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- Underground Hideout, Calcutta -
- May 21, 1936 -
The underground hideout flickered in dim lamplight, casting long shadows across the rough walls. Maps, coded messages, and intelligence reports covered the wooden table where Aryan stood, arms crossed, his gaze steady. Across from him, Shakti and Karna had just returned from separate operations, their faces marked by exhaustion but sharpened with purpose.
Shakti leaned against the wall, arms folded, her presence humming with restrained energy. The Power Cosmic coursed through her veins, a gift she had only begun to master. Her form flickered faintly, as if reality itself struggled to contain her presence. Karna sat on a crate, his fingers idly playing with the light around him, bending and refracting it like liquid gold. His photokinetic abilities had evolved rapidly—he was no longer just a warrior but a living beacon, controlling illumination and darkness at will.
Aryan turned his gaze to them. "So, The Shadow Warriors—how did they perform?"
Shakti exhaled, her hands resting against the wall. "Better than expected, actually. They move like whispers in the dark. The British don't just fear them—they don't understand them. Some think they're ghosts. Some think they're demons. But the people… they believe they are divine retribution." Her voice held quiet satisfaction. "We've made sure Maheshvara is more than a symbol. He's a force they can feel."
Karna nodded. "The Warriors hold the streets at night. The British won't patrol alone anymore. Some outposts have been abandoned entirely. The moment they see the Chakra left behind, they panic." He held up a hand, and light condensed into a solid form before dissipating. "It's working, Aryan. Bengal doesn't just resist anymore. The people believe they can win."
Aryan studied the map before him. The Shadow Warriors had been a test—an experiment in fear and disruption. Now, they were a crucial part of his strategy. "Good," he said. "We increase their numbers. But we can't stop here. We need to spread beyond Bengal."
Shakti stepped forward, her fingers grazing the edge of the table. The air around her pulsed subtly, space bending at her presence. "It's already happening. The six we initially recruited? They've grown their own forces faster than we planned."
She pointed to different regions on the map.
"Rahim, in NW Frontier, Sindh and Balochistan." Sabotaging British rail lines, cutting supply chains piece by piece.
"Dawa, in Himalayan and North Eastern Region along with Burma." Training tribal warriors and plantation workers in guerrilla warfare. The tea estates had become battlegrounds.
"Arjan, in Punjab, and surrounding regions." A seasoned warrior, now an expert in ambush tactics. British officers were falling before they even knew they were being hunted.
"Gurunathan, in Southern India." Embedded within the colonial administration, feeding them misinformation and leaking intelligence to the resistance.
"Daniel in Goa and other Christian majority regions." Controlling dockyards and smuggling routes, crippling British trade while arming the revolution.
"Veer in Rajasthan and Central India." Using the vast deserts to build hidden strongholds, training fighters where the empire's eyes could never reach.
"They're ahead of schedule," Karna added. "Each one is leading operations like a commander now. The network is solid."
Aryan nodded. This wasn't a mere resistance anymore. It was war.
"The British will react," Karna said, voice even. "They'll send men who understand war. They'll adapt."
Shakti's lips curled slightly. "Yes, but we will be ready for them."
Aryan's eyes gleamed with quiet resolve. This time, India would not kneel. His gaze swept over the map once more before he nodded. "Good."
The word carried weight. Not just approval, but conviction. Everything they had built—the networks, the operations, the fear in the British ranks—had led to this moment. Holding Bengal for long was never their true goal. If they wanted true freedom, Maheshvara had to become more than a shadow in the night. He had to be everywhere.
"Now, It's time," Aryan said, his voice steady. "Maheshvara can't just be a force in Bengal. He has to be the fire that spreads across India. The people need to see that resistance isn't just possible—it's inevitable. We have to break their fear and replace it with hope."
Shakti pushed off the wall, her presence shifting the air around her. "And you're the one to do it."
Karna rose from his seat, light flickering at his fingertips. "We'll handle Bengal and the surrounding regions. The British won't take back an inch of what we've claimed." His tone was certain. "You focus on the rest."
Aryan met their eyes. There was no hesitation, no doubt—only the same fire that burned in him. He exhaled slowly, his decision solidifying into action.
"Then so be it."
