Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)

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- Calcutta, Bengal Province -

- March 10, 1936 – Night -

Aryan had expected a response. The British wouldn't sit idle after what had happened. That was why his shadow clones had been monitoring their movements from the moment the chaos settled. Every patrol, every meeting, every intelligence-gathering attempt—he had been watching. Yet, to his amusement, the British had found nothing.

They searched, interrogated, and scoured the streets for clues, but Maheshvara remained a ghost. And that was by design.

Aryan had been meticulous. No loose ends, no trail to follow. The British expected rebellion to be fueled by anger and recklessness. He had given them only shadows and fear.

Tonight, however, he received the news he had been waiting for.

A high-ranking officer had arrived from Delhi. Not just any officer—a Brigadier General sent specifically to restore order and eliminate threats. A clear sign the British had realized this was no ordinary uprising. And Aryan knew better than to ignore it.

His shadow clones had already infiltrated the Governor's House before he even learned of the officer's arrival. Moving through darkness and illusion, they blended seamlessly into the structure, unseen and unheard. The very walls whispered to them.

When one of his clones dispersed, the information poured into Aryan's mind—every word, every shift in expression, every subtle movement. Brigadier General Alan Whitmore dismissed the supernatural claims, believing this was a calculated rebellion rather than something beyond reason.

A mistake Aryan intended to exploit.

Leaning back in his chair, he processed the conversation. Whitmore was cold and efficient, a man of logic, not superstition. That meant he would act swiftly and without hesitation.

Good.

Hesitation wasn't what Aryan needed. He needed a reaction. And he would give Whitmore something real to react to.

Without delay, he activated the communication seal, connecting with Karna and Shakti. His message was brief but clear.

< Be ready. We move soon. >

No further explanation was necessary. They would understand.

Tomorrow, the next phase would begin.

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- March 11, 1936 -

Aryan sat at his desk, dim morning light filtering through the cracks in the warehouse walls. Ink flowed smoothly as he penned his letter under the name the people had given him—Maheshvara. His message was direct.

To the BSS office and his parents, he wrote:

[Something significant will unfold today. Be ready to seize the opportunity. The British will react, and we must act before they regain their footing. Let our people stand firm but remain unseen until the moment is right.]

He Ignored Congress and the Muslim League. Too many in their ranks had already betrayed the cause, trading loyalty for personal gain. The BSS was different. Its reach extended deep into Bengal, with the people's unwavering support. He trusted his parents and the BSS to remain true to their fight, but if corruption seeped in, he would be ready with countermeasures.

After sealing the letters, he moved through the city, ensuring they reached the right hands. Then, without hesitation, he returned to his temporary base—an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Calcutta.

Karna and Shakti were already there, having arrived through the shadows with his clones' assistance. Their expressions mirrored his own: resolute and prepared.

Before speaking, Aryan tossed two shimmering masses toward them—black, liquid-like substances that shifted as they moved through the air.

Karna caught his effortlessly, watching as it wriggled between his fingers. "The hell is this?"

Shakti, ever composed, observed the way her own mass pulsed slightly, reacting to her touch. "It's alive."

Aryan smirked. "Adaptive suits. Designed them last night. They'll mold to your body and enhance your abilities. Karna, yours is built for speed and brute force. Shakti, yours specializes in stealth and mobility. They respond to your Intent—think it, and they'll act."

Karna grinned as the suit spread over his form, shifting into a sleek, segmented armor that allowed full flexibility. "Damn, now this is my kind of gear." He flexed his arms, feeling the reinforced structure respond instantly.

Shakti's suit, by contrast, wove seamlessly into her attire, forming a smooth, shadow-like layer that blended with the dim surroundings. She moved her arm, watching as the fabric rippled, almost phasing in and out of visibility. "Impressive," she admitted. "It feels… weightless."

Aryan nodded, satisfied. "Good. You'll need them for what comes next."

"The British won't see this coming."

Karna smirked. "About time we made our next move."

