Different people are made for different things.


    I was normal. I had an ordinary, unremarkable family, a plain childhood, and though not many, I had two or three friends—nothing out of the ordinary. I was happy. I was fine.


    Or so I told myself.


    Deep down, I knew I wanted none of it. When I was in seventh grade, I stumbled upon a stack of old, dust-covered books—abandoned, forgotten, and surely discarded by my father. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe something greater drew me to them. When I asked if I could take them, he didn’t even bat an eye, as if they were nothing more than air to him. So, I took them willingly.


    They were books on philosophy and history. The more I read, the more I realized how little I truly knew. Everything I had taken for granted—truth, reality, even my own existence—could all be illusions, deceptions woven into the fabric of the world. One line, in particular, stayed with me: "I think, therefore I am." It resonated deeply, shaking the very foundation of who I thought I was.


    Perhaps that was the moment my personality shifted. Not in a bad way—just in a way that society did not accept.


    Then, I opened the history books. I discovered the miracle workers—the ones who shaped the world through their sheer power. Their feats were not merely extraordinary; they defied the limits of human will itself.


    Alexander the Great, who carved an empire from the known world before he was even thirty. Genghis Khan, who united the steppes and forged the largest contiguous empire in history. These were not just men; they were forces of nature, bending fate itself to their will.


    The more I read, the more I felt a fire awakening inside me. Could I, too, become more than ordinary? Could I break free from the path that had been set for me?


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    I was no longer just reading history. I was searching for a way to carve my own.


    But we were born in the 20th century—a time when the world had already been carved up, its borders drawn, its rulers settled. I knew of a certain mustached man who tried to reshape it in his own image, and I knew his fate.


    But maybe it was because, just days ago, I had read that philosophy book—“I think, therefore I am” still echoing in my mind—that I began to truly think about the miracle workers, their deeds, their methods, and their reasons.


    How did they do what they did? Why did they move the world when so many others simply lived and died unnoticed?


    I didn’t just admire them. I wanted to be them.


    But to be fair, the 20th century was the most boring time to be born into. I started to feel, more and more, like I didn’t belong in this place. There was no grand battle to fight, no empire to conquer, just a world running on routines and machines.


    Maybe that’s why, after my studies, I began to consider joining the military. It wasn’t just about service—it was about finding something real. A way to break free from the dullness, to be part of something that could shake the world, even if just a little.


    ---


    The crisp, stifled air refused to carry sound. The world around us hung in eerie silence, as if time itself had held its breath. Trees stood frozen mid-sway, their leaves suspended in the unnatural stillness. Even the birds, which moments earlier had been chirping their dawn melodies, were now lifeless forms—frozen in place as if encased in invisible amber.


    Ryan’s voice cut through the quiet like a distant echo. “Subba, are you okay?”


    I turned to him, my legs heavy, each step on the unmoving road felt like dragging weights through syrup. I must have looked dazed because his face darkened with concern.


    “I’m fine,” I lied. The truth was, my thoughts were spiraling.


    This wasn’t just survival. This was something else—something profoundly wrong. I knew it, Ryan knew it, but neither of us dared speak it aloud. Were we anomalies? Or was this some kind of punishment—a cruel joke played by the universe?


    My mind drifted back to the miracle workers—the Alexanders and the Khans of history. They had changed the world through sheer willpower, shaping civilizations and bending reality to their desires. But as I glanced at the frozen reality around me, a bitter truth stung: perhaps my admiration for them was misplaced. They were men who ruled over the known, while here I was, navigating the unknown.


    The hunger was beginning to gnaw at us both. “There has to be someone,” Ryan muttered, his voice tinged with desperation. “Somewhere.”


    But my thoughts returned to that darker possibility: If we found someone, what would they be to us? Ally or adversary? Would we greet them with open arms, or would our primal instincts force us to see them as competition—or worse, as sustenance?


    I couldn’t answer that. Not yet. All I knew was that the fire within me, the one that had been sparked years ago by dusty philosophy books and tales of history’s giants, was now burning hotter than ever. The question was no longer, “How far would I go?”—it was,


    “What would I become?”