Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)

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- Rajvanshi Estate, Calcutta -

- March 8, 1936 -

The first light of morning filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Aryan stepped through the portal, and in an instant, the dense air of the dungeon gave way to the familiar stillness of his room. The rush of battle faded, replaced by the quiet hum of reality.

His body ached. Every muscle protested as he moved, his limbs heavy from hours of relentless combat. He shut his eyes for a moment, exhaling as he stretched his arms. The cool air of the estate was a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the dungeon.

He hadn't even made It deep into the forest. The outskirts alone had tested him in ways he hadn't expected. The first beasts—the dark-furred, ape-like creatures—had been just the beginning. From there, the battles had only escalated. Massive serpents, their thick scales nearly impervious to normal attacks, had coiled and struck with terrifying speed. A pack of dark forest wolves had worked in perfect coordination, forcing him to constantly move, adapt, and counter. Then came the giant spiders—agile, silent, and disturbingly intelligent, their webs turning the terrain into a deadly trap.

By the time he had faced the monstrous centrepeds, their segmented bodies crushing trees under their weight, exhaustion had begun to creep in. But the real challenge had been the lone panther-like beast that moved through shadows, its attacks precise and relentless. That fight had pushed him to his limit, forcing him to use every ounce of skill and power at his disposal.

Still, he had prevailed.

More importantly, he had gained.

With a flick of his fingers, he called out, "Status."

A translucent screen materialized before him, its familiar interface glowing faintly in the dim room.

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/ Status Panel /

Name: Aryan Rajvanshi

Age: 15

Race: Human (Mutant)

Power Level: Tier-3 (Peak)

Abilities:

- Meta-Creation (System Ability)

- Energy Absorption and Redistribution (Omega-Level X-Gene)

Skills:

- Enhanced Physique – VIII

- Enhanced Mind – VIII

- Enhanced Durability – X

- Energy Sense – IX

- Energy Control – IX

- Martial Arts (Kalaripayattu) – Intermediate – VII

- Dark Magic (Shadow and Illusion Focus) – Intermediate – VI

Custom Abilities:

- Shadow Clone Jutsu

Meta Points (MP): 240

Dungeon Features:

- Dungeon Creation

- Enter/Exit Dungeon

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His MP had skyrocketed. From barely enough to open a portal, he now had a surplus of 240. The sheer number of creatures he had fought had turned out to be an unexpected advantage.

His physical and mental attributes had strengthened as well. He could feel it. His reactions were sharper, his strikes carried more weight, and his control over energy had refined itself through battle. He had entered the dungeon at Tier-3, and now, he stood at the very peak of that level.

One more push. One more breakthrough, and he'd step into Tier-4.

A deep breath steadied him. Despite the fatigue, a feeling of satisfaction settled in. He wasn't just fighting for strength—he was building the foundation for something greater.

Stepping toward the window, he pushed it open, letting the crisp morning air wash over him. The sun had fully risen now, bathing the city in golden light. Somewhere beyond the horizon, the wheels of history were turning.

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Aryan leaned against his desk, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood. His parents still wouldn't allow him to take part in the freedom struggle with the Bharatiya Swatantrata Sangathan (BSS). They had their reasons—fear, caution, the belief that he was too young to be involved in something so dangerous.

But they didn't know what he was capable of.

He understood their concern, but waiting wasn't an option. He had power—more than anyone else in the country, maybe even the world. If he couldn't fight as a revolutionary, he would fight as something else.

A symbol.

A superhero for the people—someone who could stand against the British openly, not as Aryan Rajvanshi, but as something more.

And he wouldn't be alone for long.

Shakti and Karna would be by his side once he enhanced them with the elixirs. And beyond them, he knew there were others across the Indian subcontinent—people with supernatural abilities, hidden away, afraid or unaware of their potential. He would find them. Gather them. Train them.

And together, they would tear the British grip on India apart from the shadows.

But before any of that, he needed to create an identity.

His gaze flicked to the dead slime he had collected from the dungeon world. Even after hours, the translucent, gelatinous material hadn't hardened or decayed. It pulsed faintly, like it still held some kind of residual magic. Aryan could feel it—this was no ordinary organic matter.

If treated properly, it could become something more.

Something alive.

The idea came to him in an instant, part logic, part inspiration. He had seen things like this in anime before—clothing that adapted to the user, that grew stronger as they did.

Why not make one himself?

"System, craft a superhero suit using this material."

A chime rang in his ears.

| 20 MP Deducted |

| Processing… |

The slime shimmered, twisting and warping as it dissolved into light. A moment later, a flood of images filled Aryan's mind—the design, the details, the feeling of the suit as if it had always belonged to him.