Shakti simply nodded. "We'll follow your lead."

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Meanwhile, in the heart of Calcutta, Governor Sir John Anderson personally escorted Brigadier General Alan Whitmore to the town center. The site of Maheshvara's earlier message still lingered in the air. The crude wooden crosses remained stark against the sky, though the bodies had been removed with great difficulty. Even now, the scars of their presence remained—stains of dried blood, scratches in the ground from desperate hands.

Whitmore observed the site with a deepening scowl. "This is what your men were so terrified of?"

The Governor exhaled, eyes fixed on the lingering signs of brutality. "You weren't here, Brigadier. There was something… unnatural about that day. Fear ran through the men like wildfire."

Whitmore scoffed, stepping closer to one of the empty crosses. "Fear is a weapon. And this so-called Maheshvara has wielded it well. But all weapons have weaknesses. We will find his."

The Governor said nothing. He had seen firsthand what had shaken his city. Whitmore, however, still believed himself untouchable.

That belief wouldn't last.

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As Whitmore scrutinized the remnants of Maheshvara's message, the city of Calcutta was already slipping from British control.

Across British strongholds, twenty of Aryan's shadow clones moved with silent precision, each an extension of his will. His enhanced energy reserves—bolstered by Shakti's Power Cosmic and Karna's Photokinesis—allowed them to act with lethal efficiency. With only two members in his organization for now, his clones compensated, though in time, new recruits would take their place.

For now, all across British strongholds, Aryan's plan unfolded with silent precision. His shadow clones moved unseen, blending into the city's dark corners, striking key points with calculated efficiency. Every step had been mapped out. Every target accounted for.

Shakti and Karna worked alongside them, their abilities amplifying the operation's speed and impact. Though new to their powers, their instincts carried them through. Shakti slipped through defenses like a phantom, her Power Cosmic bending light and shadow to make her presence barely a whisper. Guards stationed at outposts never saw her coming—only the sudden collapse of their communication lines, the quiet shutdown of their systems. Where others would have left a trace, she left nothing.

Karna took a different approach. His Photokinesis was raw, untamed, but in the cover of night, it became a weapon. He twisted the faintest light sources into bursts of blinding intensity, disorienting sentries before Aryan's clones finished the job. When resistance flared, he struck with controlled bursts, enough to disable, never to kill. He moved fast, his new adaptive suit molding to his every motion, amplifying his strength and speed.

Aryan's clones handled the rest. Each was an extension of his will, taking down military checkpoints, infiltrating British administrative hubs, and severing communication lines in perfect coordination. Hypnotic illusions masked their presence, trapping officials in false realities where their orders remained unchanged, even as their control slipped away. By the time the British realized something was wrong, their infrastructure was already crumbling.

It was a silent coup. No alarms, no frantic calls for reinforcements. By sunset, the British still believed they held Calcutta. They didn't yet realize the city had already shifted beneath them, that their grip was an illusion Aryan had carefully crafted.

And when they did, it would be far too late.

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Unaware of the silent coup, Governor Anderson and Brigadier Whitmore returned to the Governor's House. Whitmore, ever the skeptic, dismissed the fear among officials as hysteria. The Governor, however, sensed something was different—an intangible shift he couldn't explain.

But nothing could have prepared them for what awaited inside.

The grand doors to the Governor's office stood slightly ajar, the dim glow of the chandelier casting eerie shadows. The air was unnaturally still.

Then they saw him.

Seated at the Governor's own desk, draped in effortless command, was Aryan Rajvanshi—Maheshvara.

He didn't need to assert dominance. He was dominance incarnate.

Whitmore's hand moved toward his sidearm, but Aryan merely smiled.

"Ah, Brigadier General," Aryan drawled, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability. "You've had a long day, I'm sure."

Whitmore's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening. The Governor's breath hitched. This was no rebel to negotiate with. This was a force they couldn't control.

Aryan leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. "Now," he said, amusement flickering in his expression, "shall we discuss the terms of your surrender?"

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