CHAPTER 3: THE FALL FROM GRACE

From marble floors to broken earth, even gods bleed when stripped of power.

The last thing he remembered was the dirt.

The bitter, dry, dusty soil beneath his cheek — rough and unfamiliar. Not the Egyptian cotton sheets or the marble floors of his penthouse suite. Not the silk carpeting imported from France. This wasn't even concrete. This was dirt. Real, coarse, sun-baked earth. And the taste of it still clung to his tongue.

When Ishan opened his eyes, the light burned.

He blinked slowly, wincing at the brightness, until the blurs took shape. A peeling ceiling. A fan that creaked instead of rotating. Cracks spider-webbed across the plaster. And there, at the edge of his vision — a pair of eyes.

Two faces, in fact.

One belonged to a boy around sixteen, lean with sharp cheekbones, sun-darkened skin, and a forehead beaded with sweat. His eyes were narrow, watching him like a soldier watching a wounded enemy — cautious, unreadable.

The other was a girl, no older than seven. Her small fingers gripped the edge of the thin mattress Ishan lay on, and her eyes — large, round, and filled with unspoken concern — blinked rapidly as if trying to hold back tears.

"Bhaiya?" she whispered, voice barely audible.

Bhaiya.

That word. Brother.

It struck him like a whisper from another universe. He had never heard that word used for him with such intimacy. In his past life, he had no siblings. No one called him brother. CEO, Boss, Sir — yes. But this? This was… disarming.

Ishan groaned, trying to sit up.

"Don't move!" the boy snapped, stepping forward. "You fainted outside like an idiot. What were you even thinking, running out like that?"

There was anger in his tone. Not hate — not yet — but irritation wrapped in worry.

"I—" Ishan started, but the words stuck.

The girl quickly brought over a steel tumbler filled with water. Her hands trembled.

"Here… drink," she said softly.

He looked at the glass. Then at her. She had dust smudged on her cheeks and holes in her dress. Her hair was tied unevenly, a few strands stuck to her forehead. Yet, her gaze held a strange gentleness — one that people in his past life never looked at him with.

In that world, people approached with rehearsed smiles, fake admiration, hidden motives. But this… this child was genuine.

He took the glass. His hands were still shaking.

As the cool water slid down his throat, his mind flashed back.

The sunlight. The sweat. The smell of cow dung. People shoving past him, not caring who he was. The world had walked around him, through him. As if he didn't matter.

The billionaire inside him rebelled.

"I don't belong here," he muttered.

The boy heard him. "Yeah, no kidding. You act like you're made of gold."

"I was."

The elder brother snorted. "Sure. And I was a prince in a past life."

"You wouldn't understand," Ishan snapped, his voice cold.

The boy leaned in. "Try me."

Ishan looked at him, really looked. This wasn't just some random village kid. There was something sharp in his eyes. Something mature. He was someone who had grown up too fast — a protector, a fighter. He wore responsibility like a second skin.

"You're… my brother?" Ishan asked, cautiously.

The boy's brows twitched, confused. "Of course I'm your brother. What's wrong with you lately?"

He crossed his arms. "First you start talking weird. Then you stare at Ma like she's a stranger. And now you collapse in the middle of the street like a ghost possessed you."

"I'm fine," Ishan lied.

"No, you're not," the girl said softly.

Her voice was so quiet that both boys turned to her. She walked up and placed a small hand on Ishan's. "You're… not the same anymore. But I'm still here, Bhaiya. Okay?"

His chest tightened.

He didn't even know her name. Yet here she was — standing beside him like he meant something. Like she hadn't noticed he'd become a stranger overnight.

"I… don't remember things," Ishan lied again, choosing partial truth. "It's all foggy."

The elder brother narrowed his eyes. "If this is one of your weird games again…"

"It's not," Ishan said firmly.

There was silence. The fan creaked overhead.

Then the brother sat down on a wooden stool, sighing.

"Fine," he muttered. "Maybe you hit your head or something. Or… maybe you're just finally going crazy, I dunno. But till you stop acting like a lunatic, just… stay inside."

He stood up and walked out, the door creaking behind him.

The girl stayed. Quiet. Still holding his hand.

"What's your name?" Ishan asked, barely able to say it.

She tilted her head, confused. "You… forgot my name?"

He hesitated.

She smiled sadly. "It's Meera."

"Meera," he repeated.

She nodded. "You used to braid my hair sometimes when Dada wasn't looking. You'd mess it up but pretend it looked nice."

That didn't sound like him at all. Not his soul. But maybe it was this body's habits. This boy — whoever he used to be — had been loved.

"What's his name?" he asked next, meaning the brother.

"Raghav," she said. "He's always angry, but he's good. He works at the mechanic shop now. Every morning before school."

Ishan leaned back slowly.

Raghav. Meera. This family wasn't his. Not by blood, not by soul. But the gods had placed him here, in the middle of them, with nothing but memories of yachts and stock markets to cling to.

And now… he had to survive. Not just physically. But emotionally.

He was no longer a king. He was someone's younger brother. Someone's elder brother. A poor boy in a dusty village with a body that felt like a cage.

But somewhere deep down, a voice whispered:

"You've built empires from dust before. Do it again. But this time… learn to bleed."