Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)

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- Natore Rajbari, Bengal -

- July 7, 1936 -

The morning was slow, unhurried—a rare moment of calm. After the events of the previous night, Aryan and Shakti spent the day with her family, sharing meals, stories, and laughter. The younger children clung to Shakti, their admiration clear, while the elders spoke with Aryan about matters of the world, treating him as one of their own.

For a while, it was easy to forget the weight of their responsibilities.

But as the sun dipped below the horizon, Aryan knew it was time to leave.

Standing in the courtyard, he turned to Shakti. "Promise me, you'll be more careful next time, okay?"

She smirked. "Ok I promise, but you're one to talk."

He exhaled, shaking his head. "I mean it."

"I know," she said, softer this time. "And I will."

A shimmer of energy flickered around Aryan as he vanished, leaving Shakti standing in the quiet evening air. The peace was temporary—there was always work to do.

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- Coastal Village, Near Bay of Bengal -

- July 10, 1936 -

Days later, a violent monsoon storm rolled in over a coastal village south of Bengal. The winds howled through the trees, ripping apart weak rooftops, while the sea churned, sending massive waves crashing against the shore.

The British authorities had issued no warnings, provided no aid. The people were left to fend for themselves.

Then, in the heart of the chaos, a figure appeared.

Shakti stood on the flooded streets, rain lashing against her deep indigo bodysuit.She had redesigned the slime suit given to her by Aryan to suit more to her taste. The new design had gold accents traced the lines of her armor, and her long scarf billowed behind her. Her masked face remained calm as she assessed the destruction.

Beside her, another figure emerged from the rain—taller, clad in segmented armor resembling an ancient Indian warrior's. His presence was striking, but what stood out most was the faint glow emanating from his form, shifting like sunlight piercing through storm clouds.

Karna.

His eyes scanned the surroundings, glowing faintly with stored energy. "The river's going to overflow," he said. "The embankments won't hold for long."

Shakti nodded, raising her hands. A shimmering force field expanded outward, reinforcing the weakened barriers, holding back the relentless water. But she wasn't just stopping the flood—she was giving Karna time.

He stepped forward, lifting a hand toward the sky. Light condensed in his palm, intensifying until it became blinding. Then, with a sharp motion, he released it.

A massive arc of light shot upward, splitting through the storm clouds like a divine spear. The winds faltered for a moment, and the torrential rain lessened, no longer feeding the surging river.

The villagers, who had been desperately holding onto whatever they could, watched in stunned silence. Some fell to their knees, whispering prayers. Others wept openly.

One man approached hesitantly, eyes wide with disbelief. "You… you are just like Maheshvara."

Shakti turned to him, her mask concealing any expression. "Yes, we are here to help."

A woman clutched her child tightly, tears mixing with the rain on her face. "They left us to die," she whispered, anger and grief in her voice. "The British. They knew, and they did nothing."

Another villager spoke up. "But Maheshvara protected us before. And now, Devi and Surya walk among us too."

The names had spread. Maheshvara had long been a figure of legend, but now, Shakti and Karna had become symbols in their own right.

Shakti met Karna's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them.

The storm had passed. The village still stood.

And the people knew they were not alone.

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- British Command, Delhi -

- July 10, 1936 -

The tension in the conference hall was far worse than before. The scent of cigar smoke lingered, but no one was smoking this time. The air was too heavy, the mood too grim. Reports far, far worse than those that had arrived previously, had flooded in from all across the subcontinent, and none of them liked the implications of it.

Major General Arthur Hastings sat at the head of the table, his fingers tightly gripping the armrest of his chair. His expression was carved from stone, betraying nothing—but his silence spoke volumes.

Colonel Richard Faulkner, seated beside him, adjusted his glasses with fingers that trembled ever so slightly. "It's worse than we thought," he muttered, breaking the silence. "Far worse."

He glanced at the papers before him. "Maheshvara is no longer a mere nuisance in Bengal. His name has spread like wildfire, much faster than we anticipated. In Punjab, in Madras, in Bombay—everywhere. Local commanders report that villagers whisper his name in reverence, that rebel groups claim to fight in his name. Even some of our Indian troops are beginning to speak of him as a divine protector."

Brigadier Henry Wallace, usually dismissive of such things, had lost his smug demeanor. "A protector?" he spat, barely hiding his frustration. "A damned saint? We are the British Empire! We do not lose to ghosts and myths!"

Lord Charles Withersby, the senior political advisor, shook his head. "It's not about belief. It's about perception. The people now see Maheshvara as a force greater than us—one that fights for them while we sit behind red tape. He's become a legend, and legends have power."

