Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)

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- Oxford, England -

- February 27, 1936 -

The morning was crisp, the pale sunlight filtering through the thick clouds above. Aryan stood by the window of his room, watching the city come to life. The scent of damp stone and cold morning air filled his senses. He had slept little, his mind too focused on what awaited him at Oxford.

Raghav, ever the vigilant guardian, had already prepared their modest breakfast—tea and a few slices of toast. He placed the cup on the wooden desk near Aryan. "Young Master, are you sure about this?"

Aryan turned, his blue eyes calm but sharp. "They expect me to be intimidated. If I back down now, they'll only push harder." He took a sip of his tea, relishing the warmth. "Oxford is a battlefield, Raghav. Not of weapons, but of ideas."

Raghav's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then I'll walk with you, at least."

They dressed in quiet efficiency, Aryan donning a tailored navy suit that contrasted against his dark hair. He fastened the buttons with deliberate precision, ensuring every detail of his appearance was immaculate. The British respected power, but they feared control. He would give them neither an opening nor the satisfaction of seeing him falter.

By the time they stepped outside, the morning mist had begun to lift. Oxford's streets, lined with towering Gothic buildings, were already bustling with scholars, students, and the ever-present figures of British officials who had taken a keen interest in his movements.

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The university loomed ahead, its ancient stone walls standing as a testament to its legacy. Aryan had been invited to speak, but he knew the invitation had come with an unspoken test. Dr. C.V. Raman, despite his prestige, had not been included. That was deliberate. The British wanted Aryan to stand alone, to see if he would stumble without the safety net of his esteemed mentor.

He stepped through the grand entrance, Raghav a step behind, his presence a silent act of defiance.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of parchment and aged wood, a relic of centuries of academia. Yet, beneath the scholarly façade lay an unspoken hostility. The professors who greeted him bore polite smiles, but their eyes told a different story—calculating, measuring, waiting for him to prove their biases right.

A tall man In a crisp academic robe extended a hand, his grip firm but impersonal. "Mr. Rajvanshi, welcome to Oxford. It is… uncommon to host someone of your background."

Aryan smiled, unshaken. "I appreciate the invitation. It is generous of Oxford to acknowledge intellectual merit over heritage."

The man's lip twitched, but he recovered quickly. "Quite. Follow me. The lecture hall awaits."

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The lecture hall was grand, with towering bookshelves lining the walls, filled with centuries of knowledge. The audience was a blend of students, professors, and officials—most of them British, all of them expectant. Aryan knew the game well. They had invited him not to honor him, but to challenge him, to poke holes in his intellect, to make a spectacle of an "outsider" daring to step into their domain.

He took his place at the podium, scanning the room. A few students seemed genuinely curious, but the professors sat stiffly, skepticism etched into their expressions.

"Good morning," Aryan began, his voice even. "It is an honor to be here at Oxford, a university that has long stood as a beacon of knowledge. However, knowledge should not be bound by borders, nor should it be confined by the illusions of superiority."

A few professors stiffened. He continued, his tone unwavering.

"Science is a pursuit of truth, and truth belongs to no empire. Let us set aside prejudices and engage in the only debate that matters—the pursuit of understanding."

He launched into his lecture, discussing his observations in quantum mechanics, his theories on energy transference, and even hinting at concepts that wouldn't be formally discovered for decades. His words carried weight, not just because of his intelligence, but because he wielded them without fear.

The room, once brimming with quiet condescension, now sat in rapt attention. Even his harshest critics couldn't ignore the sheer brilliance of his insights. Some challenged him, but Aryan countered each argument with precision, leaving them fumbling for rebuttals.

By the time the session ended, the skepticism had been replaced with something more reluctant—acknowledgment.

As he stepped away from the podium, a few professors exchanged hushed words, their expressions unreadable. Aryan knew he had not won them over, but he had made them rethink their assumptions. And that was enough.

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As the formalities ended, Aryan was approached by a woman who stood apart from the others. She had sharp, intelligent eyes and carried herself with a confidence that didn't rely on arrogance. She extended a hand.

"Agent Margaret Carter," she introduced herself. "I believe you prefer the name Aryan?"

