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- Delhi, Bharat -
- August 31, 1936 -
The morning sun rose over Delhi, casting a golden hue across the city. Today was the day—the coronation of Aryan Rajvanshi as the Samrat of Bharat.
The streets were alive with anticipation. Crowds gathered in every corner, their voices merging into a sea of excitement. Flags bearing the newly unified nation's emblem fluttered across buildings once occupied by colonial powers. The air carried the scent of fresh flowers, incense, and the lingering echoes of a revolution that had finally reached its conclusion.
But within the walls of the Viceroy's House, now repurposed into the ceremonial venue, the atmosphere was different—calm yet heavy with expectation. This was more than just the crowning of a ruler. It was the formal acknowledgment of Bharat's sovereignty, a statement to the world that this land would never again be subjugated.
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The transition of power had been swift. As the British fled, Aryan who had pre-planned strategies during the final phase of the freedom struggle, now had unfolded seamlessly. The intellectuals, revolutionaries, and key individuals he had positioned in advance took charge of the plantations, industries, financial assets, and most crucially, the military. Bharat was not left in disarray. Instead, it had stepped into its new identity with remarkable control.
Now, only one matter remained—the princely states. Though many had supported him during the struggle, this was the first official meeting where their stance under his rule would be confirmed. Aryan knew some rulers might seek independence, but he had no intention of letting Bharat fracture. His vision was clear—an undivided, powerful nation.
Every princely ruler had been invited to witness his coronation. Alongside them were prominent figures from across Bharat's political spectrum—leaders of various parties, regardless of past affiliations. Invitations had also been extended beyond borders, with dignitaries from Nepal, Bhutan, Sikkim, and Tibet in attendance. This was not just Bharat's moment; it was a shift in the region's balance of power.
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As the appointed hour arrived, the grand hall of the Viceroy's House stood fully transformed. Garlands of marigolds and lotus flowers adorned the pillars, replacing the once-imposing colonial insignias. Sacred chants filled the space, resonating through the massive hall as the puja commenced—a ritual marking the divine sanctity of the occasion.
Aryan sat at the forefront, clad in regal white and gold, a contrast to the battle-worn attire he had once worn in the struggle for freedom. Beside him, Shakti, his fiancée, sat in a similar ensemble, her presence as significant as his own. She was not just his partner but an integral part of the nation's future.
His parents, Surya and Anjali Rajvanshi, watched from close by, their expressions unreadable yet filled with emotions only they could understand. Beside them stood Karna and his family, along with Shakti's parents and the Natore royals, who had provided both unwavering support and treasures from their ancestral holdings to aid in today's event.
As the puja concluded, silence filled the hall. The moment had come.
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Before Aryan stood an intricately designed throne—crafted from gold, silver, and rare gems, drawn from the Rajvanshi and Natore family treasures. Its design blended ancient Bharat's grandeur with modern craftsmanship, signifying both heritage and progress.
The crown—unlike the ostentatious designs of foreign monarchs—was elegant, embodying the wisdom of the past and the strength of the future. As it was placed upon his head, Aryan felt the weight—not just of the metal but of the legacy, the responsibility, and the expectations that came with it.
A moment of stillness followed. Then, the hall erupted into a resounding chant of "Samrat Aryan Rajvanshi ki Jai!" The echoes carried beyond the walls, reaching the crowds gathered outside.
Bharat had its Emperor.
And the world would soon witness what that truly meant.
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The coronation was complete. The echoes of chants still lingered in the air, but inside the grand halls of the former Viceroy's House, now reclaimed as Bharat's center of power, the celebration had moved to the banquet hall.
The massive space had been transformed for the occasion. Long tables lined with the finest delicacies from across Bharat, chandeliers casting a warm glow, and banners reflecting the nation's new sovereignty replaced the once-imposing colonial décor. The atmosphere was formal, but beneath the surface, tensions ran deep—this was not just a gathering; it was a political battlefield where alliances would be made or tested.
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Aryan stood at the heart of the room, receiving guests one by one.
The leaders of Bharat came first. Men who had fought, debated, and shaped the nation's path—Gandhi, Nehru, Bose, Savarkar, Sardar Patel—each approached, offering their congratulations. Some did so with genuine admiration, others with calculated diplomacy, but all acknowledged him as Bharat's ruler.
Jinnah and his followers were absent. Their silence spoke volumes, but Aryan had already expected this. They would need to be dealt with soon.
Then came the princely states. Their rulers, many clad in resplendent traditional attire, approached in careful order. One after another, they swore allegiance to him.
Not necessarily out of loyalty—though some had supported the revolution—but because they knew the reality. Aryan held all the cards. With the resources, infrastructure, and military left behind by the British firmly in his grasp, his immense popularity among the citizens, and his own overwhelming power, none of them wanted to risk offending him.
But not all had come. Hyderabad, Kashmir, and Junagarh were absent. Their defiance was clear. Aryan made a mental note—this would not be ignored. Bharat would not be divided.
As the last of the princely rulers paid their respects, Aryan turned his focus back to the men who had fought alongside him. Bose and Sardar Patel stood close, engaged in quiet conversation. He approached them and spoke in a low tone.
"We'll need to discuss some things later," Aryan said, his voice firm but unreadable.
Bose gave a sharp nod, understanding the weight behind those words. Patel, ever the strategist, merely said, "Whenever you're ready."
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The air shifted as the foreign dignitaries arrived. Lord Mountbatten was the first. He carried himself with forced grace, offering a stiff, formal congratulations.
But Aryan could see it—the lack of enthusiasm, the wary glances, the silent calculations. Mountbatten wasn't here to honor him. He was here to observe, to assess any weakness.
Aryan met his gaze evenly, offering a polite but cold smile. Let them watch. Let them report back. It wouldn't change what was coming.
Following the British delegation, the royals of Sikkim and Bhutan arrived, extending their respect with measured words. These were small kingdoms, but their strategic importance could not be ignored. Aryan accepted their courtesies with equal diplomacy.
And then came the Nepali royal family.
Aryan's attention sharpened the moment he saw her—Nalini.
Among the Nepali dignitaries, she stood composed, offering a respectful greeting. But her subtle glances, the briefest flicker of amusement in her eyes, told him she had recognized him just as quickly.
The last time they met, It was at Kamar-Taj. She was an Omega-level mutant, the Sorcerer Supreme's student, and someone whom the Ancient One had once asked Aryan to guide.
Their exchange was brief, little more than a greeting among rulers. But Aryan knew better. This was no coincidence.
And as the banquet continued, he couldn't shake the feeling that the night was far from over.
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