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-:Kamal Asthaan, Ujjain, Bharat -
- June 7, 1938 -
The palace felt quieter after the Vargas left.
Not silent—no, Kamal Asthaan never truly slept. There were always footsteps in the distance, laughter from the kitchens, or soft music playing in the inner gardens. But sothing was missing now.
Maybe it was Lila’s wild joy echoing off the marble walls, or Sofia’s thoughtful footsteps during her long evening strolls. Maybe it was just the way a few days can wrap around you like warmth... and leave a gentle ache once gone.
That morning, Aryan and Shakti had seen them off from the eastern entrance of the palace grounds, where a sleek Kalachakra transport shimred faintly under the morning sun.
Lila had clung to Aryan’s hand till the very last mont.
"But I don’t want to go yet," she pouted, her small fingers refusing to let go. "It’s so nice here. Even the birds sound happier."
Aryan crouched beside her, brushing a loose jasmine petal from her hair.
"I know, little one. But this is just the first Chapter," he said, his voice low and kind. "You’ll co back soon. And next ti, maybe to study here. Wouldn’t that be sothing?"
Lila’s eyes widened. "Like... stay here for real? In a school?"
Shakti knelt beside them, her lavender saree gently swaying with the breeze. "The best schools in Bharat are opening soon—right here in Ujjain. With gardens and art rooms and even astronomy towers."
"And will there be secret staircases?" Lila whispered, half-hoping, half-challenging.
"Definitely," Aryan said with a grin. "But only if you promise not to get caught."
That earned a laugh from her, though her eyes still shimred with reluctant tears.
She finally hugged both of them one last ti, strong and heartfelt.
"I’ll be back," she said with firm certainty, before darting off toward the open vehicle where her sister and parents waited.
Sofia, seated beside the window, shared one last glance with Karna—quiet, aningful. A gentle smile passed between them, though neither said a word.
Elias, on the other hand, had muttered sothing under his breath about "keeping things in check," but Aryan had just smirked and waved them off. That was a conversation for another day.
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Later that afternoon, when the sun had dipped low behind the lotus dos, Aryan sat alone in his study once again.
This ti not by the window, but at the heart of the room—his thoughts heavy, his fingers gently drumming against the carved wooden desk.
It wasn’t nostalgia keeping him silent now. It was sothing else. Sothing darker.
He thought back to the long, winding conversation he’d had with Elias the night before departure. Politics, global shifts, hidden hands. And then, just in passing, a na.
Essex Corporation.
At first, it hadn’t triggered much. Just another shady foreign conglorate sniffing around Kalachakra’s edges.
But then the mories ca rushing back. Not the company... the man behind it.
Nathaniel Essex.
Mr. Sinister.
Aryan’s gaze darkened.
Not because Essex was strong—though he was—but because of how he moved. Not with brute force, but with manipulation. Deception. Calculated cruelty dressed as progress.
In his past life, Aryan had read the comics, seen what Mr. Sinister had done—experints on mutants, genetic obsessions, endless cloning. He didn’t care for right or wrong. He only cared for control. For perfection. For power shaped in his twisted image.
And now... he had set his eyes on Bharat.
Aryan exhaled slowly.
Of course he would.
Bharat was rising. Not just politically. But through resilience. Through technology. Through the awakening of the gifted. Through Aryan himself.
People like Essex would never ignore such a thing.
And the worst part was—Sinister wouldn’t co with armies. He would co with smiles, contracts, and hidden needles. He would infect quietly. Study. Clone. Steal.
Aryan rubbed his temples, letting the pressure of it settle. But it wasn’t just Sinister.
There was another, far more insidious threat... one he’d almost forgotten.
Subli.
That wretched bacterial consciousness. A living idea. A whisper in the minds of n, turning them against mutants. Against difference.
Aryan didn’t even know if Subli existed in this version of his universe yet. But he couldn’t take chances. If it did, it would already be spreading. Whispering fear. Infecting power.
