Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)

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- Governor's House, Calcutta -

- March 11, 1936 – Evening -

Brigadier General Alan Whitmore stood frozen in the doorway, his sharp blue eyes narrowing at the sight before him. A young man—barely past his teens, by the look of him—sat at the Governor's desk, legs crossed, fingers tapping against the polished wood with an air of absolute control. The clothing he wore was unlike anything Whitmore had ever seen—its intricate design foreign, yet undeniably regal. A distinct defiance lingered in the way he carried himself, as if he belonged there, in a seat meant for those who ruled, not for the filth that served.

It took every ounce of restraint for Whitmore to keep his expression neutral. His entire life had been shaped by the belief that the British Empire was the pinnacle of civilization, ordained to rule over lesser, primitive peoples. And yet here was an Indian—an insolent savage—lounging in a seat of British power, speaking with the ease of a conqueror addressing his subjugated foes.

Whitmore's hands clenched into fists as Aryan—Maheshvara, as the rumors called him—spoke.

"Now," the young man said smoothly, "shall we discuss the terms of your surrender?"

The sheer audacity made Whitmore's blood boil. His aristocratic upbringing had instilled in him an unshakable belief in reason, science, and order. Superstition was the crutch of the weak-minded, a tool of the uncivilized to inflate their importance. Ghosts, demons, and so-called 'gods' were fabrications of lesser beings who sought to make themselves seem larger than life. Science and progress—those were the truths of the world. The British had taken those truths and forged an empire from them. They had every right to mold the world as they saw fit, to use its resources, to tame its people.

The Idea that a native, no matter how intelligent or skilled, could defy the Empire so brazenly was an insult beyond words.

Whitmore's lip curled as he took a step forward. "Who the hell do you think you are?" he demanded, his voice sharp, laced with barely contained fury. "And how did you get in here without being executed the moment you set foot inside?"

Maheshvara merely smiled, a slow, knowing expression that sent another wave of anger through Whitmore. "Who knows?" the Indian mused, tilting his head slightly, his blue eyes gleaming with something infuriatingly unreadable.

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The Governor, standing beside Whitmore, was far less vocal in his outrage, but his growing unease was evident. Unlike the Brigadier General, he had spent years governing these lands, dealing with the people and their relentless whispers of rebellion. He had read the reports, listened to the terrified recounts of British officers and informants alike. And now, as he stared at the man before him, he felt his stomach tighten with a realization that Whitmore was too blind to see.

Maheshvara.

There was no doubt in his mind. The clothing, the sheer audacity, the eerie confidence that came with knowing something they didn't—it all aligned with what he had heard. More importantly, the absolute silence in the Governor's House did not go unnoticed. Where were the guards? The soldiers stationed at every entrance? There should have been chaos the moment this man set foot inside, yet no alarm had been raised, no shouts of warning echoed through the halls. The very fact that Maheshvara sat here so casually, without resistance, meant one of two things: either the guards were dead, or they were never aware of his presence to begin with.

Neither possibility boded well.

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The Governor's grip tightened around his cane. "Brigadier," he said slowly, his voice carefully measured. "We have a problem."

Whitmore barely spared him a glance, his focus entirely on the infuriating figure at the desk. "The only problem I see," he said through gritted teeth, "is an impudent native who believes himself untouchable."

Maheshvara chuckled softly, the sound grating against Whitmore's nerves. "Believe?" he echoed. "General, I do not believe myself untouchable. I simply am."

Something about the way he said it—so assured, so absolute—sent an unfamiliar sensation creeping up Whitmore's spine. But he crushed it just as quickly. He was a man of reason, of logic. Fear was not something he entertained, especially not at the hands of an Indian playing god.

"Enjoy your theatrics while you can," Whitmore sneered, his hand resting dangerously close to his holster. "Because when I'm through with you, no one will remember your name."

Maheshvara exhaled, shaking his head as if disappointed. "Ah, Whitmore," he murmured, as if speaking to a stubborn child. "I was hoping you'd be more… perceptive."

The Governor swallowed. He could feel it in the air now—an unseen weight pressing against the room, an inescapable shift in power that Whitmore refused to acknowledge. And for the first time since the rebellion had begun, he wondered if the British had already lost control of Calcutta without realizing it.

Maheshvara leaned back, his gaze sweeping over both men before settling on Whitmore. His next words were spoken with the quiet certainty of a man who had already decided the outcome of the game.

"Now then," he said, tapping his fingers against the desk once more. "Shall we begin?"

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Whitmore bristled, but before he could fire another demand, Maheshvara turned his attention away. Dismissing him completely.

Instead, his gaze settled on Governor Sir John Anderson.

