Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)

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- Natore Rajbari, Bengal Province -

- March 9, 1936 -

The meeting with Maharaja Jagdish Nath Roy and his family was cordial, layered with both formality and familiarity. Seated in the grand drawing room, Aryan exchanged pleasantries with the elders, acknowledging their warm congratulations on his academic achievements in America. The Maharaja spoke highly of his contributions, noting how his name had uplifted India's image internationally. Ravi Nath Roy, Shakti's father, was particularly pleased, reminiscing about Aryan's parents and their shared ideals.

"Aryan," Ravi said with a smile, "your work has done us all proud. You have not only honored your family but also the legacy of the Natore royal house."

Shakti's mother, Lakshmi, observed him with kind yet discerning eyes. "And yet, I sense that you have returned for more than just nostalgia," she remarked.

Aryan met her gaze evenly. "Yes, Ma'am. There's much to do."

The conversation drifted towards lighter topics before Ravi finally suggested, "Why don't you and Karna stay the night? There's no rush, and I imagine you and Shakti have much to discuss."

Aryan considered it briefly. It was a practical suggestion. With so much to plan and teach, a night's stay would allow uninterrupted discussion and training.

He nodded. "That would be ideal. Thank you."

Karna, who had remained mostly quiet, simply shrugged. "Better than traveling again so soon."

With the decision settled, the conversation continued over dinner. As the evening deepened, Aryan found himself seated with Shakti and Karna in one of the estate's quieter rooms, laying out the foundations of their secret organization.

"We need a structured approach," Aryan began. "Not just raw power, but discipline, strategy, and purpose."

Shakti leaned forward, curiosity lighting her gaze. "And you already have a plan?"

Aryan exhaled. "I have the framework. But we'll refine it together."

Karna smirked. "Sounds like a long night ahead."

And with that, they set to work, the future slowly taking shape in the flickering candlelight.

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- March 10, 1936 -

By the following afternoon, Aryan was satisfied. Both Shakti and Karna had shown they could control their powers sufficiently. With their training settled for now, it was time to return to Calcutta. Before departing, he gave them a firm instruction.

"Be ready for action. The British won't ignore what happened yesterday. Calcutta has been thrown into chaos, and their administration here is barely holding together. They'll send someone—someone high-ranking—to restore order and investigate. That's when we strike."

Shakti nodded, determination flashing in her eyes. Karna simply cracked his knuckles, a smirk playing on his lips. "About time," he muttered.

Aryan continued, his voice steady. "This is just the beginning. We expand from here—first throughout Bengal, then the surrounding regions, and eventually across the entire subcontinent. We need people, the right ones. Watch for potential recruits. Those with skill, conviction, and the will to fight."

With their course set, Aryan and Karna left Natore, their journey back to Calcutta marked by quiet contemplation. The city was on edge. Soldiers patrolled in higher numbers, and whispers of Maheshvara's rampage spread like wildfire. Fear and curiosity walked hand in hand through the streets.

Aryan arrived home, stepping inside to find his parents in deep discussion. His father, Surya Rajvanshi, looked up first. "You're back," he noted, though his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Anjali Rajvanshi gave him a brief, relieved smile before returning to the documents in front of her. "We're trying to assess the situation," she explained. "The British are shaken, but that won't make them weak. They'll respond, and we need to be prepared."

Aryan sat down, listening as his father continued. "BSS has always been independent of Congress and the Muslim League. We don't have their connections with the British, only a fragile balance based on sheer numbers. They tolerate us because they have no choice. But if they decide to crack down, it'll be harsher than what they've done to Congress leaders. We need to be ahead of them."

Aryan understood. The British were aware of BSS's massive support base in Bengal—larger even than the Muslim League's. And unlike the League, which negotiated, or Congress, which sought gradual political progress, BSS was a nationalist force that refused to compromise on independence. That made them a threat.

"They'll pretend to listen to our supporters, to keep up appearances," Aryan said. "But they'll be looking for any excuse to silence us."

His father nodded grimly. "Exactly."

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Meanwhile, aboard a train from Delhi, a high-ranking British officer sat rigidly in his seat, irritation evident in the tight set of his jaw. The journey had already been unpleasant, but as the train approached Bengal, it was forced to halt. The railway tracks ahead had been destroyed—an act of sabotage by Maheshvara.

The officer, Brigadier General Alan Whitmore, cursed under his breath as he received the report. "Bloody savages," he spat, rising from his seat. "Typical of these uncivilized brutes to resort to such tactics."

Forced to disembark at the nearest functioning station, he and his entourage made their way to Calcutta by road. The journey was slow, the rough terrain adding to his frustration. The humid air clung to his skin, and the smell of burning wood from distant villages irritated his senses.

As they traveled, his aides recounted the chaos that had unfolded in Calcutta. Explosions, riots, and strange accounts of a masked figure wielding impossible power. Whitmore scoffed. "Superstitious nonsense. This is nothing more than orchestrated rebellion, dressed up in folklore to scare the illiterate masses."

