Conqueror Reincarnated in Middle Class Family

The school hallways were never quite still — not with the quiet hum of tacky fans, the echo of feet on porcelain tile, or the intermittent hiss of an aged intercom that came on and off without provocation.

There was a silence around him.

He moved down the corridor, feet slow, measured. The crowd in front of him parted in small looks, rippling like oil on water. They whispered. They sneered. A few simply passed on — not out of deference, but habit.

Against one wall, a line of lockers leaned dented and weathered. Between two sections, someone had written in chipping red paint:

"RIFT ALARM ROUTE →"

"Feral Protocol = Blue Mask First, THEN Call"

"Gas Exposure = Death. No Heroes, Please."

No one paid it any attention anymore. The emergency posters were wallpaper now. Part of the fabric of life.

He walked past them without batting an eye.

Outside the windows, a yellowish sheen covered the glass — the preservative sealant, part of every contemporary building's protection. Beyond that, the air shimmered slightly. Not heat — distortion. The kind you saw when gas escaped, or reality warped.

They referred to it as Faralization.

He referred to it as background noise.

Fifteen minutes prior, in school, he'd been dozing at his desk, chin propped on fist, eyes fixed on the chalkboard where a marker skreeched under the history teacher's hand.

"Now, Class 10-B, as we've discussed: the gas released during the Catastroph was originally a controlled synthetic vapor — created as a clean energy alternative. Designed to bind atomic instability and provide scalable global power. Until the year 2016. when the core containment at Tarkov Prime failed."

He watched the ceiling fan spin.

"The explosion incinerated four countries and released more than eight billion liters of Type-9 artificial ether-gas into the air. Within a week, the biosphere had mutated — birds, dogs, even algae—everything that was exposed to it was showing… behavioral drift and aggressive evolution. We call it now 'Faralized.'"

He hadn't taken notes.

"82% of Earth was hostile by 2025. Preserved Zones were announced, locked under the Unified Human Survival Pact. And no one could venture outside for a hundred years. Until 2134, when Patient Zero—the first to be immune—was found."

He looked at the clock.

Five minutes before recess.

The teacher continued to talk.

"Somewhere along the line that led to the discovery, and the Defender Initiative. Private industry started hiring immunes to take back land, defend domes, and — for profit, as some allege — sell death. Not everything's changed, class. Only the species that rule."

He'd nearly smirked on that.

In the hallway again now, his breathing moved at a steady pace. With each step, he got closer.

Up ahead, by the water cooler and the broken corner wall where the CCTV didn't quite cover, the tight little clique hovered. Laughing too hard. Standing too broad. Making sure they were noticed.

As he came closer, one of them elbowed the other and whispered just loud enough:

"Look who's walking like a Riftwarrior."

Another snickered.

"Thinks he's invincible or something? Bro's been watching too many recruitment commercials."

The tallest stretched out his arms, his elbows resting on his knees.

"You gonna punch your way into a bio-sealed dome next, tough guy? Or just shadowbox the gas outta the air?"

They laughed. It wasn't the laughter that hurt — it was the practiced cadence of it. The kind meant to resound.

He didn't halt his walking.

Didn't flinch.

One step. Two.

The one standing in the middle stepped into his way, grinning, chin raised.

"Say something, fighter boy. Or just swing like last time."

The corridor was narrower now. Closer.

And in that moment — just before anything stirred — he saw something odd.

The air changed.

Just a little. A flutter at the back of his eyes. A flicker of the fluorescent lights. As if something had seen him. As if the world itself hesitated to ask:

Do you recall who you were?

But the thought vanished just as quickly.

The boy cracked his knuckles again. The crowd suspended its breath.

And Vijay moved forward.

The boy cracked his knuckles. The crowd waited in silence.

And Vijay moved forward.

There was a change — not in muscle or position, but purpose. His back straightened. One foot shifted ever so slightly, weight evenly distributed. The stance of one who did not simply want to hit — but understood how to.

"You wanna go?" the taller one sneered, eyes flashing.

But his voice trembled. By mere fractions.

Then—

"Enough."

