Rebirth

Jatin Sharma's world had unraveled in a heartbeat. One moment, he was cruising down the familiar stretch of road from the university, his mind buzzing with the elegant chaos of quantum mechanics—Schrödinger's equations dancing in his head like a symphony he couldn't quite tune out. The hum of his car's engine was a steady companion, the twilight sky casting long shadows across the dashboard. He'd been mulling over a particularly tricky problem set, lost in the abstract beauty of particles and probabilities, when it happened. A sharp jolt, a scream of tires against asphalt, and then the sickening crunch of metal meeting wood. His car had veered off the road, hurtling toward a massive, gnarled tree that loomed like a sentinel in the dusk. The impact stole his breath, his thoughts, his everything. The world went black.

When consciousness trickled back, Jatin's eyes fluttered open to a scene that made no sense. He was no longer crumpled in the wreckage of his car, no longer surrounded by the acrid smell of gasoline and the groan of twisted steel. Instead, he lay on a charpoy—a simple, woven daybed he vaguely recalled from childhood visits to his grandmother's village. The room around him was small, its walls rough-hewn and bare, save for a single faded tapestry depicting a peacock in mid-strut. The air was heavy, thick with the earthy tang of wood smoke and the sweet, cloying scent of incense that curled lazily from a brass holder in the corner. A faint breeze slipped through a cracked window, carrying the distant murmur of voices and the occasional bleat of a goat.

Jatin's head throbbed as he pushed himself up, his hands trembling against the coarse ropes of the charpoy. His chest tightened with confusion, his scientist's mind scrambling to piece together the impossible. He remembered the crash—vividly, painfully—but this? This couldn't be real. He pressed a hand to his forehead, expecting the cool metal of his car's steering wheel or the sterile white of a hospital room. Instead, his fingers brushed sweat-dampened skin and the faint grit of dust. Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? Had the impact scrambled his brain so thoroughly that it had conjured this bizarre, rustic mirage?

Before he could chase that thought further, the creak of a wooden door drew his gaze. An old man stepped into the room, his presence as steady and unassuming as the earth itself. He was wiry, with skin like weathered parchment and a shock of white hair tucked beneath a simple cotton turban. His clothes were traditional—a faded kurta and dhoti, patched in places but clean—and his eyes sparkled with a warmth that felt oddly familiar, though Jatin couldn't place why. The man clasped his hands together and bowed low, his voice soft but clear.

"Namaste, young master," he said, the words carrying a reverence that made Jatin's stomach twist. "Are you okay, young master? My name is Raju, and I am your loyal servant."

Jatin blinked, his mouth dry as he tried to process the words. Servant? Young master? His mind reeled, grasping for logic in a situation that defied it. He was Jatin Sharma, a 29-year-old physicist with a cramped apartment full of textbooks and a beat-up sedan he'd bought secondhand. He didn't have servants or ancestral homes or whatever this man was implying. And yet, Raju stood there, unwavering, his expression a mix of concern and quiet pride, as if Jatin's presence was the most natural thing in the world.

"Where… where am I?" Jatin managed, his voice hoarse and unsteady, cracking like dry earth underfoot.

Raju's smile widened, creasing his face with lines that spoke of years spent laughing and laboring in equal measure. "You are in your ancestral home, young master. You are Jatin Sharma, the sole heir to the Sharma estate."

The words hit Jatin like a second crash, jarring and nonsensical. Ancestral home? Estate? He shook his head, a sharp laugh escaping him despite the ache in his ribs. "No, that's—that's impossible. I'm a physicist. It's 2025. I don't have an estate. I don't even own a house!" He gestured vaguely at the room, at the peeling plaster and the flickering oil lamp on a rickety table. "This isn't mine. I don't belong here."

But Raju didn't falter. He tilted his head, studying Jatin with those knowing eyes, and there it was again—that flicker of recognition, a quiet certainty that made Jatin's protests feel brittle. He opened his mouth to argue further, but before he could, something extraordinary happened. A faint hum filled the air, like the buzz of electricity before a storm, and a translucent blue screen shimmered into existence before him. It hovered there, weightless and glowing, a digital apparition in this ancient, analog world.

Jatin froze, his breath catching as he stared at it. The screen was sleek, futuristic, displaying a menu of options in crisp, glowing text. It was the kind of interface he'd seen in sci-fi movies, not in a mud-brick room with a dirt floor. His heart pounded as he read the message that materialized:

"Welcome, Jatin Sharma. You have been selected for the Tech System program. You have 1000 points available to spend on technology upgrades."

He squinted at the words, his rational mind clawing for an explanation. Tech System? Points? It sounded like a game, a simulation—something he might have coded as a thought experiment during his undergrad days. But this felt real. Too real. His fingers twitched, itching to touch the screen, to test its solidity, but he hesitated, afraid it might vanish—or worse, prove itself tangible.