He shook her hand, intrigued. "That would be correct."

"I was sent to observe," she admitted, glancing around. "But after hearing you speak, I thought a proper conversation was in order."

Unlike the others, she wasn't sizing him up with superiority. She regarded him as an equal, something rare in this country.

They stepped aside, engaging in a conversation that flowed with surprising ease. She questioned him about his research, his thoughts on technology, and, more intriguingly, his views on global cooperation. She spoke of innovation, of the need for progress, not just for one nation, but for humanity as a whole.

"You're unlike most of your peers," Aryan noted.

"And you're unlike most men I meet," Peggy replied with a smirk. "Which is why I'll give you some advice—be careful around here. Not everyone appreciates brilliance when it doesn't come in a package they approve of."

Aryan inclined his head, appreciating the honesty. "I'll keep that in mind."

As she departed, Aryan found himself pleasantly surprised. In a world that sought to break him, he had found an unexpected ally.

But Oxford was only the beginning.

And the British had yet to realize just how much he had already changed the game.

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- Evening, February 27, 1936 -

The meetings that followed Aryan's lecture were no less than a battlefield. Professors, scholars, and British officials took turns testing him, but their methods were anything but subtle. Some dismissed his ideas outright, cutting him off before he could elaborate. Others twisted his words, attempting to discredit his insights as "unrefined" or "lacking the proper Western methodology."

None of it worked.

Aryan navigated their verbal traps with ease, countering every sneer with sharp logic and every condescending remark with irrefutable evidence. He didn't need to raise his voice or show frustration—his unwavering composure alone was enough to unsettle them.

One official, an older man with a rigid posture and an air of superiority, leaned forward during one discussion. "Fascinating," he mused. "For an Indian, you speak with such confidence. Tell me, Mr. Rajvanshi, do you truly believe your homeland has the capacity to contribute meaningfully to modern science?"

Aryan met his gaze without flinching. "It already has," he said smoothly. "Mathematics, metallurgy, medicine—India's contributions to human progress date back centuries. The world merely chooses to forget when it suits them."

The official's expression darkened, but before he could retaliate, another professor cleared his throat and shifted the conversation. Even among their own, they weren't entirely unified in their disdain. Some begrudgingly acknowledged Aryan's intellect, though they wouldn't admit it outright.

By the time the final meeting ended, the mood in the room was tense. Aryan had not only held his ground, but he had done so without breaking a sweat. That alone was enough to frustrate them.

But he knew frustration wasn't all they would resort to. The British were predictable in their arrogance. When intimidation through words failed, they sought other means.

And they wouldn't wait long to try.

Return to the Hotel

The streets of Oxford were emptying as Aryan and Raghav left the university grounds. The cold night air settled in, the lamps casting long shadows on the cobblestone paths.

Aryan wasn't surprised when they were refused entry into public transport. The drivers either ignored them entirely or made flimsy excuses about the vehicles being full. Raghav, having faced such treatment countless times before, didn't even react.

Aryan sighed. "Looks like we're walking."

"It's nothing I'm not used to," Raghav said calmly. His pace was steady, shoulders squared despite his age. Aryan had worried at first, but seeing his caretaker's unwavering composure, he let it go.

They moved through the streets in silence, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the cold night. The farther they walked, the quieter the city became. Streetlights became sparse, the roads narrowing into deserted paths lined with aging brick buildings.

Then, Aryan felt it.

A shift in the air.

He stopped abruptly, his senses sharpening.

Raghav looked at him but said nothing. He had learned to trust Aryan's instincts.

And then—

Gunfire erupted.

Bullets tore through the air from all directions, a well-coordinated ambush. But Aryan was faster. His body reacted instantly, enhanced senses tracking the trajectories even before the shots landed.

In the span of a second, he moved.

Two shadow clones materialized beside him, their forms flickering into existence. One of them darted toward Raghav, shielding him completely, while the other absorbed the force of the bullets, converting the kinetic energy into raw power. Aryan himself barely needed to move—his control over energy had grown too precise.

The barrage of bullets came to an abrupt stop. The gunmen hesitated, stunned by what they had just witnessed.