Then there was Apocalypse—slumbering for now, deep beneath the earth or locked in so ancient stasis. But Aryan knew it was only a matter of ti before he woke.
And the world wouldn’t be ready.
Unless Aryan prepared it.
Unless he was ready.
"Vaani," Aryan said quietly.
A soft chi echoed in the air, and the familiar, sweet voice of his ta-System assistant answered, gentle and bright as always.
"Yes, Aryan. I have already anticipated the nature of your thoughts. Displaying anti-cloning protection protocols from the System Shop."
The air before him shimred as a transparent interface appeared—clean, glowing softly, lines of data flowing like water. Dozens of options appeared.
Each with a small description beside it:
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DNA Encryption Field – Prevents unauthorized scanning or replication of user’s genetic code. (1200 MP)
Soulprint Lock – Binds the essence of an individual to their physical form; all clones self-destruct on creation. (1900 MP)
Quantum Echo Firewall – Protects ntal patterns and consciousness replication. (1100 MP)
Bloodline Seal – Applies the sa protections as the user to designated close family or allies. (1500 MP per person)
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And more...
His current balance—10000 MP—glowed boldly in the top corner. Enough to secure himself and a handful of his inner circle for now.
"Vaani," he said again, voice firr now, "Purchase the Soulprint Lock for myself. And initiate Bloodline Seal for Shakti, Nalini, Karna, and my parents."
"Confird. Executing purchases. MP deducted: 9400. Remaining: 600 MP."
As the confirmation window vanished and the room returned to quiet, Aryan felt sothing shift deep inside him. Not fear. Not even anxiety.
Just focus.
For now, he was one step ahead. But that wasn’t enough.
He turned back to the desk, fingers already tapping commands into the system.
"Karna will need to begin a deeper global surveillance sweep," he muttered to himself. "We need eyes in every country where mutant suppression rises. Especially biotech firms with genetic programs."
He paused, then added under his breath, "And we’ll need a list of any unexplained phenona that match Subli’s thods—dia influence spikes, sudden anti-mutant sentint, irrational fear propaganda..."
His pen moved quickly across a scroll of paper, old habits from his scholarly days still intact.
The Hidden Fla would soon expand beyond Bharat’s borders.
And with it, a silent war would begin—not of bombs, but of truths and lies. Of minds and mutations. Of evolution and extinction.
Aryan knew he couldn’t stop what was coming. But he could be ready.
And he would be.
Because in the end, it wasn’t just about survival.
It was about shaping the future before others twisted it.
And sowhere, far away, in a cold white lab filled with silence and screens... a figure smiled.
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- Ujjain, Bharat -
- July 5, 1938 -
The monsoon had returned to Ujjain gently this year. It didn’t roar or storm—it whispered through the trees, soaked the courtyards, and left the scent of wet earth lingering in the air like a mory.
It was on one such rainy morning that Aryan waited, once again, at the eastern garden pavilion of Kamal Asthaan. A large umbrella canopy shaded the stone seating. A brass kettle stead gently beside him, carrying the scent of lemongrass and cardamom. He wasn’t dressed in royal robes today—just a simple white kurta, sleeves rolled to the elbows, as he absently tapped a pencil on the edge of his notebook.
He was waiting for soone very dear. Soone who had once believed in him when no one else had. Soone who had protected him, not with weapons, but with wisdom and quiet conviction.
Dr. Chandrasekhara Venkata Raman—C.V. Raman—was arriving.
And soon, he did.
Through the misty entrance, a modest black car rolled into the courtyard. The door opened, and out stepped the legendary physicist—his white coat slightly creased from the journey, eyes alert and warm, and a soft smile under his familiar turban.
Aryan stood imdiately, walking forward with open arms.
"Teacher," Aryan said, his voice touched with warmth and respect.
Dr. Raman gave a half-grin. "Still calling that, even after becoming a Samrat?"
