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- British High Command, Delhi -
- August 3, 1936 -
The air inside the war council chamber was thick with cigar smoke and frustration. The n seated around the grand wooden table had spent the last two days in a storm of argunts, accusations, and empty solutions. Reports had poured in from across the subcontinent—factories shutting down, forts falling overnight, supply lines disappearing like sand in the wind. But nothing compared to the account from Punjab.
An entire battalion erased.
The village they had targeted untouched.
The officers who returned were broken n, barely able to speak. What little they did say sounded like madness—shadows swallowing n whole, bullets turning midair, soldiers dropping to their knees, clawing at unseen horrors.
For the first ti, the British commanders were forced to confront a truth they had long dismissed. This was not just an ard rebellion.
This was sothing else entirely.
Colonel Alistair Beckett exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "Are we truly entertaining the idea that this... this Maheshvara is beyond natural ans? That an entire battalion, trained under the might of the British Empire, was destroyed not by rifles and blades, but by—" he scoffed, "shadows and tricks of the mind?"
Sir Regina Dunmore leaned forward, eyes grim. "Tell , Beckett, how do you explain any of this? The uprisings moving like clockwork, as if so unseen force guides them? The way every attempt to disrupt his networks has failed? How n who have fought in our wars tremble at his na?"
Silence hung between them.
Across the table, Colonel Arthur Hastings, a hardened officer who had seen more battles than most, sat stiffly. Unlike so of his peers, he did not dismiss the reports outright. He had t the officers who had survived the Punjab incident. He had seen the terror in their eyes. This was not fear of an enemy soldier. This was the fear of sothing unnatural.
That was why, despite his own reluctance, he had taken a desperate step.
Clearing his throat, Hastings finally spoke. "Gentlen, debating among ourselves will lead us nowhere. We have exhausted our military strategies. We have sent our best n, and they have failed." He leaned forward, voice lowering. "So I have arranged for outside counsel—soone well-versed in matters that may go beyond our understanding."
Montgory frowned. "Who?"
"A representative from the Vatican."
Fraser blinked. "A priest?"
"A high-ranking one," Hastings corrected. "And he is not coming alone. He brings with him a man of influence from Arica—one who has long been interested in... occurrences such as these."
A murmur spread arou'd the room.
Beckett scoffed. "You're telling we need to turn to priests and foreign scholars now?"
Hastings' jaw tightened. "I'm telling you we need to consider every option."
The debate raged on, but in the end, desperation won over pride. The eting was adjourned. Hastings left the chamber, stepping into the cool Delhi night. A car waited for him. Inside sat a man draped in the solemn robes of the Church. Beside him, another figure, dressed sharply in an immaculate suit, watched with an amused glint in his crimson eyes.
The priest smiled, his wrinkled face illuminated by the street lamps. "Colonel Hastings. It is good to finally et you in person."
Hastings nodded stiffly, eyes briefly flickering toward the suited man. "And you must be the esteed guest from Arica."
The stranger chuckled, extending a gloved hand. "You may call Nicholas." His voice was smooth, rich—almost too perfect. "I understand you're in need of assistance against... forces beyond mortal comprehension."
Hastings hesitated before shaking his hand.
Sothing about the touch sent a chill down his spine.
phisto smiled.
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For centuries, phisto had found amusent in the foolishness of humans. They were predictable, easily swayed by greed, desperation, and fear. Even the so-called holy n of the Vatican were no different, their piety nothing more than a thin veil over their hunger for power. He had spent countless years playing his usual gas—tempting, deceiving, claiming souls that were worth his interest.
But lately, things had been boring.
Sure, the humans were marching toward another war, and blood would soon stain the earth once more. But wars were nothing new. They had their monts, of course—desperate n, frightened rulers, ambitious fools willing to trade their very essence for an ounce of power. Yet, nothing truly intrigued him.
Until a year ago.
That was when he had first sensed it.
A soul unlike any he had encountered before.
Not just powerful. Not just tempting.
Sothing void-touched.
It was subtle at first, like a whisper in the wind, but as ti passed, it grew more distinct. phisto had searched relentlessly, following the trail of sothing wrong—sothing that did not belong to this world. And now, he had found it.
India.
A land steeped in ancient mysticism and forgotten gods, now at the heart of a rebellion that was shifting the course of history. And at the center of it all was a single man.
A mutant, perhaps. A powerful one. But that wasn't what interested phisto. No, what truly caught his attention was sothing deeper.
Sothing not of this world.
It was unfortunate, however, that he could not act freely. The Ancient One's domain lay too close, and phisto had no desire to suffer another excruciating encounter. Not yet. Not when the prize was still out of reach.
For now, he would play his part.
He watched the man before him—Colonel Arthur Hastings—his palm still clasped in a handshake. The British officer had the air of a man forced into a decision he didn't quite understand. But it didn't matter. phisto had woven his charm through the exchange, subtly nudging the man's mind toward agreent.
"Colonel," phisto said, his voice as smooth as silk, "it is clear to that your empire will be unable to deal with this Maheshvara through conventional ans." He smiled, tilting his head just enough to let the light catch his unnatural, piercing eyes. "So why not leave the matter to ?"
Hastings hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his features. But it was brief—too brief to resist the pull of phisto's influence.
"You believe you can handle him?" the Colonel asked.
phisto's smile widened. "I have a way with... difficult individuals." He leaned back, allowing the weight of his presence to settle in the dimly lit room. "I will make him an offer. One he cannot refuse."
Hastings swallowed, so part of him unsettled by this man—this Nicholas. But the charm had done its work. His doubts faded into the recesses of his mind, replaced by the comforting illusion that this was a solution.
A deal with the devil, though he did not yet know it.
phisto's fingers twitched slightly, the faintest glimr of satisfaction crossing his features.
For the first ti in a long while, he was interested.
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- Secret Underground Hideout, Calcutta -
- August 3, 1936 -
anwhile, In the dimly lit underground hideout beneath Calcutta, Aryan stood with his arms crossed, his gaze steady as he observed the twelve individuals before him. The air was thick with anticipation. Beside him, Shakti leaned against the wall, her green eyes studying the recruits, while Karna stood silent, his presence alone a reminder of what true power looked like.
Each of the twelve recruits had been carefully chosen. They ca from different backgrounds, different corners of the subcontinent, yet they all had sothing in common—potential.
Nine of them were mutants, their X-Genes already active, though most were at an Alpha-level, strong but far from Oga-tier. Their abilities varied—so had enhanced reflexes, others displayed elental control or heightened senses. Each had the potential to beco sothing greater with proper training.
But it was the other five that interested Aryan the most. At first glance, they were no different from ordinary humans. No mutant abilities, no visible signs of being special. But Aryan knew better. His analysis had detected sothing deeper within them—an inhuman genetic code, dormant, unawakened.
They had been born with sothing far rarer than a mutant gift. They were Inhumans, yet their powers had never surfaced because the key to their awakening had never been in their hands.
Until now.
Aryan shifted his focus inward, opening the interface of his ta-Creation System.
A display appeared in his mind.
| Current MP: 1560 |
He didn't hesitate. "Create Terrigen Crystal."
A notification flashed before him.
| -100 MP deducted |
In the next mont, a faint shimr of energy condensed in his palm. A small, translucent blue crystal materialized, glowing softly with a pulsing inner light.
The room fell silent as the recruits noticed the object in Aryan's hand. They didn't know what it was, but they could feel sothing from it. An unexplainable pull, like an instinct buried deep within them was suddenly stirring.
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