Conqueror Reincarnated in Middle Class Family

The door whispered open.

Not creaked. Not slammed. Just. whispered. As if it had something to conceal.

Vijay entered, senses on high. The safecare unit was utterly transformed now. No nurse. No bot. No fluorescent buzz. The lights above flashed at irregular intervals, pulsating in a rhythm that seemed too calculated.

His eyes roved the room.

Reception — vacant. The plastic clipboard that had been there before? Vanished.

His bag remained where he'd placed it, slumped in a gray chair like an idle child. But between him and the bag, there was a thin line of damp pawprints that ran toward a half-open door.

The same dog?

He approached cautiously, the quiet slap of his shoes on vinyl flooring ringing too sharply.

The air shifted.

Somewhere deeper in the clinic, something whined once more. The same jagged, splintered sound of before — only lower now. Wrong. As though something was practicing how to weep.

Vijay reached for his bag, but didn't look back.

Instead, he trailed the prints.

The corridor had a faint antiseptic smell. and burned.

At the far end of the hall, behind a half-drawn curtain, was the operating room.

One steel table. One red smear. One broken tank with the inscription:

"SUBJECT 9: [IMMUNE VECTOR—UNSTABLE]"

And huddled underneath it — a small, quivering form.

The pup.

But it wasn't the same.

Its fur was wet, not with blood — but with something rainbow-colored. Like oil on black water. Its body was rippling slightly, muscles twitching under skin. Not just breathing — reforming.

Its eyes opened.

And focused on his.

For a moment, everything disappeared.

A voice. But one not from the room.

"You… are not dead."

Vijay gasped, reeling back into the doorframe.

The puppy had not moved. Its lips had not parted.

But something in the air — or within him — had spoken.

A pressure behind his eyes. Like a memory coming up unbidden.

Flashes:

The ring of swords on obsidian.

War cries in a tongue the world had lost.

The smell of scorching blood and dust.

A name: Dharmajaal.

He gripped his head. The world spun.

The puppy spasmed.

Then snapped.

Its body was jarred into movement. Limbs stretched abnormally, bones cracking with wet snaps. Its mouth stretched — rows of new teeth curling into its muzzle. The eyes started glowing blue-white, no longer dog's.

Not faralized.

Something worse.

It launched.

Vijay just rolled out of the way, the creature slithering by him and slamming into a glass cabinet. Beakers shattered, liquid hissed upon contact with floor metal.

He didn't think.

His body reacted.

A twist of the torso, leg braced, arm raised just enough to block the second lunge.

He took the hit, fell back, rolled, came up crouched.

The thing growled — but not like an animal. It was stuttering, glitching. Growl-click-growl. Like a corrupted audio file trying to remember how sound worked.

He grabbed a metal tray from a nearby table and flung it.

The creature swatted it out of the air and bounded again.

This time, he moved into it.

Shoulder low, catching the side of its writhing forelimb, using the creature's momentum to drive it sideward into the wall. It gave a screech — high, shrill, not from lungs but from something else.

The reverberation jarred his bones.

It wasn't fighting.

It was experimenting.

It moved quicker than anything its proportions had any right to.

The beast sprang again — not a smooth bound but a staccato, whirling one, claws scoring on the ceiling in mid-leap before it descended like a guillotine.

Vijay slid to one side, shoulder-first into a rolling metal tray cart. It toppled over with a clang, sending scalpels and forceps skittering in a shower of glinting metal.

The beast skidded and adjusted course mid-snarl. Its hind legs flexed. It charged again.

This time it hit him.

The impact sent Vijay squarely into a cabinet. Glass shattered. Agony flared in his ribs — not broken, but nearly. He groaned as he fell to the floor, eyes swimming.

The creature circled now. Slower.

Relishing the victory.

Its breath hissed — and where it touched, the tiles sizzled, as if its saliva was half acid.

Vijay hauled himself to a knee.

Blood in his mouth. Swollen eye. He grasped something — fingers closed on a surgical rod.

Not a weapon. Not sufficient.

You will die.

The voice came back.

But not from the beast.

It was from inside. Behind his ears. Below memory. A thundering whisper of another self.

Stand. You were not supposed to kneel.

The beast attacked again.

He whirled aside, rod glancing down its fur — but not breaking through. The force sent him crashing into a wall.

Agony exploded all over.

Darkness gnawed at the fringes of his perception.

But with it — pictures.

He stood on a blood-soaked field, dusk turning purple and gold. Behind him, hundreds of warriors stood. Before him, a warlord in fur-of-iron, astride a serpent-elephant.

And he recalled.

He had slain that warlord with bare hands.

Because he had no sword anymore.

Because he was the sword.

His eyes flew open. His heart pounded once — and something stirred. Not adrenaline.

Memory.

Not who he was.

Who he had been.

You are not prey.

The beast charged again.

This time he moved into the charge.

Dropped low, rolled under snapping jaws, grabbed the beast's hind leg and twisted — wrenching it sideways, forcing a yowl from its throat.

He leaped to his feet as it lurched.

Steel tray. Scalpel. Broken mop handle.

He picked the handle.

Whirled it twice — hands moved unconsciously — and dropped into a low, crouched stance. Feet wide. Elbows loose.

Combat.

Raw. Ancient.

The creature circled once more, more slowly this time. Observing him. As if it knew something had changed.

Vijay smiled through parched lips.

"Sure," he growled. "You're not the only one who's changed."

Then it let out a deafening roar and charged once more.

And the true battle commenced.

Vijay flowed like turned steel.

Each blow he parried came back in a strike of his own — the mangled mop handle snapped into the beast's jaw; a mid-spin flung scalpel bit its ear with a spray of black ichor.

He was no longer just holding on.

He was controlling.

Duck, sweep, strike — his body spoke a language it had not spoken the day before. A posture drawn from a thousand wars. His respirations were even. The ache receded. The room turned into a battlefield, and he the eye of its tempest.

The animal was stumbling now. Its hind leg limping. One eye puffed shut. Its growls had changed pitch — not fury. Terror.

Vijay moved forward. Even. Confident.

He lifted the handle, not like a boy fighting — but like a monarch rendering verdict.

The creature spat.

And then—

A streak of silver light zigzagged across the room.

It crashed to the floor between them — a three-pronged dart, buzzing with leftover charge.

The creature yelped and stumbled back.

Another dart shot out — this one caught the ceiling, showering sparks. A third bit into the operating table. All accurate. All on target.

Vijay stood stock-still.

Eyes narrowing.

From behind the creature, in the shadows of the corridor… a figure emerged.

Masked. Long coat. Rifle strapped to their back, one hand still up — fingers curled like they'd just hurled the final dart. The lights behind them in the hallway danced, obscuring the details.

The figure didn't move.

Didn't lift a gun.

Didn't strike.

They just stared.

So did Vijay.

Handle still up. Muscles tensed. Breathing steady.

Was this a rescue?

A trap?

A handler arrived to claim their experiment?

Friend. Enemy. Somewhere in between?

One thing was certain: the battle was no longer between boy and beast alone.

The true game had taken its next step.

And Vijay Veer — prince or predator — would never flinch.