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- Across the Indian subcontinent -
- August 1936 -
The impact of 1857: The First War was immediate and unstoppable.
Aryan had ensured that every major printing press in Calcutta operated under his influence. With the British grip over the city weakened, they had no power to halt the distribution. The first copies were printed in secrecy, but as demand surged, they were produced openly, stacked in the backrooms of bookstores, passed between students in universities, and hidden beneath the shawls of housewives returning from the market.
For those who could not read, the stories were retold. Street performers narrated the fall of Jhansi, the horrors of Kanpur, the valiant effort of Rajvanshi family in Bengal, the betrayal at Delhi. Men recited passages in hushed gatherings, while tea shops buzzed with debates over its contents. It was not just a book anymore—it had become a movement.
At first, many who didn't join the freedom struggle for various reasons remained skeptical of this too.
Educated men, government clerks, lawyers trained in British courts—those who had tied their future to the Empire—dismissed it as mere propaganda. They clung to their belief that British rule was a civilizing force. But skepticism wavered when they were forced to compare the book's events to official records by the revolutionaries—records they had once overlooked, written in cold, bureaucratic language.
They found reports detailing entire villages "disciplined" for harboring rebels. Accounts of captured sepoys being executed in masses, labeled as "necessary actions for the stability of the colony." They had never questioned these words before. Now, they saw them for what they were—documentation of massacres.
Doubt turned into disbelief. Disbelief turned into rage.
And the rage did not stay silent.
Even those who had never engaged in politics—shopkeepers who once saw revolution as a disruption to business, housewives who once thought war was a matter for men, students who once dreamed of working for the British administration—now found themselves drawn in. It was no longer a question of distant politics. It was personal.
And at the center of it all was Maheshvara.
Rumors of his exploits had spread before, but now they carried weight. Those who doubted the stories of his strength, of his supernatural abilities, found themselves silenced when they saw him in action. He moved like a force of nature, cutting through British forces with an ease that defied belief. He fought not for glory, not for power, but for them.
For the first time, the people felt what true power looked like—power that belonged to them.
They joined by the thousands. Students left their classes to organize rallies. Housewives formed networks to transport supplies, using their underestimated status to move past British scrutiny. Even children, too young to fight, carried messages, learning the language of resistance before they learned their numbers.
And as the wave of nationalism surged, Aryan and his men struck where it hurt the British most.
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- British High-Security Prison, Bengal -
- August 9, 1936 -
The night was thick with tension, the humid air pressing against the revolutionaries like a second skin. Shyam Sharma, a senior member of Aryan's group of revolutionaries, crouched beside the reinforced gate, fingers tight around a modified Lee-Enfield rifle. It wasn't the same as the ones the British used—Aryan had ensured that. Faster reloading, improved accuracy, and an attachment that allowed for quick modifications depending on the battlefield.
Across the yard, the prison loomed—a fortress of steel and stone, built to crush the will of those inside. But not tonight.
A hand signal from Rajan, another senior member of the organization, sent the first team forward. A muffled shot from a suppressed rifle took down the nearest sentry. Before the others could react, the rebels were already at the main entrance. A small device, no larger than a matchbox, was pressed against the lock—a compact explosive Aryan had designed specifically for these missions. A soft click, a hiss of burning metal, and then—boom—the heavy doors shuddered open.
The guards barely had time to raise their rifles before the rebels swarmed in. Shots rang out, boots pounded against stone, but the outcome had been decided long before the first bullet was fired. Aryan's weapons gave them an edge. Smoke grenades, silent communications, reinforced body armor hidden beneath their simple clothing—everything had been designed to ensure maximum efficiency.
In the dim corridors, behind iron bars, figures stirred. Hollow eyes met the rebels with disbelief. Then, recognition. Then, hope.
Shyam reached the first cell and smashed the lock with the butt of his rifle. The chains clattered to the ground as the prisoner stumbled forward, his once-proud face lined with exhaustion.
"Bose Babu," Shyam said, offering a steadying hand. "It's time."
Subhash Chandra Bose looked at him, and in that moment, understanding passed between them. He had not broken. He had endured. And now, the fight would continue.
All around them, cell doors burst open, chains were shattered, and men long thought buried by history stepped into the light once more.
