Keshav sat alone in his his palace in his world, his gaze fixed on the glowing screens before him—each one a replay of the wars he had waged over the past month. Cities collapsing into void, gods of lesser worlds falling before his champions, the shrieks of dying civilizations captured in silent flashes.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlocked behind his head, staring up at the ceiling of his floating citadel.
Achievement unlocked: Ten World Conqueror.
A soft chime from the Terminal. Another milestone reached. Another badge. Another trophy.
Keshav smiled faintly.
But then... something twisted inside him. The smile lingered, but his eyes narrowed. A shadow passed behind his pupils.
He looked down at his hands—clean, unmarred. On Earth, they had once fumbled nervously through books, games, hesitant handshakes. He'd never been in a fight. He'd never stolen anything. He'd cried once after accidentally stepping on a bird as a child.
And now...
Ten worlds. Millions dead. Cultures erased.
And what did he feel?
Nothing.
No remorse. No horror. Only that same subtle satisfaction—the rush of control, of progress, of efficiency. A strategy executed well. A goal achieved.
His breathing slowed.
"Is this who I've become?" he muttered aloud.
The System didn't reply.
He stood and walked toward the large transparent window at the far end of the chamber. His world stretched out below him— temples rising, millions of machines (believers) generating faith.
He should be proud. And he was.
But something gnawed at the edge of his mind—the faint memory of another life. A boy named Keshav Garg, who once dreamed of making games or writing novels, not conquering realities.
He opened the Terminal and pulled up a psychological analysis of himself. It showed near-total desensitization to violence, goal-oriented morality, empathy suppression in combat contexts, and high adaptability to multiversal conquest paradigms.
A perfect student of this cruel civilization.
His hands trembled slightly. Just slightly.
Was this truly him? Or just the memories the System gave him? The training of a body he now wore?
He whispered,
"...Would I have turned out the same... if I never died on Earth?"
No answer came.
Just the cold silence of stars... and the flickering screen where his conquests were celebrated.
And Keshav, once more, felt nothing. Not because he didn't care.
But because somewhere along the line, he forgot how to.
Keshav leaned back in his chair, the data reports of the conquered worlds still glowing on the Terminal screen. Resource graphs, population losses, energy gains, and most importantly—world fragments acquired. All of it documented in flawless precision.
He skimmed through the logs of world destruction with mechanical efficiency.
He should have felt triumph.
Instead, he felt... nothing.
No guilt. No joy. Just a steady sense of completion.
A ticked box.
He stared at his hands. Clean. Untouched by blood or ash. The fighting had been done by his champions and his believers. He had issued orders, coordinated plans, allocated energy.
Like a general behind glass.
But he knew—he knew—those people, those civilizations, they had burned because of him.
Once, on Earth, the thought of even killing an animal had unsettled him.
Now, he had watched cities crumble and gods die with no more reaction than approving a construction project.
"What have I become?" he murmured.
His room was silent. No system response. No voice of reason. Only the distant pulse of energy flowing through the veins of his ever-expanding world.
A flicker of memory surfaced—his first day after awakening. The awe. The fear. The intention to stay human, no matter how far he climbed.
Somewhere along the way, that version of him had been overwritten.
Replaced.
Not all at once, but bit by bit—with each invasion, each kill, each resource harvested from the ruin of another's home.
He looked at the world map. His world had grown larger, richer, more complex.
But the cost?
He wasn't sure yet. And that scared him.
He closed the reports, pushed away from the desk, and sat in the silence.
"I need to understand…" he whispered.
But he didn't know what he needed to understand yet—himself, the nature of this universe, or if it was even possible to return to who he once was.
One thing was certain—he was no longer the same.
The silence around him thickened, only broken by the low hum of the Terminal and the occasional data feed ticking across the screen. Then something flickered—an old log.
"Earth - Personal Journal #1."
He didn't remember opening that. He didn't remember ever even recording it.
Curious and tense, he clicked it. His own voice played, shaky and uncertain, recorded during one of the earliest days after transmigration:
> "I don't know what's going on. This world is insane. People treat others like tools, like resources. But I won't become like them. I'll find a way to survive and still remain me. I'll protect those I can. Maybe… maybe I can change this world."
The recording ended.
Keshav sat frozen.
He didn't remember that version of himself. He didn't remember saying those words. But he knew, deep down, that it was him. His real self—before the invasions, the strategies, the harvest of lives.
Not a god. Not a general.
Just a scared boy trying to stay human.
He clenched his fists slowly.
Had he changed—or had he been overwritten?
The memories, the body, the culture of this civilization, the training... they had carved him into a conqueror. And in return, he'd buried something vital.
He stood up, breath steady now.
"I need to know if that person can still exist," he whispered.