Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)

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- Unknown Place -

- August 10, 1936 -

The moment Aryan's fingers touched the gem and his power flowed into it, the world around him shifted. The chamber of Kamar-Taj faded, replaced by a golden shimmer that stretched outward, swallowing reality itself.

Then, the light receded.

Aryan stood amidst a city unlike any he had ever seen. It was vast, sprawling across the land like a grand vision carved from legend. The streets were paved with polished stone, lined with majestic buildings adorned with intricate carvings and golden spires that reflected the warm sunlight. Flags of deep crimson and royal blue fluttered in the wind, their insignias unfamiliar yet carrying the weight of the empire's glory.

The air was alive with music and laughter. Merchants called out from their stalls, selling silks, spices, and gleaming ornaments. Children ran freely, their laughter echoing through the streets. Soldiers in resplendent armor, decorated with emblems of lions and celestial patterns, patrolled with an air of nobility, their swords sheathed but ever ready.

Justice and prosperity flowed through the veins of this city. There was no sign of oppression, no fear, no suffering—only a harmony Aryan had rarely seen in any civilization. It was not an illusion; it was a kingdom at its peak, a utopia crafted by wisdom and strength.

But where exactly was he?

Aryan turned his gaze toward the heart of the city, where a structure unlike any other stood—the palace.

It loomed high above, its golden domes kissing the heavens, its marble walls embedded with sapphires and emeralds that gleamed under the sun's embrace. Wide staircases led to enormous gates, guarded by towering statues of warriors and sages, each sculpted with lifelike precision.

And yet… something was odd.

No one reacted to him. No eyes turned in his direction. No footsteps hesitated at his presence. Aryan, for all his power, seemed to be a mere ghost in this world, an observer unable to touch or be touched.

He frowned but didn't hesitate. The palace called to him.

He ascended the grand staircase, each step making him feel as though he was walking into something far greater than himself. The gates, which should have been impossible to move without effort, parted before him without resistance, as if welcoming an heir long awaited.

The corridors were magnificent, lined with murals that depicted great battles, celestial beings, and a lone king standing atop a battlefield, his sword raised high as empires bowed before him. Aryan's gaze lingered on the figure for a moment—there was something familiar about him.

At last, he reached the throne room.

It was a vast hall, its ceiling adorned with a galaxy of tiny, glowing gemstones, mimicking the night sky. The pillars were carved with stories—stories of wisdom, justice, and power. And at the far end, upon an elaborate golden throne encrusted with rubies and diamonds, sat a man.

His presence was undeniable.

He wore robes of dark blue, embroidered with golden patterns that shifted subtly, as if woven with the very fabric of reality. A crown rested upon his brow, not merely a piece of ornamentation but a symbol of dominion, of authority so absolute that even the air around him seemed to bend in deference.

His face was sharp, regal, his eyes deep pools of knowledge and strength. And when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of a thousand stories.

"So, Inheritor… you have finally come at last."

Aryan's breath was steady, but his mind raced.

Who was this man? And why did it feel like, in some way, Aryan had always been meant to stand before him?

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Aryan took a measured breath, his eyes locked onto the man before him. There was no doubt—this figure radiated authority, the kind that was not given but earned through wisdom and experience. And yet, despite the grandeur of his throne and the weight of his presence, there was no arrogance in his gaze. Only patience. Expectation.

Stepping forward, Aryan inclined his head slightly—not a bow, but a gesture of respect.

"Where am I?" he asked, his voice calm but firm. "And who are you?"

The man's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Straight to the point. Good." His voice carried a measured strength, neither overbearing nor dismissive. "You are in a Memory Palace. A place created from my own memories before my death, preserved through time so that one day, when the right inheritor arrived, I could speak to them." He raised a hand, gesturing toward the gem that had brought Aryan here. "Divination was woven into that gem. Through it, I can perceive enough to answer your questions."

Aryan's gaze flickered to the bracelets still on his wrists before settling back on the man. "And your name?"

The figure leaned slightly forward on his throne, his expression steady. "I am Dharmendra Vikramaditya."

The name struck Aryan like a hammer. It took only a moment for him to piece it all together.

Vikramaditya. A name etched into legend. The just king of folklore, known for his wisdom, his strength, and his throne of thirty-two celestial spirits. The ruler from the tales of Singhasan Battisi and Vikram and Betal. The one who, according to history and myth, had once united and ruled nearly the entire Asian continent.

Aryan had read the stories, heard the legends. But none of them had mentioned this—none had spoken of him as anything more than a fictional mortal king. Yet now, standing before him, Aryan could see it in his eyes. There was something more behind that gaze.

As if sensing his thoughts, Vikramaditya exhaled lightly. "Yes, Aryan. I was once like you." His gaze sharpened, as if measuring Aryan's reaction. "A reincarnated soul. One who passed through the Void."

