The PC booted with a sound Rudra hadn't heard in twenty years—a mechanical whir of fans and the high-pitched whine of a cathode-ray tube monitor warming up. The screen flickered to life, displaying Windows 98's teal desktop, the "Clouds" wallpaper looking impossibly dated to eyes that had seen Windows 12.
Rudra sat down at his father's desk. The wood was scratched, stained with coffee rings from late-night legal briefs. The chair creaked under his twelve-year-old weight. But the machine—a second-hand Compaq Presario with 64MB of RAM and a 10GB hard drive—was the most powerful tool in their household.
2001, he thought. No smartphones. No cloud storage. No instant access to information. If I want to track my progress, I have to do it manually.
The System panel flickered.
[System Note: External data logging detected. Passive recording remains active, but manual backup recommended. The System exists in your mind. Your mortal memory does not.]
Rudra opened Notepad. The white text box blinked at him, waiting.
He started typing.
TRAINING LOG — DAY 2
June 2, 2001
MORNING RUN:
Distance: 0.47 km (failed to complete 1 km)
Time: approx 6 minutes
Stamina EXP: +5 (now 7/100)
Flexibility EXP: +1 (now 4/100)
Notes: Collapsed at 450m. Lungs burned. Legs gave out. Tomorrow: target 500m.
SCHOOL:
Math test: Completed. No EXP awarded. (Not a physical or skill activity.)
Observation: Social dynamics among classmates unchanged from previous timeline.
AFTERNOON:
Visited Malleshwaram Cricket Club. Negotiated net access in exchange for cleaning duties.
Social Intelligence unlock confirmed: Lv 01 (0/100 EXP)
Quest updated: First Net Session scheduled for tomorrow, 6 AM.
EXP EARNED TODAY: 7 (Stamina) + 1 (Flexibility) + 50 (Social Intelligence unlock) = 58 total
CUMULATIVE EXP: 58
Rudra saved the file. Notepad didn't have auto-save. He had to remember to hit Ctrl+S every few minutes—a habit he had forgotten, replaced by decades of cloud-based autosaving.
The little things, he realized. The things you don't think about until they're gone. Writing things down. Remembering phone numbers. Reading a paper map.
He opened the System panel again, comparing his manual log to the digital record in his mind.
[Rudra Sharma — Status Summary]
Overall Level: 01
Physical Attributes:
*Stamina: Lv 01 (7/100)*
*Strength: Lv 01 (1/100)*
*Reflexes: Lv 01 (0/100)*
*Flexibility: Lv 01 (4/100)*
*Durability: Lv 01 (0/100)*
Skill Attributes:
*Batting Timing: Lv 01 (0/100)*
*Shot Selection: Lv 01 (0/100)*
Bowling: Not initialized
*Fielding: Lv 01 (0/100)*
*Running Between Wickets: Lv 01 (0/100)*
*Focus: Lv 02 (15/100)*
*Decision Speed: Lv 01 (0/100)*
*Emotional Control: Lv 01 (5/100)*
*Cricket IQ: Lv 08 (12,800/25,600)*
*Social Intelligence: Lv 01 (0/100)*
Hidden Talents:
*Static Vision: Locked (0/10,000 balls faced)*
Active Quests:
Main: Run 1km without stopping
Side: Face 50 balls in a practice net
Hidden: ???
The numbers stared back at him. So much emptiness. So many levels to climb.
But Rudra had learned something in his previous life—something about compound growth, about the power of small daily improvements. The System's exponential EXP curve was brutal, but it was also fair. Every level cost double the previous. That meant the early levels would come quickly, creating momentum. The later levels would slow down, forcing patience.
Lv 01 to Lv 02: 100 EXP.
Lv 02 to Lv 03: 200 EXP.
Lv 03 to Lv 04: 400 EXP.
By the time he reached Lv 10, he would need 25,600 EXP for the next level. That was fine. That was the future's problem.
Today's problem: getting to 100 EXP in Stamina.
He did the math. If he earned 5 EXP per failed run, he needed 19 more runs to hit Level 02. That was nearly three weeks of collapsing at 450 meters.
But if he could complete the 1km quest—the full distance—the System would award 50 bonus EXP plus the level up. That would jump him from Lv 01 to Lv 02 in a single run.
Tomorrow, he promised himself. I go further.
His father's study was small—a converted bedroom that barely fit the desk, a bookshelf, and a filing cabinet. The bookshelf was crammed with law textbooks, case digests, and bound volumes of the Karnataka Law Journal. Rudra's eyes scanned the spines.
