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- Bombay, India -
- August 11, 1936 -
The morning in Bombay was like any other. The streets bustled with merchants setting up their stalls, laborers heading to factories, and office clerks weaving through the crowds. The scent of freshly brewed chai mixed with the salt of the sea breeze, while the rhythmic clatter of tram wheels against the rails filled the air. Life moved forward as it alwayss had—under the shadow of a foreign rule that had overstayed its welcome.
Then, the sky changed.
A deep, resonant hum rippled through the city. The air itself seemed to pulse with energy. And then, high above, a figure emerged—larger than life, towering over the skyline like something out of myth. Cloaked in golden flames, the space around him crackled with raw power. Maheshvara.
But this was no ordinary sighting.
Across the country, from the crowded streets of Calcutta to the quiet villages of Punjab, from the deserts of Rajasthan to the temples of Varanasi, the same vision appeared. It was as if the sky itself had become a massive screen, displaying the figure of the one India had come to revere. Farmers paused in their fields, fishermen looked up from their boats, and children ran to call their parents. Every single person across the land turned their eyes to the heavens.
And then, he spoke.
"My fellow countrymen. Many of you know me as Maheshvara, but few have seen my face or known my true name. That changes today."
"I am Aryan Rajvanshi."
The name echoed like a thunderclap. The mask was gone. The whispers, the speculation, the countless theories—all meaningless now. He stood before them, not as an unknown guardian, but as a man, one of their own.
"I have projected myself across the country like this because I have an important message for all of you. For years, we have fought in the shadows. We have resisted, we have endured. But no longer. Today, I speak to you not as a hidden warrior, but as the future of Bharat."
A murmur spread through the crowds below. Some gasped, some whispered, but most simply listened.
"For too long, we have lived under chains forged by those who do not belong here. The British have ruled our lands, stolen our wealth, and tried to break our spirit. They call us their subjects. I say no more."
His voice, Infused with raw power, carried across the winds, reaching every ear in every corner of the land.
"I give them one month. One month to leave our homeland peacefully. If they refuse, then they will be removed. Not just by me, but by the people of India."
Excitement surged through the streets. In Bombay, in Delhi, in Lucknow—everywhere, people felt the weight of his words. Some clenched their fists in determination, others raised their voices in support.
"I am not here to rule for power's sake. I am here to protect, to unite, and to rebuild. We will not trade one form of oppression for another. We will not replace foreign masters with internal divisions. This is not a fight for one group, one caste, or one language. This is the fight for Bharat. For all of us."
There was no mistaking his intent. He was not just asking for support—he was demanding unity.
"To the revolutionaries who have fought in the shadows, to those who have bled for freedom, and to those who have yet to rise—I call upon you now. Come forward. Whether you fight under the banner of the Congress, the Indian soldiers under British Army, the secret cells, or the warrior clans of old—come. Stand with me. We will not be scattered factions. We will be one."
He extended his hand, as if reaching out to every soul watching him.
"The time of uncertainty is over. The time of action begins now."
The vision flickered, then faded. The sky returned to normal. But the world had changed.
A moment of silence followed. Then, a roar erupted.
From the narrow alleys to the grand avenues, voices rose in unison. "Maheshvara! Maheshvara! Aryan Rajvanshi!" His name was no longer just whispered in secrecy—it was shouted with pride. Those who had already believed in him cheered the loudest, their faith vindicated. Those who had doubted now found themselves swayed by the sheer force of the moment.
In a quiet home in Lahore, a young man who had been skeptical of the revolution clenched his fists and declared he would fight. In the streets of Madras, workers paused, looking at one another with newfound determination. In the jails where revolutionaries had once suffered, those recently freed by Maheshvara swore their allegiance to him, ready to follow his call.
Even those who had feared the idea of a ruler could not deny it now—India had found its leader.
The British officers stationed across the country, from their offices in Delhi to their outposts in the farthest corners of the empire, stood frozen. Their faces drained of color. This was no longer a rebellion in the shadows. It was a reckoning.
In his mansion in Calcutta, Surya Rajvanshi watched with a quiet nod, his expression unreadable. Next to him, Anjali wiped away silent tears—pride and worry mingling in her heart. Karna grinned, shaking his head. "Well, that was one hell of an entrance."
And beside them, Shakti smiled softly. She had always known this day would come.
The revolution had almost reached its final stage. There was no turning back.
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- Near Delhi, India -
- August 11, 1936 – Evening -
As the echoes of Aryan's declaration still roared across the land, the revolution had already begun moving like a storm. In every region of India, men and women who had long harbored the fire of resistance now found themselves at a turning point. No longer was this a hidden war fought in whispers and dark alleys—it was now a battle for survival, for freedom, for Bharat.
And Aryan had no intention of letting it slow down.
Using his abilities, he split his presence across the subcontinent, forming countless shadow clones, each one a perfect replica of himself, appearing before the commanders, leaders, and warriors of his underground organization. From Bengal to Punjab, from the Deccan to Assam, his forces had gathered in large numbers, bolstered by civilians who had answered his call. Farmers, workers, students, soldiers—India's people had risen.
One such gathering took place in the wilderness outside Delhi.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and sweat. Hundreds, maybe thousands, had gathered in the open fields, torches flickering in the night like restless spirits. These were no longer just revolutionaries—these were the people of Bharat, willing to fight, willing to bleed, willing to break their chains.
Aryan, standing tall before them, looked over the sea of determined faces. Many had followed him for years in secret. Some had just taken up arms today. But in all their eyes, he saw the same thing—resolve.
He took a deep breath, then spoke.
"We have waited long enough."
His voice cut through the night like a blade. The crowd, already tense with anticipation, stood even straighter.
"For years, we fought like ghosts, slipping through their grasp, taking what victories we could. That was necessary then. But now, the time for shadows is over. The time for fear is over. Now, we make them fear us."
A ripple ran through the gathered fighters. Some nodded. Others clenched their fists. All listened.
"The British will not leave willingly. They will try to hold their grip on us with blood and steel. So we will respond with the same. I do not ask you to show mercy. I do not ask you to fight with honor. I ask you to win."
The tension in the air thickened. Aryan's golden eyes burned in the darkness.
"Break their chains, burn their outposts, strike them where they sleep. Let them know there is nowhere in Bharat they are safe. If they come with rifles, we will come with the same intensity and firepower. If they march with armies, we will drown them in our numbers. And if they refuse to leave…"
He let the words hang for a moment, then said, "…we will drag them out of our land ourselves."
The roar that followed shook the night.
Men who had once feared retribution now raised their weapons, ready to become retribution. Women who had once fought in secret now stepped forward to lead. The hesitant, the uncertain—they had vanished. What remained were warriors.
Aryan let them cheer, let them embrace the fire building in their chests. Then, he raised a hand, and silence fell.
"We do not fight just to remove the British. We fight for Bharat. If we allow greed, hatred, or division to take root, then even if we win, we lose. The war will not end when they leave. It will only end when Bharat stands strong, united, and untouchable."
He pointed toward the distant city lights of Delhi, where British officers likely huddled in fear after his earlier declaration.
"For now, we push harder. We strike deeper. We bring the fight to their homes, the way they did to ours. No more waiting. No more holding back."
One of his lieutenants, a young man from the North-West Frontier Province, stepped forward and saluted. "We will fight like demons, Maheshvara."
Aryan smirked. "Good. Because we are."
Another roar erupted, louder than before.
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