A cry went up, raw and defiant.
"Vande Mataram!"
The sound rolled through the prison like a wave, shaking its very foundation.
Another prisoner who was previously a trusted subordinate of Bose staggered from his cell, gripping the shoulders of the young men who had freed him. Other leaders, revolutionaries who had once been voices of resistance, now stood shoulder to shoulder with their liberators.
The British guards who remained—those who had not been neutralized—watched in stunned silence. They had spent years keeping these men in chains, convinced that time would erase their influence. But now, the very people they had oppressed were carrying them out as heroes.
As the rebels led them into the night, another explosion rang out behind them—their final message to the British.
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In similar fashion, prison after prison fell to carefully planned raids. The first attack came under the cover of night—quick, efficient, and devastating. British guards found their own weapons turned against them. Explosives disabled their communications. By the time reinforcements arrived, the prisoners were gone, and the revolutionaries had vanished into the city.
Then another raid. And another.
By the time the British realized the scale of the operation, it was too late. Their most feared captives—Subhash Chandra Bose, Vinayak Savarkar, and others who had been locked away to silence them—were now free. Not only free, but joining the very movement the British had tried to suppress.
The cracks in the Empire's foundation were deepening.
And the fire that had been lit would not be extinguished.
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- Ujjain, Central Provinces -
- August 10, 1936 -
On the other side, Mephisto was already staging a bait for Maheshvara. The crowd had been gathered by force, by the British forces under his machinations, true to the deal made between the British and him, though they didn't yet realize that they made a deal with the devil and the consequences of it. Men, women, and even children were dragged from their homes, their daily lives shattered as British officers herded them into the town square under the threat of rifles. The air was thick with sweat, fear, and the unshakable weight of something unseen.
At the center of it all stood a makeshift gallows, ropes swaying like hungry serpents in the humid evening air. Beneath them, kneeling with hands bound, were revolutionaries—some barely more than boys, others men who had spent a lifetime fighting against the empire's chains. Their faces were bruised, bloodied, but their eyes still burned with defiance.
A British officer, draped In arrogance, stepped forward. His polished boots clicked against the wooden platform as he addressed the crowd.
"These men," he declared, his voice sharp and cruel, "are traitors to the Empire. They sought to dismantle the order that has granted you prosperity. Let this be a lesson—resistance is futile. The British Raj does not forgive."
He gestured to the executioner. The nooses were tightened. Gasps rippled through the crowd, mothers clutching their children, fathers gripping their fists in helpless rage. But something was wrong. The air felt… heavier. Reality itself seemed to ripple, as if the city had been cut away from the world and placed on a different stage altogether.
Then came the laughter.
It slithered through the streets, a sound that wasn't quite human, nor fully monstrous. The sky darkened unnaturally, the streetlamps flickering erratically before bursting in a cascade of sparks. Shadows twisted unnaturally, stretching far beyond where they should, bending like living things.
The British officer turned, his bravado faltering. "Who's there?"
A slow, mocking clap echoed through the air. And then, he appeared.
Mephisto.
Draped in a crimson coat, his sharp features twisted in amusement, he stood as though he had always been there, as though the world itself had merely failed to notice him before. His eyes—unnatural, glinting with amusement and malice—surveyed the scene as if it were nothing more than a well-crafted performance.
"Ah, what a splendid spectacle, what a brilliant tools you are," Mephisto mused, his voice smooth yet carrying the weight of something ancient. "Pain. Fear. Desperation. Truly, the British never fail to provide… entertainment."
The officer raised his pistol. "Who the hell are—"
A flick of Mephisto's fingers. The officer choked, his entire body seizing as his own shadow coiled around his throat like a living noose. He didn't even have time to scream before he crumpled, lifeless, to the stage.
The executioner dropped his blade and ran. The soldiers, trained to face men, found themselves standing against something far worse.
Mephisto ignored them. His gaze was fixed elsewhere, beyond the physical, beyond the moment.
"Maheshvara…" he called, his voice laced with something deeper than mere words. It resonated, rippling through the very fabric of reality. "Come now. Surely you wouldn't let all these innocents suffer, would you?"
The bound revolutionaries gritted their teeth, realizing they were nothing more than bait.
The crowd trembled as the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then—power surged through the air.
Something was coming.
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