The End of Vishu Rana

Mumbai never slept... but tonight, it trembled.Sirens cut through the air as half of Mumbai Police chased one single black SUV tearing through the wet highway. Rain hammered the asphalt, lights blurred, tires screamed, and curses flew from every vehicle.

“STOP THE CAR! THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING!”

As if the warning mattered.

Behind the wheel sat the man Mumbai feared but secretly admired for his audacity—

Vishu Rana.

Twenty-five.

Orphan.

Six feet of muscle and attitude.

Brown hair, darker eyes, and an expression that said: “Move or die.”

He wasn’t a hero.

He wasn’t a saint.

But he also wasn’t a monster—

unless someone challenged him.

And tonight, someone had.

Someone from his own gang.

Blood soaked through his shirt from a bullet wound—sharp pain stabbing his chest every time the steering wheel jerked. But his hands stayed steady. Focused. Calculated.

The police kept shooting, tires screeching.

Vishu hissed under his breath:

“Abe… saale… festival samjha hai kya? Bullet ka sale partha chal raha hai?”

He gritted his teeth and pressed harder on the accelerator.

Five years Mumbai Police chased him.

Five years he slipped through their hands.

He was a nightmare they couldn’t wake from

until tonight.

Rain poured harder, lightning flashed.

And then Vishu smiled.

A dangerous, cocky, Vishu-style smile.

He slammed the brakes.

The SUV stopped.

Police cars behind him panicked some skidded, some rammed into each other.

Before they could recover

Vishu turned the SUV around and slowly… aimed straight at them.

Shock rippled through the police line.

“Sir—sir—he’s coming TOWARD us!!”

The front car reversed.

Too late.

Vishu leaned out the window, rain hitting his face, and shouted:

“Pakadna chahte ho mujhe??? HAAAN?"

Aao—MARO SAALO!”

Then he stepped on the accelerator.

The SUV shot forward like released rage

metal clashing, tires spinning, sparks flying

until

BOOM.

Darkness swallowed everything...

…Silence.

A heartbeat.

Breath.

Soft bells chimed in the distance.

Vishu opened his eyes—slow, confused.

His body felt wrong.

Weak.

Fragile.

And kneeling.

Someone was forcing him to kneel.

That alone insulted his identity.

“Kaun…?”

His voice sounded lighter. Softer. Not his.

He looked up....

Not Mumbai.

Not rain.

A royal court, ancient and extravagant, carved pillars and silk curtains everywhere. People in traditional clothing stared at him like he was a criminal in a museum.A richly dressed woman stood before him—lace saree, heavy gold jewelry, forehead tilak glowing with authority. Her expression?

Pure disgust.

Her voice thundered:

“Yashasvi! Tumhe kya laga? Tum mere putra ko apne maya jaal mein phasa kar Maalva rajya par raaj kar loge?”

Vishu blinked.

Yashasvi?

Putra?

Maalva kya?

The woman continued, finger pointed inches from his face:

“Mat bhoolo yudh mein jita hai mere putra ne tumhe! Aur ye humari antim chetavani hai Rajkumaari Alkananda ke khilaaf tum koi chaal nahi chaloge ab se tum...yaad rakhna saamna humse hai...yaisi haalat karein hum Tumhara kutte bhi tumhari laash nahi khayenge !”

A girl beside her—beautiful, delicate, eyes full of crocodile tears—hid her face dramatically.

“M… Maharani… main toh sirf seva karti hoon…”

Acting level: Indian daily soap villain.

Vishu stared blankly.

His brain tried to process Mumbai → bullet → accident → now palace → and someone calling him Maharani.

Before he could even reply....

SLAP.

A maid struck his cheek.

Everyone froze.

Vishu didn’t.

His head slowly turned toward her eyes cold, sharp, unblinking.

That wasn’t Queen Yashasvi’s gentle gaze.

That was Vishu Rana.

He stood despite the fragile omega body, despite dizziness.His posture changed shoulders squared, chin up, presence dominating the room.

Every guard instinctively stepped back.

A low, dangerous voice escaped his lips:

"Kisne haath lagaya mujhe …?”

The maid trembled.Everyone stared, breath stuck in their throats.Because the fragile queen the one who never raised his voice now looked like someone who could burn the palace down for fun.Somewhere deep inside, a voice echoed mechanical and emotionless:

SYSTEM ACTIVATED.

