beams worn smooth by time, and intricate carvings that hinted at tales far older than him. If history refused to be read, then perhaps it could still be seen, heard, and felt.

  His eyes traced the lines of the village, lingering on the mansion perched atop higher ground—the residence of Li Zhengtai, the village chief. Unlike the modest homes scattered below, this place radiated an aura of authority and mystery, something almost palpable in the air. He had heard the whispers—stories of a man who seemed more myth than reality. A leader, yes, but also a legend. They spoke of his superhuman strength, how he could crush boulders with his bare fists. But what intrigued Wuji most were the claims that Li Zhengtai could command fire with a mere gesture, as if by magic.

  A cultivator—that was what they called him. The term was new to Wuji, yet strangely familiar. Memories from his previous life stirred—late nights during his engineering days when his friends insisted he read those Chinese cultivation novels filled with tales of powerful warriors harnessing qi, the life force that flowed through all things. Those stories, though fantastical, had touched upon concepts that resonated with him, like the chakras in ancient Indian texts that spoke of energy channels and spiritual awakening.

  The idea that one could absorb the energy of the world—spiritual energy, or qi—felt surreal, yet the evidence was hard to ignore. If such power truly existed, it would shatter his worldview as a scientist from Earth, where energy was governed by strict laws and measurable forces. The thought was both terrifying and thrilling. His mind raced with questions: How did they gather this energy? What principles lay beneath this so-called cultivation? Was it science that had yet to be understood or something else entirely?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the kids playing in the orphanage courtyard, though he was also a kid now but his aged mind was still thinking them as kids.

  Then he saw her—a tiny whirlwind of energy, barreling toward the orphanage with unsteady but determined steps. Her messy pigtails bounced with each movement, and when she lifted her head, her round face stretched into a beaming, toothy grin.

  "Wuji! Wuji! Play!"

  Her voice rang out, high and clear, filled with the boundless excitement only a child could muster. She stood at the base of the orphanage, hopping on her toes, waving both arms wildly as if her sheer enthusiasm could pull him down from the roof.

  Wuji hesitated. He had so much to do, so many answers to seek, yet at that moment, the weight of it all pressed down on him. His mind, filled with relentless calculations and thoughts of the past and future, felt weary. Perhaps, just for a little while, he could pause—let himself exist in this moment, in this new life.

  With a quiet sigh, he pushed himself up and climbed down. The moment his feet touched the ground, tiny hands latched onto his, warm and insistent. Mei beamed up at him, her round eyes shining with unfiltered joy. She babbled eagerly, half in words, half in gibberish, tugging at him as if the world outside was too full of wonders to be ignored.

  A smile tugged at his lips—small but genuine, a warmth spreading in his chest. "Alright, Mei," he said, his voice softer now, steadier. "What are we playing?”

  The girl let out a triumphant cheer, dragging him toward the courtyard. As he followed her into the fading light, laughter echoed around him, mingling with the gentle hum of the village.

  For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt something shift within him.

  Yes, he was an orphan once more. Yes, his past life was gone. But here, in this quiet village under a sky of twin moons, he had been given a second chance. A chance to live, to explore, to carve out a new path.

  And perhaps, it all started with something as simple as a child’s laughter.

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