3. A Man from Nowhere.

Shikha, Yash's elder sister, made it a point to visit Aditi regularly after her surgery. A full year had slipped by since that fateful day.

"Hello, dear! How are you feeling? Yash mentioned that your hospital visits have become less frequent," she inquired, her voice laced with concern.

"I'm doing well, Shikha Di. The last surgery has really helped," Aditi replied, though the words were a facade. In truth, she still battled the shadows of her ailment, sharing her struggles only with Yash. She wished to shield him and his family from any further pain.

"Today, I bring you wonderful news!" Shikha exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Wonderful news? What is it, Shikha Di?" Aditi's curiosity piqued.

"The book you penned a year ago, 'Prince Dhrupad: Warrior of SuryaGarh,' is set to be published! Isn't that thrilling?"

"Really? My book is finally being published. I can hardly believe it, Di!" Aditi's heart soared as she leaped with joy.

"You are my favorite author, Aditi. I was astounded to learn it was your debut! When you rise to fame as a best-selling author, remember your old sister, alright?"

Tears welled in Aditi's eyes, touched by Shikha's heartfelt words.

--------------------

On a Wednesday afternoon, under the blazing sun, a man emerged from the shadows, a specter of despair. His garments were tattered, his body marred by wounds, and confusion clouded his gaze. He was Rudranath.

For a moment, he stood frozen, grappling with the reality around him. Tentatively, he approached an elderly vendor and asked, "Is this hell?"

The vendor nodded solemnly, "Yes, indeed. This Kaliyuga is nothing short of hell on earth."

Rudra's heart sank at the revelation; he was trapped in the Kaliyuga, the 21st century.

Seeing his dire state, the old vendor took him into his home. His wife tended to his injuries and offered him a warm meal. Under the old man's patient guidance, Rudra learned to read and write. The couple embraced him as their own, bestowing upon him the name 'Arjun,' reminiscent of the noble character from the Mahabharata who, too, was raised by foster parents.

Months later, while rummaging through, Arjun stumbles upon a bizarre book in the shop titled: 'Prince Dhrupad: Warrior of SuryaGarh'. The title hits him like a ton of bricks. He flips the book open in a frenzy, only to be hit with a wave of shock as he sees names like King Vanraj, Yashomitra, and Maya. At first, it all makes zero sense to him.

Then, he reads the dedication and feels utterly blindsided:

'A book of my imagination to escape reality. For my brother who is inspiration behind Prince Dhrupad, Yash, my best friend who is inspiration for Prince Yashomitra and Shikha Di who helped me publish my first book. Without you all, I wouldn't be able to complete this book. I owe you all my first book. Thank you for supporting me always. -Your Aditi.'

The revelation slams into Arjun like a freight train, leaving him gasping in disbelief and a gnawing sense of dread.

He's always sensed a bizarre déjà vu, as if his life was scripted, a path he could never stray from.

But to discover he's merely a character in a book, with every thought and action dictated by some unseen hand, is utterly devastating.

His mind spirals with chaos and questions. Do his feelings even matter?

Is his pain just a figment of someone else's twisted imagination?

It's a horrifying yet oddly freeing thought, as if the veil of reality has been ripped away to expose a tangled web of fiction and fate.

Rage boils inside him—rage at the utter lack of control over his own life, rage at the author who has played god with his existence up to this point.

Yet, amidst the fury and confusion, a flicker of curiosity ignites.

"Who is this author, and what twisted reason do they have for creating me?

What purpose does my story even serve?"

Arjun grapples with the notion that his struggles, victories, and failures were merely crafted for someone else's amusement. Nothing more.

This author, this unseen puppet master, has manipulated every single aspect of his life, forcing him to endure pain and heartbreak for the sake of a narrative. A seething anger ignites within him—a burning desire for revenge against the one who has toyed with his life so ruthlessly.

How could the author sit there, all cozy and smug, while I was trapped in this hellish fictional nightmare, suffering and fighting for every breath?

The sheer audacity of treating my agony like some cheap plot twist made my blood boil. That thought ignited a fire in me to confront the pathetic excuse for a creator.

I wanted to reach through the pages and unleash my fury on that arrogant writer.

There was absolutely no consideration for Arjun's side of the story, no understanding of why he sought revenge on Dhrupad, who was painted as a hero while he was reduced to a mere villain.

"If I'm going to be labeled a villain, then maybe I should just become one in this author's pathetic existence!"

I vowed to hunt down that author and obliterate her once and for all.

How dare the author sit comfortably, dictating my every move, while I suffered and struggled within the confines of this fictional world?

" If I was painted as a Villain, perhaps I will become one in this author's life! "

--------