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- Kamal Asthaan, Ujjain -
- May 20, 1939 | Late Night -
The lamps in Aryan's office burned low, casting a warm, steady glow over the wide desk piled with papers, maps, and neatly bound notebooks. Outside, the palace gardens were silent under the night sky, their stillness broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. Inside, the only sound was the soft scratch of Aryan's pen as he wrote, paused, and then wrote again.
He had been at it for hours — studying, cross-checking, and layering notes upon notes. Every page was covered in his tidy, deliberate handwriting, each line a fragment of a plan, a calculation, or a quiet warning to himself.
This habit wasn't something he'd picked up here in Bharat's royal halls. It came from another life — one where he had built an empire from nothing in a far messier, far less forgiving Bharat. That world had been modern, fast, and cutthroat. He had been an orphan there, fighting for a place at a table where no one wanted to make space for him. Yet, somehow, by the time his enemies realized what he was building, it had been too late.
What kept him alive in that world wasn't just brilliance or luck — it was observation. He had studied everything: the moves of his rivals, the subtle patterns of the market, the unspoken motives behind political decisions. And, strangely, he had learned more from those who tried to destroy him than from his allies. His enemies had been teachers without meaning to be.
Even now, centuries and universes away from that boardroom battlefield, he remembered the sharp clarity with which he had watched the great geopolitical game play out, leading business owners like him, who were more often than not caught in the middle of the crossfire, to search for the best possible way to make the most profits, in these circumstances. For a better understanding of Aryan's character in his previous life, can be told in the way he viewed the nexus of the USA, Pakistan, and China, which had been a constant thorn in Bharat's side. The Americans and Chinese had rarely agreed on much — but they both knew how to use Pakistan as a tool to limit Bharat's growth and keep it distracted, weakened, and divided.
Did he hate them? Not exactly. He hated the idea of Pakistan existing as a knife forever at Bharat's borders, yes. But the USA and China? He didn't take it personally. They were doing what all nations did—looking out for themselves. If anything, he even admired some of their moves. They played the long game, thinking ten or twenty years ahead. And he had made a habit of studying those moves—not with bitterness, but with the intention of borrowing the best of them.
However, the more he studied and learned, the more disdain and disappointment he felt toward everyone in Bharat's leadership—both the ruling party and the opposition. Sharing his views and strategies, many inspired by his so-called enemies yet sharpened with his own wits, should have been seen for what they were: ways to maximize benefits for his people and his businesses alike. But instead, they had earned him more scorn and ridicule from his own than from his enemies, no matter how clear the advantages had been.
But now, in this life, he had power, real power, a thing he had long since realized he lacked in his previous life, and combined with that same nature of his, it had already started to pay off. Bharat was no longer limping along behind the powers of the world. It was moving forward — boldly, deliberately — blending magi-tech breakthroughs with deep cultural roots.
He leaned back In his chair for a moment, scanning the half-finished notes before him. The past few days came back to him in fragments. The quiet joy of his recent date with Shakti, walking through the gardens without thinking about the weight of a crown. The strange moment, after returning, when he had absorbed the memories from his Parallel Existence — the other Aryan he had left behind to handle palace duties while he was away.
That version of him had not been idle. Months of work had gone into mapping out Bharat's future: five-year plans, ten-year visions, even a twenty-year roadmap. Not just grand speeches, but real frameworks — drawn up with ministers, state leaders, engineers, generals, and scholars. There was a unity of purpose now that Bharat had never seen before.
The military strategy alone was solid enough to make any would-be aggressor think twice. Borders were guarded not just with soldiers, but with the layered eyes and ears of an intelligence web unlike anything the subcontinent had ever seen.
The economic front was another victory. Bharat's "three-coloured revolutions" — each targeting a different cornerstone of food security — were already transforming the countryside. Crops grew faster and healthier with magi-tech enhancements. Storage and transport chains were stronger, cutting waste to a fraction.
Industry, too, was booming. Already, magi-tech had deeply penetrated the regular manufacturing sector which had expanded greatly, now accounting for more than one third of the nation's economy. And it wasn't just about machines — roads and railways stitched together states that had once felt like separate worlds. New ships moved along the coasts, and sleek air transports, still a novelty to many, now connected cities in hours instead of days.
Aryan tapped his pen against the desk, eyes drifting over a map pinned to the far wall. Every mark on it — ports, airfields, industrial hubs — was a piece of a much larger picture.