Aryan didn't speak immediately. His mind worked quickly, connecting the pieces, reevaluating everything he thought he knew. If this was true—if Vikramaditya had also been a reincarnated soul—then history itself had been shaped by someone like him. Someone who had walked the same path.

Slowly, Aryan met his gaze again. "Then I think we have a lot to discuss."

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Vikramaditya rose from his throne with a steady grace, his movements exuding the discipline of a seasoned warrior. As he stepped forward, Aryan instinctively took in his form. He was tall—much taller than Aryan himself—standing around 190 cm, with the broad-shouldered build of someone forged in battle. Every movement seemed deliberate, like a man who had never once let his guard down.

Aryan, at 16 years old, was still growing at 175 cm, but next to Vikramaditya, he felt the contrast. Not in intimidation, but in experience.

The legendary king gave him a slight nod, motioning for him to follow. Aryan did so without hesitation, walking alongside him as they approached a large balcony.

The view that unfolded before Aryan stole his breath away.

The city stretched out beneath them—a masterpiece of civilization. Ujjain, the fabled capital, was alive with a vibrance he had never seen before. Golden spires gleamed under the sun, grand temples stood tall with intricate carvings, and the streets were filled with people—merchants, scholars, warriors, and common folk—all moving with purpose. There was no oppression here. No fear. Justice and prosperity permeated the air, as if the very stones of the city held the essence of a golden age.

For a moment, Aryan could only stare. He had seen grandeur before, but this was different. This was a civilization at its peak.

Vikramaditya stood beside him, watching his reaction with a small knowing smile. Then, his tone turned serious.

"You must have many questions," he said, eyes still fixed on the city below. "But our time is limited. So listen first."

Aryan turned to him, silently acknowledging. He wasn't one to interrupt when someone had something important to say.

Vikramaditya exhaled, his gaze distant, as if looking back across centuries.

"I was once a normal man," he began. "Like you. I lived my first life unaware of what lay beyond death. But when my time came, I awoke in the Void."

Aryan remained still, absorbing his words.

"I did not wander for long," Vikramaditya continued. "A being—one far beyond mortal comprehension—took an interest in me. It offered me a gift, something that could shape my destiny in my next life. I asked for a throne—one inspired by Singhasan Battisi, a throne worthy of a king who would rule with justice."

Aryan listened carefully as the king's expression grew more solemn.

"That being granted my wish," he said. "The throne was imbued with the qualities of the thirty-two celestial spirits—wisdom, strength, unshakable resolve, insight, and many more. It did not just grant raw power, but something greater—the ability to build an empire that would last, to rule with fairness and unbreakable authority."

He turned to Aryan, his dark eyes piercing. "And with that throne, I was reborn into this world in 102 BCE."

Aryan processed that information quickly. That meant this, in this universe at least, Vikramaditya wasn't just some mythological figure—he had truly existed, and his empire had shaped history.

"I built my Empire, piece by piece," Vikramaditya continued, his voice steady but tinged with memory. "I conquered, but I also uplifted. By 57 BCE, my empire had reached its peak. It stretched across the entire Asian continent, and in recognition of this golden era, the gods themselves granted me a boon. The new calendar era was named after me—Vikram Samvat."

Aryan had heard of that calendar. It was still used in parts of India even in his own time. To think that it was a divine acknowledgment of this man's rule…

Vikramaditya's eyes darkened slightly, though not in regret—more in recollection.

"During my time, I met many powerful beings. The Ancient One, the Trimurti, the Devas, the Asuras. I stood before Odin, Zeus, and other gods of different pantheons." He let out a quiet chuckle. "Some I allied with. Others, I fought."

Aryan raised an eyebrow. "You fought Odin?"

Vikramaditya nodded, smirking faintly. "And Hela. And not to mention the Olympians." He gestured to the city below. "When you build something great, others seek to test you."

Aryan could only imagine the scale of those battles.

"With the power of my throne, the warriors of my empire, and vimanas and astral weapons gifted to me by the Hindu gods, I proved my worth. Even my enemies respected me in the end."

But then, Vikramaditya's gaze hardened.

"Of course, not all adversaries were honorable. Some sought to take what was mine. The Atlanteans. The Kree. The Skrulls. The Shi'ar. They coveted my throne's power, believing it could tip the balance of the cosmos."

Aryan's fingers curled slightly. He understood that all too well—when you wield something beyond comprehension, others always want it.

"I fought them all," Vikramaditya said, his tone calm but firm. "And I won."

Then, for the first time, a shadow crossed his expression.

"All except one."

Aryan felt a shift in the air.

"One enemy I could not outmaneuver," Vikramaditya admitted. His fists clenched slightly, not in anger, but in acknowledgment. "Kang the Conqueror."

Aryan's eyes narrowed. Of course.

A time traveler. A man who had seen empires rise and fall across countless realities. Kang didn't just fight with power—he fought with knowledge.

Vikramaditya's voice remained steady. "He did not defeat me with strength or armies. He outsmarted me."

Aryan held his gaze. This was important.

"How?" he asked.

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