The screen shifted, presenting a list of categories under the bold header: *Technology Upgrades*. Jatin's eyes scanned the options, and his stomach sank as the numbers came into focus. These weren't the modest costs of a game tutorial. These were astronomical, each price tag a gut punch that mocked his measly 1000 points.

- *Materials Science:*

- Advanced Alloy Production (1.5 Billion points)

- Polymer Synthesis (1 Billion points)

- Graphene Development (2 Billion points)

- Superconductive Materials (3 Billion points)

- *Energy and Power:*

- High-Capacity Battery Manufacturing (1.8 Billion points)

- Efficient Solar Cell Technology (1.2 Billion points)

- Miniaturized Power Generators (2.5 Billion points)

- Small-Scale Nuclear Reactor Design (3.5 Billion points)

- *Electronics and Computing:*

- Integrated Circuit Design (1 Billion points)

- Advanced Microprocessor Development (2 Billion points)

- Wireless Communication Protocols (1.5 Billion points)

- Early-Stage Quantum Computing Principles (4 Billion points)

- *Robotics and Automation:*

- Basic Robotics Framework (1.5 Billion points)

- Automated Manufacturing Systems (2 Billion points)

- Precision Engineering Tools (1.8 Billion points)

- *Artificial Intelligence:*

- Basic AI Algorithms (2 Billion points)

- Machine Learning Framework (2.5 Billion points)

- Neural Network Design (3 Billion points)

Jatin's jaw clenched, a cold sweat prickling his skin. Billions. He had a thousand points—barely a speck against the vastness of this system. The technologies listed were the stuff of his wildest dreams, the cutting edge he'd spent years studying and theorizing about. Quantum computing? Superconductors? These were breakthroughs that could reshape the world. But with 1000 points, he couldn't even scratch the surface. The realization settled over him like a heavy fog: he wasn't a player in some grand cosmic game. He was a beggar with a handful of coins, standing before a vault of unimaginable wealth.

He swiped at the screen, half-expecting it to glitch or fade, but it responded smoothly, a side window popping up with detailed descriptions as he highlighted each option. The information was tantalizing—schematics, material lists, theoretical underpinnings—but the costs made it feel like a cruel tease. He was a scientist, damn it, not a god. What was he supposed to do with this?

Then, at the bottom of the screen, a new section caught his eye: *Points Acquisition*. He leaned closer, the words glowing faintly as he read:

"Generate points by introducing and propagating Tech System technologies. Points are awarded based on the scale of adoption and impact."

Jatin's breath hitched. So it wasn't static. He could earn more points, climb this impossible ladder—but only by sharing what he unlocked, by changing the world around him. The system wasn't a gift; it was a challenge, a transaction. His mind raced, piecing it together. Small changes could snowball into bigger ones. Impact and adoption. That was the key.

He scrolled back up, searching for something—anything—within reach. And there, tucked beneath the towering costs of futuristic marvels, was a humbler list:

- Basic Improved Water Filtration (50 points)

- Improved Crop Rotation Techniques (75 points)

- Basic Medical Sanitation Improvements (100 points)

- Improved Metalworking Techniques (200 points)

- Improved Steam Engine Efficiency (300 points)

These weren't the miracles of quantum physics or AI. They were practical, grounded, the kind of incremental advancements he'd dismissed as trivial in his university days. But now, they felt like lifelines. Fifty points for clean water? A hundred for sanitation? These were things he could do—things that could matter.

He glanced at Raju, who had been watching him silently, his hands folded patiently. The old man's eyes held a quiet faith, a belief in Jatin that he didn't yet feel himself. Beyond the room, he could hear the village stirring—the clatter of pots, the laughter of children, the lowing of cattle. These were real people, living lives shaped by toil and tradition, and he had the chance to help them. Not with fusion reactors or neural networks, but with something as simple, as vital, as clean water.

Jatin tapped the screen, selecting *Basic Improved Water Filtration*. The interface pulsed, and a detailed schematic unfolded before him—layers of sand and charcoal, a simple clay vessel, instructions for construction using materials he could find in any village. It wasn't glamorous, but it was genius in its simplicity. He could build this. He could teach others to build it. And maybe, just maybe, it would be the first step toward something bigger.

He looked up at Raju, a tentative resolve hardening in his chest. "Raju," he said, his voice steadier now, "I need your help. We're going to make something—something that'll change things here."

Raju's face lit up, his nod quick and eager. "Of course, young master. Whatever you need."

Jatin exhaled, the weight of the crash, the confusion, the impossible system settling into something he could carry. He wasn't in 2025 anymore—he didn't know where or when he was—but he was still a scientist. He had 1000 points, a village full of potential, and a spark of knowledge to share. It wasn't godhood. It was better. It was a beginning.