Indian Contract Act, 1872.
Transfer of Property Act, 1882.
Code of Civil Procedure, 1908.
Dry. Technical. The language of a profession that worshipped precedent.
But Rudra saw something else in those books. He saw leverage. His father understood the law, but he didn't understand business. He used the law to defend, not to attack. He filed appeals for shopkeepers and property disputes for small landlords. He never thought about using the law to build.
That changes now.
Rudra pulled out a notebook—a fresh one, bought with his own money from last week's allowance—and started writing.
BUSINESS IDEAS — 2001–2005
1. Real estate: Whitefield and Electronic City are undervalued. Land prices will triple by 2005 when IT companies move in. Need capital. Need to convince Appa.
2. Tech stocks: Infosys, Wipro, Satyam are already public. But the real money is in US tech—Google (IPO 2004), Apple (recovering), Amazon (undervalued). Need offshore account. Need Meera.
3. Hospitality: Bangalore lacks mid-range hotels. The IT boom will bring business travelers. A 20-room boutique hotel could generate ₹50 lakhs/year.
4. Cricket infrastructure: The KSCA nets are overcrowded. Private academies are emerging. A paid coaching center with modern equipment could scale.
5. Media: Cricket coverage is still print-heavy. ESPN Star Sports is growing. Digital media is 5 years away. Prepare now.
He stared at the list. Five ideas. Five potential paths to wealth.
But each required something he didn't have.
Capital.
Connections.
Time.
And time was the one resource he couldn't manufacture. He had six years until the knee injury. Six years to build a body, a career, and a fortune.
Prioritize, he told himself. You can't do everything. Focus on what moves the needle.
He circled item #1: Real estate.
This is the foundation, he thought. Land doesn't depreciate. Land doesn't crash—not in Bangalore, not in 2001. If I can convince Appa to buy a small plot in Whitefield, that plot will fund everything else.
But convincing his father meant building a case. A legal case, with evidence and arguments and precedents.
Rudra smiled. Irony.
The clock on the wall showed 9:47 PM. His father was still in the living room, reading the newspaper. His mother had gone to bed an hour ago.
Rudra walked out of the study, his notebook tucked under his arm.
"Appa."
Krishnamurthy looked up from the Indian Express. "You should be sleeping. Early morning tomorrow."
"I know. But I have a question."
His father folded the newspaper, recognizing the tone in his son's voice. This wasn't a child's question. This was the voice that had asked about buying land, about cricket investments, about the future.
"Ask."
"What's the biggest mistake you see small business owners make?"
Krishnamurthy blinked. "That's... not what I expected."
"I'm trying to understand something."
His father leaned back in his chair. The springs creaked. "The biggest mistake? They don't plan for the future. They run their businesses day-to-day, reacting to problems instead of anticipating them. They don't understand cash flow. They don't understand leverage. And when they need a lawyer, they come to me when it's already too late—when the contract is already signed, when the partnership is already broken, when the money is already gone."
"So they use lawyers as ambulances, not as preventive medicine."
Krishnamurthy stared at his son. "Where do you learn these phrases?"
From your future self, Rudra thought. From twenty years of corporate hell.
"Just thinking," Rudra said. "What if we offered something different? What if we helped small businesses plan—contracts, compliance, tax strategy—before they got into trouble?"
"We?" His father's eyebrow rose.
"You and me. You handle the legal work. I handle the research."
Krishnamurthy laughed—a short, surprised sound. "You're twelve years old."
"I'm twelve years old with a computer and internet access and time after school. What do you have to lose?"
The room fell silent. The ceiling fan clicked on each rotation. Outside, a dog barked.
"I'll think about it," Krishnamurthy said finally. "Now go to bed."
Rudra nodded. "Goodnight, Appa."
He walked back to his room, closing the door behind him.
The System panel flickered.
[New Quest Detected — Hidden]
[Quest: Family Business — Lay the groundwork for Sharma & Associates. Help your father win one new client through research and preparation.]
*[Reward: Financial Management Lv 01 + Legal Bastion unlock progress]*
[Time Limit: 30 days]
Rudra smiled.
One step at a time.
The alarm clock read 5:00 AM.
Rudra had set it for 5:00 instead of 5:30. He needed more time. More distance. More EXP.
He dressed in silence, slipped out of the apartment, and descended the stairs.
The morning air was cool, almost cold. A thin mist hung over the streets of Malleshwaram. The vegetable vendors were already setting up, their carts illuminated by kerosene lamps. A temple bell rang in the distance.
