Chapter 8: A Glimpse of the Enemy

The next few days passed like whispers behind closed doors. Nothing in Ishan's behavior revealed the storm inside him, but everything had changed.

His body obeyed the role of the younger son, the quiet student, the slightly odd new boy in school who answered questions too precisely. But his mind was on fire.

Ayaan.

The face he had once trusted above all — the man who had once stood behind him at press conferences, whispered insight before boardroom battles, cleaned up financial blood before anyone else noticed it had spilled.

And now he was here.

Working in the shadow of a forgotten town, under a rebranded name.

It wasn't coincidence.

Ishan knew better.

It was strategy.

And strategy meant one thing: purpose.

"I'm going to town again," Ishan said one morning over breakfast.

Kabir looked up from tying his shoelaces. "For what?"

"I want to apply for that scholarship the Udaan Foundation offers. I saw the poster near school."

Their mother nodded. "That's good. Better you apply early."

Kabir didn't argue this time. Perhaps he was proud. Perhaps he was relieved to see Ishan adapting to their life. He had no idea the boy before him was crafting lies that could shame devils.

The event was being held in a larger tent now, in the central ground near the riverbank. Bright-colored banners declared slogans like "Empowering Young India" and "Hope through Education."

Hope.

Ishan smirked slightly.

He moved through the crowd slowly, avoiding eye contact, choosing a path that kept him close enough to see, but not be seen.

He'd learned that in boardrooms too — when silence was more powerful than speech.

He spotted the volunteers first.

College kids. Enthusiasts. Interns with NGO badges.

And then his eyes locked on him.

There, near the makeshift stage, stood a tall man in a dark waistcoat over a linen kurta. He wasn't speaking. Just watching — eyes scanning the event like a general measuring the tide.

From a distance, he could be anyone.

But Ishan knew him like he knew his own breath.

Ayaan.

He had a new name now, Ishan remembered. One of the leaflets called him "Mr. Aryan Mehta — Regional Director, Udaan Foundation."

Clever.

Just close enough to the old name for a ghost to twitch. But polished enough to pass scrutiny.

Ishan's heart beat faster, but he stayed hidden behind a pillar of stacked chairs. It wasn't time to confront. Not yet. He needed to watch.

Ayaan — or Aryan, now — was speaking to a woman in a formal sari, likely a district officer. His manner was respectful, but his eyes remained unblinking, calculating. Still the same man. Still controlled.

Still dangerous.

Ishan moved quietly to a booth handing out student kits and grabbed a pamphlet with Aryan Mehta's name printed in the director's section.

A timeline of events, recent campaigns, quotes. All sanitized.

No mention of a past life. No clue to his reincarnation. But Ishan didn't need proof.

He felt it in his marrow.

As he walked past a row of schoolboys in uniform, he caught sight of a name tag clipped to a volunteer's bag — Riya Sharma, Field Assistant.

She was busy handing out booklets, but her lanyard had a staff list printed on the back.

He waited until she turned.

A glance. A name. A list of initials and roles.

He burned it into memory.

Aryan Mehta. Headquarters: New Delhi Recent base: Suratgarh Sector

Suratgarh. His family's ancestral village was two towns away. Was that why fate had placed Ayaan here too?

Or was it deliberate?

Ishan's hands curled into fists. A memory from his old life surfaced—an after-hours call in a glass office.

Ayaan: "Sir, we should consider a CSR expansion to rural Rajasthan. It buys goodwill, and no one asks too many questions."

Ishan had nodded back then. Approved it without care. Now he realized — the seeds had been planted long ago.

He turned to leave.

And stopped.

A group of boys from his school had arrived — loud, laughing, pushing through the crowd. One of them noticed Ishan.

"Hey, it's the genius kid!"

Ishan ignored them, but it was too late. The noise caught Ayaan's attention.

He turned.

For the second time, their eyes met.

This time longer.

Ayaan's eyes narrowed slightly.

Recognition?

Or suspicion?

Ishan turned away instantly and melted into the side lanes near the water tap stalls.

His pulse roared.

He stayed hidden until the crowd thinned. Only then did he begin walking back, cutting through alleys and dusty streets, far from the main road.

He didn't return home right away.

Instead, he sat under the neem tree at the edge of the school's boundary wall.

His hands trembled slightly.

He couldn't decide what hurt more — the possibility that Ayaan had betrayed him… or the possibility that he hadn't.

There had been loyalty once.

But now?

He remembered the man at the funeral footage. Calm. Calculated. Already reorganizing Ishan's empire before the ashes had cooled.

Could such coldness come without reason?

Or had he misunderstood it all?

Did Ayaan know the truth about his death?

Was he part of it… or trying to survive it?

He looked down at the pamphlet in his hand. Aryan Mehta.

So close to the man he once knew. And yet, a stranger now.

If they were both reborn...

Then fate had placed them here for a reason.

Not to be partners.

But opponents.

Rivals reborn.

Ishan folded the paper neatly and tucked it in his pocket.

Tomorrow, he would start gathering more than names.

He would start tracing Aryan's movements.

Where he stayed. Who he spoke to. What he built in the shadows.

If Ayaan—or Aryan—had a plan, then Ishan needed a counterplan.

Because a war was coming.

And Ishan Malhotra never entered a war unarmed.

Not in his last life.

And definitely not in this one.

That night, he sat awake in bed again, sketching maps and scribbling notes in the notebook hidden beneath his mattress.

His sister turned in her sleep beside him.

Kabir snored faintly.

And outside, the wind blew softly across the rooftops of a town too small to understand that kings had returned in the bodies of children.

Kings with scores to settle.

Ishan whispered into the silence:

"Checkmate isn't a move. It's a mindset."

He wasn't there to survive.

He was here to reclaim.

To rebuild.

And maybe—just maybe—revenge would be the foundation.

Or redemption.

Either way, the first glimpse of the enemy had been made.

And he would not forget it.