Raghav, standing untouched behind the clone, looked at Aryan with quiet curiosity but not a hint of fear. The attack hadn't shaken him—not the ambush, not the bullets, and certainly not Aryan's supernatural abilities.

Aryan exhaled. "My turn."

The clones moved first.

In a blur of motion, they descended upon the attackers, their speed inhuman. Gunmen were disarmed before they could even react, their weapons ripped from their hands, their bodies thrown against the alley walls with precise force—enough to incapacitate, but not to kill. He could if he wanted but right now he wanted a message to be sent to the higher ups in British Empire.

The entire skirmish lasted mere seconds.

Silence followed, broken only by the groans of the assailants now lying unconscious or too injured to fight.

Aryan remained where he was, watching the scene unfold with cold detachment. He had expected an attack—he just hadn't expected it to be this amateurish.

Raghav let out a slow breath, adjusting his coat as if they had merely stumbled upon an inconvenience.

Aryan turned to him. "Are you alright?"

Raghav smirked, dusting off his sleeve. "I've escaped worse. The British have been trying to kill me for years."

Aryan chuckled, shaking his head. "Of course they have."

Raghav gave him a knowing look. "And you? You have some explaining to do."

Aryan nodded. "I will. When the time is right."

Raghav didn't press further. He simply smiled—a quiet, knowing smile of a man who had seen much of the world and wasn't easily rattled.

With the gunmen neutralized and no immediate danger left, Aryan resumed walking. Raghav followed, unfazed by the chaos they had just left behind.

However, the night was far from over.

As Aryan and Raghav continued toward the hotel, the clones remained behind, their expressions void of emotion as they surveyed the scene. The attackers lay sprawled across the ground, groaning in pain, their bodies limp like discarded rags. Some had managed to remain conscious, but none dared to move.

One of Aryan's clones—acting as his proxy—stepped forward. His gaze was cold, sharp, and devoid of the patience Aryan usually carried in public. He crouched slightly, tilting his head as he observed the pathetic sight before him.

With a flick of his fingers, the other clones moved, dragging the assailants together without care, tossing them into a pile like a stack of discarded goods. Their uniforms, once symbols of authority and power, now meant nothing. They were at his mercy, and for the first time in their lives, they understood what it felt like to be powerless.

The clone exhaled slowly, letting the silence weigh on them before he finally spoke.

"You British think too highly of yourselves."

The words, though spoken softly, carried a sharp edge that sent a wave of unease through the men. There was no need to raise his voice—his presence alone was enough to make them feel small.

"You invade lands that aren't yours, steal what you can, and call it civilization. You build your empire on the backs of those you oppress and convince yourselves it's for their own good." His eyes darkened, a glint of something unreadable flashing through them. "But now… now you've stepped where you shouldn't have."

The weight of his words pressed down on them like a vice. Humiliation crept into their expressions—anger, frustration, but mostly fear. They had set out tonight expecting to intimidate a young man, to make him bow, to show him his place. Instead, they had been reduced to nothing in mere seconds.

One of the men, still trying to grasp the situation, forced himself to speak. His voice was hoarse but steady. "You speak as if you're untouchable," he muttered. "But you have people back home. Family. Friends. What if something happens to them before you even reach India?"

A pause.

Then—laughter.

Not a chuckle, not amusement, but full, cold, unrestrained laughter from the clones. It echoed through the alley, filling the air with something far more chilling than the night itself.

When the laughter died down, the clone stepped closer, looming over the man who had spoken. He bent slightly, his voice barely above a whisper, yet every word cut through the silence like a blade.

"Rather than worrying about them… you should be worried about me."

The man swallowed hard.

"My family, my friends—they are not weaklings. They can and will fight back. They are my strength, not my weakness." The clone's eyes gleamed dangerously. "The British have mistaken our patience for submission for far too long. But patience wears thin. And when I return to India…"

He let the words linger, allowing their imaginations to fill the void.

"You won't even realize what hit you."

A final pause. A warning left unspoken, yet louder than anything said before.

Then, with one last glance at the defeated men, the clones vanished, their forms dissipating like shadows fading into the night.

The alley was silent once more.

And the British had just learned what true fear felt like.

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