Day 2 of the rest of my life.
He reached the lamppost—the same starting point as yesterday—and stretched. Leg swings. High knees. Butt kicks. The System logged each movement.
*[Flexibility Lv 01 → 5/100 EXP]*
One EXP, Rudra noted. Progress.
He positioned himself and started running.
The first 200 meters felt better than yesterday. His breathing was steadier. His legs responded faster.
Adaptation, he thought. The body learns. Even this body. Even this quickly.
At 300 meters, the burn started. Not as intense as yesterday, but present. A warning.
Keep going.
At 400 meters, his vision remained clear. No blurring. No collapse.
450 meters. Past yesterday's failure point.
His lungs screamed. His legs ached. But he kept moving.
460. 470. 480.
At 495 meters, his body gave out.
He stumbled, caught himself, and collapsed onto the same front steps as yesterday. The same crow cawed at him from the same electrical wire.
495 meters. 25 meters short of 500. 505 meters short of 1km.
[Main Quest Progress — Failed Attempt]
*[Distance completed: 0.495 km / 1.00 km]*
[Reward: Partial — 5 EXP awarded for effort]
*[Stamina Lv 01 → 12/100 EXP]*
*[System Note: Improvement detected. +25 meters from yesterday. Rate of progress: 25m/day. Projected 1km completion: 20 days.]*
Twenty days.
Rudra leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Twenty days of running. Twenty days of collapsing. Twenty days of 5 EXP at a time.
But the trajectory was upward. That was what mattered.
5 EXP today. 5 EXP tomorrow. 5 EXP the day after. Eventually, 5 becomes 10 becomes 50.
The work continues.
He walked back to the apartment, cooled down, stretched, and changed into his school clothes. By the time his mother knocked on his door at 7:15 AM, he was sitting at his desk, reading a textbook.
"You're awake early again," Janavi said.
"Morning run," Rudra said.
She paused. "You're running?"
"I need to get fit. For cricket."
His mother studied his face—the same face she had known for twelve years, now somehow older. More serious. More determined.
"Don't push yourself too hard," she said finally. "You're still growing."
That's exactly why I have to push, Rudra thought. This is when it matters. This is when the foundation is built.
But he just nodded. "I'll be careful."
School was a repetition of yesterday—classes, teachers, children playing children's games. Rudra moved through it like a ghost, his mind elsewhere.
The nets. 6 AM tomorrow. 50 balls.
He had faced thousands of balls in his previous life—in nets, in matches, in the backyard with his father bowling underarm. But that was a different body. A different set of reflexes. A different level of expectation.
This body has never faced a real delivery. Not once.
The thought was sobering. Even his Cricket IQ—Lv 08, earned through decades of watching and playing—couldn't compensate for a body that had never faced a fast bowler.
The first net session is going to hurt.
He smiled anyway.
At 3:30 PM, he walked home, ate his lunch, and grabbed his cricket bat.
"I'm going to the nets," he told his mother.
"With the club owner? The one you negotiated with?"
"Yes, Amma."
Janavi hesitated, then nodded. "Come home before dark."
"I will."
He walked to the Malleshwaram Cricket Club, the Kashmir willow swinging from his hand. The sun was still high, but the shadows were lengthening. A few boys were practicing in the nets—a spinner bowling leg breaks, a batsman defending.
Guru Rao was sitting in his usual chair, a steel tumbler of tea in his hand.
"You're early," the coach said.
"I wanted to see the setup. Understand the routine."
Guru grunted. "The nets are open from 6 AM to 8 PM. Morning slots are for serious players. Evening slots are for schoolboys who want to pretend they're Sachin." He gestured toward the boys in the nets. "Those are the serious ones. They'll be here tomorrow at 6 AM. You'll join them."
Rudra watched the batsman—a tall boy, maybe fourteen, with a clean technique and a still head. Good balance, Rudra noted. But his weight transfer is late.
"The left-hander," Rudra said. "He's falling over slightly. His back foot is moving toward square leg instead of staying beside the line."
Guru turned to look at him. The coach's expression was unreadable.
"You see that?"
"It's obvious."
"To you, maybe. Not to most twelve-year-olds."
Rudra said nothing.
Guru studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"Tomorrow. 6 AM. Don't be late."
"I won't."
Rudra walked home as the sun set over Malleshwaram, the sky turning orange and pink behind the Ganesha Temple. He could feel the System humming at the edge of his consciousness—tracking, logging, waiting.
Tomorrow, the real work begins.
End of Chapter 4