The Governor had remained silent until now, his mind working through the layers of implications before him. Unlike Whitmore, Anderson had years of experience dealing with the complexities of ruling India. He had witnessed firsthand the shifting tides of control, the way rebellion took shape not just through brute force, but through patience, through whispers in the dark. And now, seeing this man—this Maheshvara—sitting so casually in his chair, unbothered by the obvious danger he should have been in, Anderson felt a gnawing sense of unease.

Soldiers should have already stormed the room.

Maheshvara should not have been able to step foot inside this place, let alone claim a seat of power.

And yet, here he was.

That could only mean one thing.

Anderson exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the head of his cane as Maheshvara finally spoke, addressing him directly.

"It seems you understand already, Governor," he said, his voice calm, unwavering. "But your companion does not."

Anderson remained silent, waiting.

Maheshvara leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the polished wood of the desk. "Calcutta," he said, his words deliberate, measured, carrying the weight of inevitability, "is no longer under British control."

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A heavy silence filled the room.

Whitmore stiffened, his face twisting into an expression of sheer disbelief. The sheer absurdity of the statement—so confidently spoken—was enough to push his already simmering anger toward outright rage.

Anderson, however, did not react so outwardly. His mind worked through the claim, the implications sinking in with unsettling clarity. He had received the reports. The whispers among the locals, the strange disappearances, the sudden failures in communication between key British outposts. He had dismissed them as mere disruptions—troublesome, but manageable. Now, however, he was beginning to see the larger picture.

The silence was finally broken by Whitmore's scoff. "This is laughable," he snapped. "Do you honestly expect us to believe—"

"You don't have to believe," Maheshvara interrupted smoothly, his attention still on Anderson. "You will see soon enough."

Anderson inhaled sharply, his grip on his cane tightening further. He had ruled over these lands long enough to know that dismissing something without understanding it was a mistake. And despite the part of him that resisted the idea, he knew—deep down—that this was not a bluff.

Something had shifted.

And Calcutta was no longer theirs.

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Brigadier General Alan Whitmore took a slow step forward, his boot heels clicking sharply against the polished wooden floor. His expression, carved from years of discipline and arrogance, held nothing but contempt. "You seem to think you hold power here, boy," he said, his voice low, edged with barely concealed disdain. "But let me remind you where you stand. This is British territory. You are alone, and you are outnumbered."

He Ignored the silence that loomed heavy in the air, the unnatural absence of guards, the eerie certainty in the young man's gaze. Superstition was for the weak. He had no patience for it. And so, he turned his head ever so slightly, just enough to give the Governor a silent command. A flick of the fingers. A small gesture that carried the weight of a lifetime of military authority.

Governor Sir John Anderson hesitated, his fingers twitching against the fine wood of his cane. He knew, better than Whitmore, that this was no ordinary rebel. The reports, the whispers, the terrifying stories that had reached his ears—they all pointed to something beyond reason. And yet, under the Brigadier's unwavering gaze, he found himself reaching for his firearm.

With a reluctant breath, Anderson drew his pistol, his hands steady despite the sweat gathering at his temples. He leveled the barrel at Maheshvara's chest.

Whitmore allowed himself a small, smug smirk. "Now, you will drop whatever tricks you think you have and surrender. Do so, and perhaps I will be merciful. Continue this farce, and I promise you, your family will suffer for your arrogance."

Maheshvara's expression did not change. If anything, he seemed amused by the display, as though watching children play with sticks and pretending they were weapons. His blue eyes flicked between the two men, noting their firm stances, their unwavering belief in steel and lead.

Then, he let out a slow breath and tilted his head. "Ah, indeed, it is unfortunate that I am outnumbered."

He leaned forward slightly, placing his hands lightly on the desk, his smile growing. "But let's even the numbers, shall we?"

Before Whitmore could respond, the air around them twisted. Shadows, darker than the dimly lit room should allow, flickered into existence. They stretched unnaturally, bending and warping as they coalesced into four distinct figures. Identical to Maheshvara in every way.

Two stood behind Whitmore. Two behind Anderson.

The Governor barely stifled a strangled gasp, his pistol trembling ever so slightly as he fought the urge to turn and look. He didn't need to. He could feel them. The presence of something beyond reason. Beyond logic.

Whitmore, however, refused to acknowledge the impossible. His military instincts kicked in, his mind categorizing the figures as mere illusions. A trick of the dim light. Some native parlor trick meant to instill fear.

His grip on his revolver tightened. "I don't know what nonsense you think you're playing at," he growled, eyes locked onto the Maheshvara in front of him. "But tricks won't save you. I don't believe in your myths, and I sure as hell don't believe in ghosts."

Maheshvara chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "Oh, General," he said softly. "Then you are in for quite the awakening."

The clones moved.

And for the first time in his life, Brigadier General Alan Whitmore felt something he had long since abandoned:

Fear.

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