Faulkner exhaled sharply. "And he is not alone anymore."

That caught their attention.

Hastings finally leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Explain."

Faulkner pulled out several new intelligence reports. "Maheshvara has allies. Two of them are gaining just as much notoriety."

He pushed forward the reports. "They call one Devi—a woman in indigo, capable of summoning impenetrable shields and manipulating forces beyond understanding. The other is Surya—a man in armor, glowing with a radiance that can drive away even the worst storms. Witnesses claim that they saved an entire village from being washed away. The people are already calling them divine warriors, avatars sent to shield India from its oppressors."

A heavy silence filled the room.

Then, Hastings spoke, his voice dangerously low. "The Viceroy must be informed. Immediately."

Withersby nodded. "I was about to suggest the same. This is no longer an intelligence issue. It is a full-blown crisis. We need immediate approval for the counter-insurgency committee. No delays, no hesitations. If we do not act now, the consequences will be catastrophic."

Hastings turned to his aide. "Draft the request. Make it clear to the Viceroy that if we do not act swiftly, we may lose control over Bengal—and if Bengal falls, the rest of India will follow."

No one In the room argued. The stakes were too high.

Maheshvara had now not only caught their attention. He had made them afraid.

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- Viceroy's Office, Government House, New Delhi -

- July 11, 1936 -

The Viceroy of India, Lord Victor Linlithgow, barely glanced at the document before signing it. His hand moved swiftly, the ink drying almost instantly on the paper that authorized the immediate formation of the Counter-Insurgency Committee. There was no debate, no hesitation. He understood what was at stake.

The situation had deteriorated too rapidly. The British Raj had dealt with rebellions before, but never one wrapped in myth, never one that seemed to spread like wildfire despite their control over the press and administration. This was different. This was dangerous.

Linlithgow set down his pen and looked up at his secretary. "Send an urgent dispatch to London," he ordered. "We need men—men who understand what is necessary to maintain order."

His voice was cold, precise. "No bureaucrats, no cowards—only men willing to do what must be done."

Within hours, encrypted telegrams were sent across the world, summoning experienced hardliners from the Home Office, Special Branch, and the Intelligence Bureau in London. These were men who had crushed revolts in Ireland, quelled labor strikes with ruthless efficiency, and dismantled resistance movements before they could take root.

India would not be allowed to slip through their fingers.

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- British Command, Delhi -

- July 18, 1936 -

A week later, the atmosphere in the command hall was starkly different. The long wooden table was now occupied by a new set of figures—cold, calculating men who had spent their careers suppressing dissent. Among them was Sir Reginald Dunmore, a veteran of counter-insurgency operations in Kenya and Ireland, Colonel Alistair Beckett, an expert in psychological warfare, and Frederick Harrington, a senior Home Office official with deep ties to London's political circles.

Major General Arthur Hastings, Colonel Richard Faulkner, and the other Delhi-based officers sat among them, forming a tense alliance of old colonial authority and newly arrived enforcers.

Sir Reginald, a man with an iron-gray mustache and a gaze like steel, spoke first.

"This Maheshvara is a symptom of a deeper disease," he stated flatly. "For too long, we have tolerated the slow decay of loyalty among the Indian populace. The so-called independence movement has fed this rebellion, and it is time we cut off its air supply."

He placed his hands on the table and continued. "We will not merely fight these insurgents with force—we will destroy their legitimacy."

Colonel Beckett leaned forward, his expression predatory. "Exactly. We shall turn their so-called heroes into villains. We will weave narratives that brand Maheshvara and his accomplices as dangerous extremists, enemies of stability, and threats to the very people they claim to protect."

Frederick Harrington smirked. "And to that end, we will send an ultimatum—to the Congress, the Muslim League, and the Hindu Mahasabha. They must publicly renounce any and all association with these rebels. If they refuse, they will be treated as traitors to the Empire."

A murmur of approval swept the room.

Brigadier Henry Wallace, who had been skeptical before, now nodded grimly. "And what of the BSS?" he asked, referring to the Bharatiya Swatantrata Sangathan, the political organization in Bengal suspected of aiding Maheshvara.

Beckett's smile did not reach his eyes. "We shall eradicate them. No half-measures. The BSS is no different from terrorists, and we will make sure the world sees them as such."

Silence followed, heavy and deliberate. The decisions made in this room would shape the months to come.

Hastings finally spoke, his voice carrying the weight of finality.

"Then it begins. No more hesitation. No more waiting."

The British Empire had just declared total war on Maheshvara and his allies.

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