India: The Legend of Aritra

Kolkata, 2025

The city never slept. Neon lights flickered like restless spirits over the bustling chaos of Salt Lake Sector-V, the tech hub of Kolkata. Monolithic glass buildings pierced the sky, their reflections casting fragmented illusions on the cracked pavements below. The world had changed—drones zipped through the air delivering packages, holographic billboards danced with AI-generated models, and automated vehicles hummed silently through the night. But amidst the pulse of progress, one man walked alone, his shadow trailing behind him like a ghost.

Aritra Sen.

At 35, Aritra was the embodiment of a routine life. His days at Wipro, buried under lines of code, left little space for dreams. The city had aged, but so had he—not gracefully, not heroically. Just... aged. A pale reflection of the ambitious boy he once was, now lost beneath layers of missed opportunities and corporate fatigue.

It was late. His shift had stretched longer than usual. The office lights dimmed, casting a sterile glow over abandoned desks as Aritra packed his worn laptop into his bag. He glanced at the time: 11:47 PM.

"Another day wasted," he muttered under his breath.

Outside, a chilly breeze swept through Salt Lake. The air was heavy with a faint scent of rain mixed with engine fumes. He made his way to the crowded Sealdah local train station, a lifeline for thousands who couldn't afford the luxury of app-based cabs. The platform buzzed with life even at midnight—street vendors selling stale samosas, tired IT professionals scrolling through their phones, beggars weaving between indifferent feet.

Aritra stood near the edge of the platform, lost in thought.

What if I'd done things differently?

The train screeched into the station, its brakes whining like a wounded beast. He climbed aboard, squeezing into the suffocating metal coffin packed with strangers. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks soon became a background hum, blending with the dull ache in his chest—an ache he'd carried for years.

But fate had been waiting. Patiently.

As the train sped through the dark veins of the city, Aritra leaned slightly against the door, his mind drifting to forgotten ambitions, lost loves, and the boy who once believed he could change the world.

Then it happened.

A sudden jolt. A scream. The metallic groan of metal against metal.

Aritra lost his footing.

His fingers clawed at empty air as the world tilted. The last thing he saw was the blurred flash of headlights, the cold rush of wind, and the indifferent gaze of the city that had never noticed him alive.

And then… nothing.

Abyss.

Silence.

Weightless. Timeless. Endless.

But death was not the end.

A faint whisper echoed in the darkness. Not a voice, but a presence. A glimmer of something ancient, watching, waiting.

Suddenly, light. Blinding. Piercing through the void like a blade.

"SYSTEM INITIALIZING..."A mechanical voice, cold and emotionless, echoed into the emptiness.

"SYNCHRONIZATION COMPLETE. HOST: ARITRA SEN. TIME REWIND ENGAGED."

What?

His consciousness was ripped from the abyss, hurtling through fragmented memories—his childhood, his failures, his regrets. Faster. Louder. A kaleidoscope of emotions until…

GASP!

Aritra sat up, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding like a war drum.

But this wasn't a hospital. Not the afterlife. Not even 2025.

Old, cracked walls. A rusty ceiling fan spinning lazily. A calendar on the wall read: July 2008.

No. This can't be real.

He stumbled to the mirror. The reflection staring back wasn't the weary man he knew. It was a boy—eighteen, wide-eyed, with messy hair and the faint scar above his eyebrow from that childhood fall. His WBJEE prep books lay scattered on the desk, untouched assignments from a time long gone.

"Welcome, Host," the mechanical voice returned, softer now, as if integrated into his mind.

"You have been granted the Legendary System. Objectives: Change the future. Conquer the present."

Aritra blinked, his mind racing. A second chance?

The Legendary System interface flickered before his eyes, invisible to the world but clear as day to him. Tabs labeled "Technology Store," "Stock Market Predictions," and "Mission Logs" glimmered like digital ghosts.

A slow smile crept across his face, one he hadn't worn in years.

If this is a dream, I never want to wake up.

Outside his window, Kolkata remained the same—no neon lights, no drones, just the raw, chaotic pulse of 2008. But inside Aritra, everything had changed.

"Let's begin," he whispered, eyes burning with a hunger the world had never seen before.

And this time, he wasn't here to just survive.

He was here to dominate.