It wasn't noisy. But it sliced the hallway in two like a machete.

All heads turned.

She lingered halfway down the corridor, one hand still jammed in her blazer pocket, the other gripping a tablet against her body. Her pace was measured, feet clicking softly on tile. Not hurried — purposeful. As if she wasn't interrupting a fight, just walking in to make it pointless.

Saniya Krishna.

The type of girl that no one had an argument with — not because she was boisterous, but because everyone observed the way the staff grinned as she walked by. Because even the bullies who strode as if they owned the hallway suddenly recalled how to stand tall.

The eldest of Krishnavant Dynamics' daughters — the very same company that had financed half of the city's containment dome. The very same company that controlled every immunity lab and Defender recruitment center in this region. 

She halted between them and looked at Vijay — not the boys, but Vijay. 

"This really how you want to spend your week? Fighting in a hallway just before testing week?"

He didn't respond. His fists remained half-closed.

"You fail the immunity test, you don't get a retake. You're not just out of school. You're out of options."

Her gaze swept the others. One glance was sufficient. No words were necessary. The ringleader hacked a cough, shrugged his shoulders, and backed away as if it had been his suggestion to leave.

The others trailed behind. Muttering something indistinct, attempting to preserve face.

Saniya leaned her head towards Vijay, voice chilly but not ungracious.

"Next time you wish to establish a fact, use the ring. Or the dome simulations. Don't squander it here."

She then turned and went away, tablet held against her arm as if none of this had been anything other than a matter of timing inconvenience.

The corridor deflated.

Vijay did not move. Breathing evenly.

The moment was lost. But it didn't feel like a retrenchment. It felt like a. warning.

From her.

From the system.

From the world itself.

The journey home was less rowdy than normal. The school group had dissolved, and the city hummed at a low volume beyond the containment dome's outer casing. Vijay walked along the footpath, his bag on one shoulder, his shirt hanging out from the fight-that-wasn't.

He'd just passed beneath the cracked-up mural of a Defender vanquishing a giant feral snake when he picked it up.

A distant whine. Hard. Abrupt.

He stopped.

Under the overpass ledge — off the road where the gravel sloped into runoff — a small form convulsed. A pup. Mud-plastered, smaller than a backpack, one of its legs twisted in the wrong direction. Its fur was singed at the tip, as if it had rubbed against something unstable.

It struggled again to ascend the slope, small paws sliding. Sliding. Whining.

Vijay didn't think. He acted.

Scooped it up gently, rigid arms, scanning with wary eyes for the slightest indication of faralization — lighted eyes, bone spikes, heat shimmer. This was not that. This was merely. hurt. Trembling. Mortal.

He cocooned the pup in the outer fabric of his pack, cradled it close to his body, and crossed the street.

The Citywide Bio-Preserve & Safecare Unit was two blocks down — a low gray building wedged between a rundown tuition center and a telecom station. He'd never noticed it before. There were no guards. No visible cameras. Just a weathered board that read:

"We Care for All Life. Registered Under Govardhan Preservation Act – Clause 13."

Inside, a reception robot swiped his wristband, and then a nurse in a sealed smock emerged.

"We'll take it from here," she said. Her voice was gentle but too hurried. The way you say thank you when you don't want someone to stay.

Vijay paused. The pup wriggled a little in his arms, once.

"You'll… fix it, yes?" 

The nurse's smile was robotic.

"Of course. We adore animals here."

He stood there for a second longer, then turned the pup over.

The door closed with a hiss of compressed air.

He turned to leave.

Made it nearly halfway down the following street before he noticed—

His bag was missing.

His schoolbag — containing his ID tag, history lessons, gloves, and the short steel chain he wore everywhere — still sat in the waiting room chair where he'd left it.

He froze.

Turned around and headed back toward the building.

And saw. the door ajar.

Inside: no receptionist. No noise. Only the faint hum of green surgical light through frosted glass.

And in that moment, a sensation — not fear, not wonder.

Something primal. A voiceless voice.

Do not enter. But you will.

He caught his breath.

And moved forward.