Welcome to the novel world, Host Vishu Rana.

New identity: Queen Yashasvi Singh — Omega Consort of Maalva.

Vishu blinked once.

Twice.

Then muttered:

“Bhai… yeh author kaun sa nasha karta hai?”

And thus.....

the kingdom’s soft-spoken queen was officially replaced by Mumbai’s most unpredictable criminal.

💜💜💜

Queen Yashasvi no, Vishu Rana inside Yashasvi’s body—stood tall despite shaking legs and a pounding headache. The silk garments felt suffocating, the jewelry heavy, and the expectation to kneel?

Impossible.

Rajmata Vaijanti Devi stared at him in outrage her expensive gold jewelry clinking as she leaned forward.

“Yashasvi! Tumhara itna saahas? Humare saamne awaaz uchi karoge tum...itna saahas tumhara?”

Her voice boomed like thunder.

Princess Alkananda stepped forward—fragile posture, innocent face, eyes lowered like a saint.Her voice was soft enough to fool saints but Vishu wasn’t a saint.

“Rajmata… Maharani ko kuch mat kahiye. Galti… galti toh humari thi…”

She stood there, looking like she might start crying any second.

Vishu narrowed his eyes.

To everyone else she was a flower.

To him?

A walking daily soap plot twist.

His voice cut through the silence:

“Bas. Drama bandh.”

Everyone blinked.

He wasn’t finished.

“Ye nakli roona-dhona kisi aur ko dikha. Mujhe nahi.”

Princess Alkananda gasped softly exactly like someone trained in dramatic timing.

Rajmata’s eyes widened.

“Yashasvi!”

He clicked his tongue.

“What ‘Yashasvi’? Poora mahal mujhe lecture de raha hai aur main chup rahu bhaang pi hai kya subah subah ?”

Gasps filled the air.

A maid dropped a silver plate in shock.Vishu lifted a hand dismissively.

“Please. Ye acting aur emotional natak kisi aur pe try karo. Mujhpar nahi kya chutiyagiri hai.bas inse nautanki karawalo .”

Rajmata moved closer, furious.

“Tum— tum humein nikalne ki dhamki de rahe ho?”

He tilted his head calmly—too calmly.

“Agar meri tolerance ka level aur low hua na… toh haan.”

Princess Alkananda hid behind a veil of fake fear.

Rajmata raised her hand, ready to slap him...

when Vishu swayed.

The world blurred for a second.

A warm hand grabbed his arm.

“Maharani!”

It was Sujata, his personal maid, voice trembling with concern.

“Aap apne aap ko itna krodh mat kijiye… aap… aap… pet se ho.”

Vishu stared at her like she spoke algebra.

“Main? Pet se? Pregnant? Kaun main ??”

He pointed at himself.

“Kaise? Kab? Kisne—”

Then paused.

His eyes widened slightly.

There was only one logical answer.

Rajmata lifted her chin proudly.

“Haan. Tumhare garbh mein Maalva ke vaaris hain. Isi liye tum is rajmahal mein ho.”

Her words were meant to humiliate, to remind him he was only valuable because of the unborn heir.

Instead, Vishu blinked… twice… then muttered:

“Toh yeh bhi add ho gaya? Body change, new world, and—babies.”

His palm pressed to his forehead.

“Great. Kya plot twist diya hai universe ne.”

Rajmata stepped forward.

“Aur tum humein dhamki doge? Varna kya?”

Before Vishu could answer....

a voice cut through the hall like a sword slicing silence.

Deep. Sharp. Cold.

“Varna… kya?”

Everyone turned.

Heavy footsteps echoed.

A tall figure entered—towering, broad-shouldered, wearing dhoti and angavastram like a king carved from old scriptures. His aura filled every corner of the hall.

Pure-blood alpha authority.

Warrior’s silence.

Eyes sharp enough to silence armies.

Maharaj Prithviraj Singh.

The king.

Vishu’s husband.

The father of the unborn twins.

The system chimed in his mind:

“⚠️ Alert: Main character encounter.”

“Relationship score: –49.”

“Danger level: High.”

Vishu stared at him.The king stared back.Silence stretched deep, tense, electric.Two worlds collided in one glance:A mafia soul who bowed to no one.A king who expected the world to bow.

Finally....

Vishu exhaled and murmured just loud enough:

“Bas. Yeh hi baaki tha.”

To be continue...

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