章 3: Instincts
As Srikanth left the village, he was deep in thought about how to exact his revenge.
The quiet, empty roads stretched before him, mirroring the desolation in his heart.
His mind raced with plans as he considered his options.
He recalled the enhancements he had gained from his previous life—gifts from countless experiments that had transformed him.
His body was nearly impervious to ordinary bullets, thanks to the advanced muscle density he possessed.
His eyesight was exceptionally sharp, equipped with both enhanced near-point clarity and advanced blur adjustments.
In his previous life, he had endured unimaginable trauma: surviving being riddled with 500 special bullets and an IED explosion that had blown apart 49% of his stomach.
Despite these horrors, he had lived on, although the experiments had left their mark.
At 27, he appeared as if he were 50, the result of accelerated aging.
To mask this, he used makeup and prosthetics, hiding the visible effects of his deteriorating condition.
But as he walked, he considered something he hadn't before.
Despite the severe injuries he had endured and the extensive healing that followed, he felt no immediate drawbacks after being healed from the two bullets.
It seemed that the effects of his accelerated aging and the damage from his previous life were not as pronounced now.
This lack of immediate discomfort made him question whether his body had somehow adapted or if the enhancements had mitigated some of the worst consequences.
Still, he knew that his lifespan was limited.
He faced the reality that he might only have until he was 35, or possibly even less.
Yet, this did not deter him in the slightest.
---
Under the cover of night, Srikanth walked silently into the chaotic city of Gwalior.
The roads still bore the scars of recent battles, littered with abandoned weapons and stained with the blood of fallen soldiers.
It was 1857, two months after Rani Lakshmi Bai's death, and the city was still reeling from the British counterattack.
India was in a state of unrest, with the British desperately working to demilitarize the region.
Gwalior had not seen the worst of it, but the wounds of war were still fresh.
Srikanth chuckled bitterly to himself, thinking of the cruel irony of being reborn connected to this very city.
His family had lived nearer to Jhansi, and his father had worked for the Jhansi crown for most of his life.
When the revolt began, his father devoted himself fully to smithing, leaving the family to support the rebellion.
It was a skill he had gained as a hobby, never imagining it would lead to his death.
Srikanth was here now, not just because he had failed to find the police officers in Jhansi, but also because he saw an opportunity to eliminate some British scum along the way.
As he walked, he heard the distant sound of a carriage approaching.
Instinctively, he hid in the shadows, his sharp eyes catching a glimpse of the British officer through the window.
His hands twitched, veins contracting in his arms as his instincts screamed at him to eliminate the man.
The officer, perhaps sensing the malice, glanced back from the window, but saw nothing.
He could never have guessed that Srikanth was already on the roof of the carriage.
Srikanth decided that the policemen could wait.
This officer would go first.
The carriage continued its journey, unaware of the predator lurking above.
When they reached a secluded stretch of forest, Srikanth made his move.
Dropping silently from the roof, he approached the driver, who was completely oblivious to the danger.
In one swift motion, Srikanth snapped the driver's neck, his body slumping over the reins as the horses began to slow.
The officer, along with his assistant and a servant woman, stepped out to investigate.
They were met with the chilling sight of the dead driver, his head twisted at an unnatural angle.
Before they could react, Srikanth was upon them.
He went for the officer first, his enhanced strength allowing him to tear through the man's flesh and bone with ease.
The officer's assistant barely had time to scream before Srikanth smashed his head against the carriage wheel, turning it into a bloody mess.
The servant woman, clearly an Indian, tried to flee, but she stumbled in her panic.
She crawled on the ground, desperate to escape, but Srikanth was already upon her.
Looming over her, his presence was a shadow of death.
"What did you do for them?" Srikanth demanded, his voice a deep, hoarse growl that sent shivers down her spine.
"I'm just a prostitute… please…" she whimpered, tears streaming down her face.
Without hesitation, Srikanth sliced off her finger, the movement so swift she barely registered the pain before she started screaming.
"Lie," Srikanth said coldly.
The woman, trembling and defeated, confessed, "I… I work for the British… I help them…"
Srikanth's eyes narrowed in disgust. "Pathetic," he muttered as he turned away, seemingly sparing her.
The woman exhaled shakily, relief washing over her.
But in the next instant, her world spun as Srikanth decapitated her in a fluid motion, her head rolling away as her body crumpled to the ground.
Srikanth stood amidst the carnage, his breath steady, the forest eerily silent around him.
The slaughter had been nothing more than a necessary side step in his mission.
As he wiped the blood from his hands, he knew this was only the beginning.
Mutilating the bodies to not be discovered by the morning light, Srikanth disappeared into the shadows once more.
---
[Pov : Unknown]
I curled up on the cold ground near the Achaleshwar Shiva temple, my small body shaking as I tried to sleep.
The hunger in my belly was too strong, making tears fall from my one good eye. I never had a second eye for as long as I could remember.
There used to be people who took care of me here—Anita, Ramachandra, and the priest who had no family of his own. They were like my family, but one day, everything changed.
The temple doors were closed, and the priest was taken away by some men. Anita and Ramachandra went with him, and I was left all alone.
I cried and cried, my stomach hurting so much that I couldn't move.
I prayed to Lord Shiva, begging him to give me food, but the pain just kept getting worse. It felt like I was going to die.
Then, I heard footsteps coming closer. I wanted to look up, but I was too weak, too scared.
The sound stopped right beside me, and I forced my eye open.
A boy stood there, not much older than me.
He didn't say anything at first, just knelt down and placed a clay bowl in front of me.
"Eat," he said, his voice firm, but there was something gentle in it too.
I stared at the bowl, filled with rice and daal. My hands shook as I reached for it, and the smell made my stomach twist even more.
I couldn't help myself.
I started eating as fast as I could, tears still falling down my face.
The pain in my belly slowly began to fade with each bite.
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