"You’ll always be my teacher," Aryan replied as they embraced briefly. "No title changes that."
They sat down soon after, under the soft patter of monsoon drizzle above the canopy. Dr. Raman took a sip of tea and exhaled.
"This place," he said, eyes scanning the lush garden, "feels like an ashram hiding inside a palace."
Aryan chuckled. "It’s ant to be both. Beauty for the soul, and silence for the mind."
There was a quiet pause between them, comfortable and reflective. Then Aryan leaned forward.
"Teacher, I didn’t ask you here only for tea and mories."
Dr. Raman raised an eyebrow, but nodded knowingly.
"I thought not. Go on, Aryan."
Aryan unfolded a set of hand-drawn maps and plans across the table. Ancient sites. Nas of cities—Rajgir, Nalanda, Takshashila, Ujjain, Kanchipuram, Dhar, and many more.
"I want to bring them back," Aryan said simply. "Not just monunts or ruins... but their soul. Their purpose."
Dr. Raman looked at the nas—Nalanda, once a beacon for the entire world. Takshashila, the first great university of humanity. Vikramshila, the forgotten jewel of Buddhist knowledge.
"I want to recreate centers of excellence," Aryan continued, his tone steady. "Not just universities... but ecosystems. For deep, fearless learning. For science and philosophy, dicine and alchemy, language and astronomy. A Bharat where knowledge is as sacred as breath."
He paused, searching Raman’s eyes.
"And I want you to lead them."
The rain hushed, as if listening.
"I know the elections are coming," Aryan added, "and I intend to appoint you as the first Minister of Science and Technology after that. But this—" he gestured to the maps, "this needs to start now. Quietly, but surely. I want you to head the newly forming Council for Knowledge and Excellence. You’ll be independent. Directly answerable to until the ministry is ford. You’ll shape the curriculum, choose the guiding scholars, and build the vision."
Dr. Raman didn’t speak right away. His hand traced the outline of the ancient Nalanda site.
"You really believe we can bring all this back?" he asked softly.
Aryan leaned back, eyes steady. "I don’t believe. I know. Because it’s already begun."
He opened another folder. Inside were plans—new institutions already being developed near the ruins of Nalanda and Vikramshila. Reconstructed libraries. Invitations sent to scholars across the world. Prototypes of integrated curriculum—rging ancient Bharatiya knowledge with modern scientific thodology.
"We have land, funding, and the minds," Aryan said. "What we need is a guardian. A mind strong enough to lead it into the light, and a heart pure enough to keep it uncorrupted."
Dr. Raman stared at the maps again, his expression unreadable.
"I ca from a small place, Aryan," he said slowly. "I was told I’d never go far. I still rember the whispers when I won the Nobel. They said, ’How can a brown man do this? A man from the colonies?’"
Aryan didn’t interrupt.
Dr. Raman looked up at him, his eyes shining with sothing fierce now.
"Let’s show them what Bharat’s mind truly looks like. Let’s teach the world again."
A quiet smile spread across Aryan’s face. Relief. Pride.
"I knew you’d say that," he said.
Dr. Raman chuckled. "Because you still rember my coffee addiction, don’t you? I’m not turning down an offer with a lab and a library involved."
They laughed together, and for a few minutes, it was just that—two n, not Samrat and Scientist, not ruler and legend. Just Aryan and Teacher, sitting under the monsoon sky, dreaming again.
________
The rest of the eting unfolded like gentle clockwork.
They discussed the initial appointnts—young scientists, ancient scholars, philosophers and engineers alike.
Aryan ntioned a pilot project in Takshashila, where ancient texts were being cross-referenced with modern research to create hybrid learning. Dr. Raman’s eyes lit up at that.
They debated curriculum—Dr. Raman insisted on hands-on labs for even philosophy students. Aryan agreed, adding that every scholar must also serve society, not just study.
By the end of the afternoon, the outlines were drawn. The dream was no longer a thought.
It was now a plan.
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