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- Across the Indian Subcontinent -
- June – July 1936 -
In the coming weeks that followed, Maheshvara was no longer a whisper confined to Bengal. He was a storm, sweeping across the Indian subcontinent, his presence felt in every city, every village, and every hidden corner where oppression had reigned unchecked.
Where there was suffering, he appeared. Where there was injustice, his hand delivered judgment.
The British had barely begun to organize their response, still trying to assess the growing threat. But Maheshvara did not wait. He moved swiftly, his shadow clones spreading across the vast lands of India, ensuring that no place was beyond his reach.
From the mountains of Kashmir to the shores of Tamil Nadu, from Punjab's borders to the valleys of Assam, the people awoke to stories of a figure who defied the empire. A force that could not be contained.
His Chakra Insignia was no longer just a symbol of rebellion. It had become a warning.
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- A Village Near Patna, Bihar -
- June 19, 1936 -
A village near Patna had long been at the mercy of an English landlord, Edward Harrington. He controlled the land, reducing its people to mere laborers. The crops they grew were shipped overseas, leaving them with nothing. When they protested, his hired thugs silenced them with brutal force.
But that night, justice arrived.
Harrington sat in his estate, unaware of the terror approaching. Outside, his guards stood with rifles in hand. They didn't see the shadows shifting or hear the near-silent movement slipping through the cracks in the walls.
Then—the torches outside flickered and died.
A chill swept through the halls. The guards turned, confusion flashing in their eyes before the darkness itself moved. Figures emerged from the void, their eyes glinting in the faint light—Maheshvara's Shadow Warriors.
Panic spread. Gunfire rang out, but their bullets hit nothing. The shadows consumed, disarmed, and subdued. Harrington stumbled back, his hand reaching for his pistol.
And then—Maheshvara stepped forward.
His golden cloak, blended with streaks of purple and silver, shifted with each step, the engravings catching the dim candlelight. His black hair fell to his shoulders, framing piercing blue eyes that bore into Harrington like cold steel.
The landlord froze.
"You have stolen from these people," Maheshvara said. "Their voices have been silenced. Not anymore."
The shadows wrapped around Harrington, forcing him to the ground, leaving him kneeling before the very people he had ruled over. His men lay defeated, swallowed by the dark—but Maheshvara did not strike the final blow.
Justice did not belong to him. It belonged to the people.
He turned to the villagers.
"What will you do?" His voice was even, neither commanding nor urging, but allowing them to choose.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then a woman stepped forward—Meera, the widow of a farmer who had been beaten to death by Harrington's men.
She looked at her oppressor, then at Maheshvara.
"We do not seek vengeance," she whispered. "We seek freedom."
Maheshvara inclined his head. Even after years of suffering, they still held onto their strength. And, he deeply respected them for it, this wasn't just limited to this village everywhere he went across India, people gave similar responses, when he presented them the opportunity, with some exceptions where the situation didn't grant them the luxury to and they wanted revenge first.
He stepped aside. The people of the village, once powerless, now stood tall. The landlord was stripped of his wealth, his lands returned to those who rightfully owned them. His men, disarmed and cast out, were warned never to return.
When the villagers turned to thank Maheshvara—he was gone.
But his Chakra remained, burned into the estate's gate, glowing softly in the moonlight.
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- Meghalaya -
- July 5, 1936 -
The monsoons came early, heavier than expected. The rivers swelled, the earth trembled, and Meghalaya found itself drowning.
The floods came suddenly, sweeping through villages, tearing homes apart. The British, still focused on suppressing unrest, sent no aid.
But Maheshvara did.
Where the floodwaters threatened to consume entire towns, a lone figure soared through the skies.
Maheshvara flew against the storm, energy coursing through his veins. His arms stretched forward, and dark tendrils erupted from his hands, forcing the waters to split, redirecting them away from the villages.
His Shadow Warriors appeared in the streets, pulling survivors from the wreckage, carrying children to safety, reinforcing homes with barriers of pure dark energy.
To the people, it was not just power.
It was salvation.
Word spread faster than the flood—Maheshvara had not only fought the British but had fought nature itself. He had saved thousands, defying the storm with his own hands.
Days later, as the floodwaters receded and people began to rebuild, his name was no longer just spoken.
It was carved Into history.
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