His officers exchanged uncertain glances but remained silent. They had heard the reports. Some had even seen the destruction firsthand. Yet, they knew better than to contradict Whitmore.

Glaring out the window, the Brigadier clenched his fists. "We'll restore order soon enough," he muttered. "And when we do, I'll make sure these rebels regret ever challenging the might of the British Empire."

By the time he reached the Governor's House in Calcutta, night had fallen. Governor Sir John Anderson awaited him, seated behind his desk, fingers tapping rhythmically on the polished wood. The recent Government of India Act of 1935 had granted Bengal Province significant autonomy, yet none of the Indian factions accepted it. The British administration in Delhi, aware of the growing tensions, had sent Whitmore to resolve the crisis before it spiraled further.

As he took a seat opposite Anderson, Whitmore exhaled sharply. "Let's get to work. We don't have time for delays."

Calcutta was a battlefield now, and Whitmore was ready to crush the resistance before it grew into a full-scale rebellion.

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Brigadier General Alan Whitmore sat rigidly in his chair, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Governor Sir John Anderson. His patience was already wearing thin from the arduous journey, and now he wanted straight answers.

"Tell me exactly what happened, Governor," Whitmore demanded, his voice edged with irritation. "Your men have filled my ears with wild stories of demons and sorcery. I expect a rational account of events and the measures taken to resolve them."

Sir John Anderson exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping against the desk. "Very well, Brigadier. I'll tell you everything as it happened."

Leaning forward, the Governor began recounting the events that had plunged Calcutta into chaos. "It all started yesterday," he said. "A masked figure—calling himself Maheshvara—appeared seemingly out of nowhere. His clothing was unrecognizable, devoid of any markings or cultural identifiers, as if he wanted no ties to any faction. And yet, his intent was unmistakable."

[Note - Aryan had used an illusion to remove any sort of cultural identity from his clothes as it was his first time as a vigilante and he wanted to be somewhat careful, but that will not be the case in future.]

Anderson's expression darkened. "He strung up British officers and Indian soldiers who supported us—crucified them in the town center, in broad daylight, for all to see. When we sent men to retrieve them, something… unnatural happened."

Whitmore narrowed his eyes. "Unnatural?" he scoffed.

The Governor hesitated before continuing. "None of our men could approach. Even the most hardened soldiers were overcome with an unexplainable, primal terror. They collapsed, screaming, shaking, some even clawing at their own faces as if something invisible was tormenting them. We had to pull them back before they lost their minds entirely."

Whitmore gave a skeptical grunt. "Sounds like cowardice to me."

Anderson shot him a sharp look. "I thought the same at first, but these were trained officers, men who had faced war without flinching. And yet, none could get within twenty paces of those crosses. Those we did manage to retrieve later—after whatever force was keeping us away had vanished—are now confined to the infirmary, suffering from severe mental trauma and battling life and death, though they are unlikely to survive much longer. However, they still scream Maheshvara's name in their delirium."

Whitmore exhaled sharply. "So a few men lost their nerve and possibly their lives. What else?"

Anderson straightened. "That was only the beginning. In a single day, utter chaos broke out across Calcutta. Telegraph stations were destroyed, cutting off vital communication. Military warehouses were set ablaze, supply lines severed, railway tracks torn apart. Every critical point of British infrastructure was struck without delay or error. And yet, despite our best efforts, we found no traces of who did it or how it was done. The only name we heard from terrified witnesses and surviving officers was Maheshvara."

Whitmore clenched his jaw. "You're telling me that in one day, an unidentified rebel managed to execute a coordinated assault on the British administration without leaving a single lead?"

Anderson nodded grimly. "Not only that. We attempted to track him, to predict his next move, but it was as if he could teleport. Witnesses claimed he would vanish from one place and appear somewhere else in an instant. Even our fastest response teams found nothing but smoldering ruins and panicked civilians."

Whitmore scoffed. "Teleportation? Governor, I thought you were a rational man."

Anderson sighed, rubbing his temple. "I'm only telling you what has been reported. And the fact remains—whoever this Maheshvara is, he has managed to bring this city to its knees within hours. The men are shaken, and the people whisper his name like he's some vengeful deity."

Whitmore leaned back, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His sharp mind worked through the details, dismissing superstition outright. "This is nothing more than a well-planned, coordinated assault. A group of rebels using fear tactics to make it seem like they have supernatural abilities. Psychological warfare, plain and simple."

Anderson folded his hands together. "And what do you propose we do?"

Whitmore's expression hardened. "Take me to the town center. I want to see where those men were crucified. If this Maheshvara wants to play games, we'll show him what happens when he challenges the Empire."

With that, he rose from his chair, ready to confront the ghost that had thrown British rule into disarray.

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