This was how you played the long game. Not by reacting to every small move, but by laying out a future so strong that no enemy's plan could knock it down.
Somewhere deep inside, the boy who had once been an orphan in another life was still there — sharper, hungrier than anyone guessed. And tonight, with the quiet hum of the lamps around him, that boy and the Samrat were in perfect agreement.
The game was only just beginning.
—
The pen in Aryan's hand slowed mid-sentence.
A faint warmth pulsed against his wrist — not from the desk lamp, but from the small, intricate sigil etched into his skin. The magical mark.
It was a part of him now, a living thread tied to every agent of the Hidden Flame. Through it, he could feel their presence, sense their intent, and, if needed, speak across great distances without a single word leaving his lips. Tonight, the signal came from Nalini.
She rarely used it without cause.
Aryan leaned back in his chair, letting the connection open. Her voice carried through in that calm, precise way she had — never wasting words, never dressing the truth. She was speaking from somewhere within the palace grounds, where she and Shakti were running the domestic arm of the Hidden Flame while Karna built their reach in Europe and beyond.
In Bharat, the Hidden Flame's grip was now so deep that it felt like the very air itself carried their watchful presence. Information flowed into their hands before enemies even knew they'd spoken. Potential threats were quietly removed before they could breathe. Criminal networks, shadow syndicates, and dangerous underground factions — all crippled in months, dismantled piece by piece.
Aryan had made sure that this expansion wasn't just about cleaning house. It had been a live-fire training exercise for his recruits — a proving ground. If the Hidden Flame was to operate on a global scale, its agents needed more than training drills. They needed to learn the real work of intelligence, infiltration, and quiet removal.
Now they were a force in their own right. Twenty thousand strong — a mix of mutants, inhumans, and other enhanced individuals. Many had been taught Aryan's breathing methods to sharpen their abilities, to push their limits without burning out. The structure was layered, disciplined, and invisible to outsiders.
But the true power lay in the unseen web beneath. Sleeper agents hidden so deep that even most high-ranking officers didn't know they existed. Only Aryan, Karna, Shakti, and Nalini held the full picture — and even then, a few threads were known only to Aryan himself.
Nalini's message cut clean through the quiet of his thoughts:
"Director, the Remnants are moving. They're planning to leave Bharat. If they get out, they'll build strength elsewhere and return to cause trouble."
The name made Aryan's eyes narrow slightly. The Remnants.
They had once been monsters in the truest sense — rapists, killers, and worse. Many had been brainwashed years ago, manipulated by the old Muslim League before Jinnah's death. Others had been forged in the fires of criminal empires or radical groups. When the Hidden Flame had dismantled those organisations, they'd found these individuals caught in the wreckage.
Aryan had made a choice then. Those whose crimes were born of coercion or control were given a second chance — but under the tightest watch. The rest… there had been no mercy.
Some of the redeemed had surprised him, rebuilding their lives under constant surveillance, choosing a quieter, better path. Others, especially the ones with powers, could not break from their darker nature. They slipped back into violence like it was the only language they knew.
These were the ones Nalini spoke of now — the ones hunted but not yet cornered. And now, rather than risk being erased within Bharat, they wanted to flee, gather strength abroad, and come back with sharper claws.
Aryan tapped his fingers lightly against the desk, considering. Most rulers would have sent orders to end the matter quickly. Cut the weed at its root and be done. But Aryan saw something else.
If the Remnants wanted to gather abroad, then let them.
"Plant our people inside them," he said quietly into the link, his tone calm but edged with decision. "Don't stop their departure. Make it easy for them. Give them shadows to hide in — shadows we control."
Nalini's voice carried no surprise as she had always believed that Aryan always had a plan, but she still voiced her concerns. "But, what if we let them go, and they become strong again, won't that backfire on us?"
"Don't worry. They'll only be strong in the directions we choose," Aryan replied. "When the threats from outside come — and they will — we'll turn the Remnants into a weapon. Our weapon."
It was the same principle he'd learned in his past life:
Never waste an enemy if you can make them serve your ends.
The warmth of the mark faded as the link closed. Outside the window, the gardens lay still in the moonlight. Inside, Aryan picked up his pen again, but his mind had shifted to this new game.
The Remnants thought they were escaping.
They didn't know they were walking into a larger net — one spun by the very man they'd sworn to destroy.
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