Then, it materialized.

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A dark purple cloak unfurled over his shoulders, its high collar giving him a commanding presence. Intricate golden patterns ran along the fabric, shifting subtly as if alive. Beneath it, a white high-collared shirt fit snugly, its trim lined with gold. A dark vest, adorned with elegant gold designs, completed the look.

His hands ran over the cloak, feeling the energy within. This wasn't a normal cloth. It was something more—an extension of him, a second skin that would evolve alongside him. The patterns pulsed faintly, almost like a living entity bound to his will.

He stepped toward the mirror.

The reflection staring back at him wasn't just Aryan Rajvanshi anymore.

This was something greater.

Something India would soon come to fear… and revere.

The morning passed in quiet routine. Breakfast was simple—roti, lentils, and chai. His parents spoke about the recent crackdowns by the British, how the party was shifting strategies to avoid arrests. His mother worried. His father reassured. Aryan listened, speaking only when necessary.

He wanted to tell them—about his plan, about what he was about to do. But he knew they wouldn't approve. Not yet.

So, when they left for the party office, he simply watched them go, his mind already set.

Disguising his new suit under an illusion, Aryan made his way down the grand staircase of the Rajvanshi Estate. The morning sun streamed through the windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Raghav, ever attentive, was waiting near the entrance.

"Young Master, are you heading somewhere?" the old caretaker asked, his voice lined with quiet concern.

Aryan nodded, adjusting his sleeves. "Yes, Raghav. Just meeting some old friends. It's been a while."

Raghav's sharp eyes studied him for a moment before he sighed, nodding. "Very well. But be careful. The streets are tense these days. The British patrols have increased."

Aryan gave him a small smile. "I will."

And with that, he stepped out into Calcutta's streets.

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The city was alive with its usual rhythm—hawkers calling out their wares, rickshaws weaving through crowds, British officers keeping an oppressive watch over the locals.

Aryan now disguising his face with illusion, moved through the streets unnoticed, his senses sharp. He wasn't just walking—he was listening, watching, searching.

Then, he found it.

A small shop, barely standing, its wooden beams cracked and worn. Outside, a British officer stood with two Indian soldiers, their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. They were speaking to an elderly man—the shopkeeper—but their words were sharp, laced with the kind of arrogance Aryan had grown to despise.

He slowed his pace, his ears catching the conversation.

"Your dues are overdue, old man." The officer's voice was calm, but beneath it was the promise of violence.

The shopkeeper, frail but standing firm, shook his head. "I already paid the tax last week, sahab. There is nothing more—"

The officer ba'khanded him without warning. The old man collapsed, his frail body hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Aryan felt something in his chest tighten—a familiar fire, one he had kept buried for too long.

People in the street looked away, afraid. No one dared to step forward.

The soldiers chuckled.

"Nothing more? Then give us the shop. We'll find someone else to run it."

The old man coughed, trying to push himself up. "Please… my family—"

Aryan stepped forward.

The soldiers barely glanced at him—just another Indian, another nameless face in the crowd.

But that changed the moment he spoke.

"That's enough."

The officer turned, raising an eyebrow. "And who might you be?"

Aryan didn't answer. Instead, he let the illusion fall.

The air shimmered, his casual attire fading away to reveal the dark purple and gold cloak, the intricate designs glowing faintly as they reacted to his energy.

The soldiers tensed. The officer's smugness faltered.

"What the—?"

Aryan moved.

Faster than they could react, he grabbed the officer by the collar, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The man gasped, struggling, but Aryan barely felt his weight.

"You think you can do whatever you want just because you have a uniform?" Aryan's voice was quiet, but each word was sharp, unshakable.

The soldiers raised their rifles. Too slow.

With a flick of his wrist, shadows erupted from the ground, wrapping around their weapons and yanking them away. The guns clattered to the dirt.

The officer, still In Aryan's grip, paled. "W-Wait—!"

Aryan didn't wait.

With a simple movement, he hurled the man back, sending him crashing into a wooden cart. The impact shattered the fragile structure, leaving the officer groaning in pain, as he felt his broken bones.

The soldiers ran.

Cowards.

Aryan turned to the shopkeeper, who stared up at him in shock, his lip still bleeding.

He extended a hand. "Are you alright?"

The old man hesitated, then took it. His hands were rough, worn by years of labor, but his grip was steady.

The crowd, which had been silent, began to murmur. Whispers spread like wildfire. People stepped closer, their fear replaced by something else.

Hope.

Aryan met their gazes. He saw something in their eyes—recognition, realization.

They weren't alone anymore.

For the first time, India had a protector.

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