Aarav sat on the cold marble floor of the abandoned temple, his breathing ragged. The echo of bullets had faded, but the fear still clung to the air like thick smoke. His shoulder burned from the graze of a shot. Blood soaked part of his sleeve, but pain wasn't his biggest concern now.
Across from him, Meera held Aryan's hand, her eyes trembling. Major Aryan Sen, once the towering wall of courage, was lying still—eyes closed, lips pale, breath faint.
The silence was terrifying.
"Aryan… Aryan, wake up!" Meera's voice cracked.
Aarav dragged himself closer. "He's not gone… He can't be."
Aryan's eyelids twitched. A weak groan escaped his throat. Relief poured into Meera's eyes like the first rain after a drought.
"I'm not dying today," Aryan muttered, a faint smile twitching at his lips. "Not until we finish this war."
Meera let out a shaky laugh, tears flowing freely. Aarav tightened his grip on the rifle beside him. That night's ambush had changed everything. They were no longer just seekers of truth. They were enemies of an invisible army.
And this army didn't want prisoners.
The Coded Signal
While Meera dressed Aryan's wound using the temple's torn prayer cloths, Aarav opened the metal case they had risked their lives retrieving. Inside was a rusted radio set and a diary. The pages were filled with strange letters—Sanskrit, Bengali, Persian—all woven into coded phrases.
Aarav flipped through it, eyes stopping at a torn page.
"Ashwamedh continues. Dhruvastra is moving. Target—Delhi. Execution Date: 15th August."
His hands froze. "Dhruvastra…"
He remembered the name. It wasn't a missile. It wasn't a person. It was the name given to a psychological war device—something not even the current Indian military admitted existed.
Aarav looked up at Aryan. "We were wrong. This isn't just about history. It's about India's future."
Aryan nodded slowly. "They're planning to destroy everything from within. A silent takeover."
Meera whispered, "Then why Netaji? Why his name in the files?"
Aryan's face turned grim. "Because Netaji knew the system would one day eat itself. And he had built something to stop it. A secret group… loyal only to India. Not to parties. Not to leaders. Not even to the army."
The Message from the Dead
As they deciphered more of the diary, Meera found something stuck between two pages—a crumpled photo.
It showed a young man in uniform… and beside him—Netaji.
"Aarav… that's Aryan."
"No, that can't be—" Aarav looked closer. The photo was dated 1971.
Meera whispered, "Then how…?"
Aryan stayed quiet. His eyes were closed again, but a single tear rolled down his cheek.
"I was trained under men who served Bose," he said slowly. "Some of us were chosen… for something bigger. Something no one would ever understand."
Meera's voice trembled, "Are you saying… you're not just a soldier?"
Aryan turned his head to her. "I was never just a soldier."
Delhi Awaits
They needed to move. According to the diary, something called Operation Dhruvastra was about to be triggered in Delhi. The capital. Independence Day. A plan to shatter India from its heart.
Aarav packed the diary, the radio, and whatever supplies he could carry. Aryan insisted on walking, despite his injury.
"We're not going to Delhi," he said.
Aarav frowned. "But that's the target—"
"We're going to Lucknow first. To meet someone."
"Who?"
Aryan's face hardened.
"The man who trained me. The last living soldier of Bose's command."
A chill ran down Aarav's spine. This journey wasn't just about secrets anymore. It was about a forgotten army rising again. An army without flags, without medals—but with fire in their hearts.
And this time, India's enemies weren't outsiders.
They were among them.