Chapter 2: The Game Begins

During a spring picnic, our school bus skidded out of control and plunged off a cliff near Kaveripur. The air reeked of wild jasmine and burning rubber, the world spinning as classmates’ screams pierced the air. We all died that day.

When we opened our eyes again, we found ourselves in a historical Indian setting, harsh sunlight on our faces, transmigrated as strategy players.

The system’s voice rang out, oddly mechanical against the koel’s morning song:

[Your raid target is the young nawab. Complete the raid and earn a bonus, plus a return ticket to the real world.]

[There are currently 30 surviving strategy players. The bonus pool is 1 crore rupees.]

[Each person starts with 10 points. One point will be deducted for each day you survive.]

[Please do your best to survive.]

After the system’s introduction, a stunned silence fell—only the distant clang of temple bells and the slow whirl of a ceiling fan filled the air.

"Wuwu... How are we supposed to raid... I don’t want to die," someone whimpered, voice trembling, eyes shining with tears. A few girls pressed together, their plaits brushing, clutching dupattas tightly.

I forced myself to calm down, my heart thumping like the dhol beats during baraat. I touched the glowing system tattoo on my wrist and opened the strategy shop. The screen hovered in front of my eyes like some magic trick—food, clothing, daily needs, gold jewellery with tiny bells, even features like height or birthmarks—all for a price in points. It felt like shopping on an app, except now, every choice was life or death.

Rohan, the class prefect, cleared his throat with his usual bossy air:

"Everyone’s starting points only last 10 days. We have to work together if we want to win. It’s like a group project, samjhe?"

But Ananya cut in, flipping her braid over her shoulder:

"Arre, it’s just a raid, na? I read strategy novels all the time. Only a nawab? I’ll handle it. What’s the big deal?"

Ananya really was beautiful: almond eyes, arched brows, an art student who danced Bharatanatyam, always the centre of attention at school events. That confidence wasn’t fake—when she performed, the whole auditorium held its breath.

Almost as if on cue, the system chimed:

[The male lead’s first love has a beauty mark on the back of her neck.]

Ananya’s lips curved smugly, cheeks glowing as she scrolled the shop options like picking a bindi.

"Fifteen points for a beauty mark? That’s all? Main toh kar lungi. The nawab will definitely fall for me."

Then she turned to me, her smile sharp, bangles jangling as she crossed her arms.

"Meera, yaar, lend me 5 points na. Don’t be kanjoos."

The others looked over—some curious, some sneering.

Someone piped up:

"Lend? Is that even allowed? What’s the rule?"

The system replied, its voice echoing:

"Whether or not to lend points is up to the players. The system will not interfere."

No denial. The air grew heavy, like the hush before the monsoon breaks.

I twisted the hem of my kurta, fingers knotting the cotton, and answered softly,

"...Sorry. I won’t lend."

Ananya’s laugh was sharp as glass. She stepped closer, anklets clinking, and—

*Pa—*

Her hand struck my cheek, the slap ringing out under the mandir’s spinning fan. The sting bloomed hot, the air thick with sandalwood, dust, and sweat. Instinctively, I covered my cheek with my dupatta, blinking back tears. A classmate muttered under her breath, "Bas karo, Ananya," but no one dared intervene.