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- Ujjain, Bharat -
- October 20, 1939 -
The world was burning, and Aryan knew it.
The reports had not come through newspapers or radios alone. They came with precision, speed, and detail that only the Hidden Flame could provide. Its agents, scattered like shadows across Europe, risked everything to collect scraps of truth and stitch them into a picture of the war. From the alleys of Warsaw to the cafés of Paris, from the ports of Hamburg to the secret corridors in London, their whispers found their way back to Bharat.
Encrypted messages, coded notes tucked in shipments, even tiny runic marks carved on everyday objects — the information flowed steadily, real-time, into the secure heart of the Hidden Flame's headquarters. By the time diplomats and generals in Europe were still arguing about "what might happen," Aryan already knew what was happening.
And so he prepared.
Bharat, at least in words, was neutral. But neutrality in this world was not simple silence — it was a careful dance. Aryan had already moved early to condemn the Nazis' theft of the Swastika, a sacred Bharatiya symbol of well-being, now twisted into a mark of hatred. He had spoken through official channels of his disgust at the persecution of Jews, Romani, and others in occupied Europe. These words had earned Bharat respect abroad, but more importantly, trust among the oppressed.
At the same time, Aryan played the long game. Under his Foreign Affairs Ministry, deals had been struck with almost every major power. High-quality steel flowed from Bharat's mills, feeding hungry war industries in Europe. Ships sailed from Calcutta and Madras carrying wheat, rice, and pulses — grain that kept armies fed. Even uniforms, helmets, and boots were produced in Bharat's factories and sold abroad. Neutrality did not mean idleness. Neutrality meant profit — and influence.
But Aryan knew this could not last. Wars had a way of pulling in even those who tried to stand aside. And already, the Asian front was boiling.
The brutal war between China and Japan was in its third year, spreading like an oil fire that no one could smother. Japanese troops pushed deeper into Chinese territory, leaving behind cities in ruins and families broken. At the same time, Japan looked southward, towards the rich lands of Southeast Asia — lands filled with resources, ports, colonies belonging to Britain, France, and the Dutch and small kingdoms. With each step, Tokyo was challenging not only China but the old European empires as well.
For Bharat, the storm was creeping closer.
The moment came when a letter reached Aryan's desk. It bore the seal of the Chinese General Staff. A request — hesitant, almost reluctant. They asked for help, but only in medicine. Their soldiers were dying not only from bullets and bombs but also from untreated wounds and epidemics. The war was chewing through men faster than they could replace them.
For Aryan, the request was complicated. China had long eyed Bharat's ties with Tibet with suspicion, never forgetting its own claims over the region. Yet now, desperation outweighed pride. Aryan understood the importance of the moment.
"Send them aid," he ordered. "Not in the form of weapons, neither in soldiers. But, instead in Doctors. Medicines. The world must know where Bharat stands when humanity suffers."
And so, a small group of Bharatiya medical specialists set out, carrying crates of bandages, antibiotics, and painkillers. They crossed dangerous routes, but when they reached Chinese camps, they were welcomed with tears and gratitude. The Chinese began to see Bharat with less suspicion. In those makeshift hospitals, trust was born.
Japan, however, was far from pleased. Tokyo's embassy in Ujjain sent a sharp protest. Their message was clear: Japan had been among the very first nations to recognize Bharat's independence, to establish ties of friendship. How could Bharat, their supposed friend, aid their enemy?
The reply was equally clear. Bharat's voice, through its diplomats, spoke firmly:
"Humanitarian duty is not politics. When men, women, and children bleed, Bharat will not look away."
It was a statement that echoed across Asia. Nations struggling under colonial rule looked to Bharat and saw not just another country, but a beacon — a people who had broken their chains, and who now stood unafraid to speak of compassion in a world drowning in cruelty. Soft power, Aryan knew, was as strong as steel.
But even as the world praised, Aryan's thoughts were heavy. He knew what was coming. Neutrality was only a curtain. One day soon, Bharat would be drawn into the storm, whether it wished it or not.
And so, in Ujjain, deep inside the Defence Headquarters, Aryan prepared for the inevitable.
The headquarters itself was a marvel — part fortress, part training facility, part laboratory. And at its heart lay a hall unlike any other. A vast chamber, large enough to hold thousands of soldiers, its walls inscribed with runes and covered in magical formations of Aryan's own design. Here, reality could be bent into simulation.
On this day, the hall was alive with action. Soldiers marched, shouted, and fired. But no bullets left their rifles. No soil was truly trampled. Instead, they were fighting inside a living illusion — a perfect battlefield crafted from magic and technology.
The environment had been set to Southeast Asia. Thick jungles, humid air, rivers cutting through valleys, and the ever-present danger of Japanese divisions. The simulation mimicked every challenge the Bharatiya Army might face — ambushes in the forests, naval landings, aerial bombings.
Aryan stood on a raised platform, arms folded, watching the war game unfold. Around him, generals observed with narrowed eyes, taking notes. Mistakes were noted, strategies refined. The soldiers fought hard, learning not only how to defeat an enemy but how to think together as one body.
—
The vast simulation chamber in the Defense headquarters felt like a living battlefield. The shimmering glow of the runes on the walls faded away as the simulation deepened, and suddenly the soldiers were no longer in a hall, but in the middle of dense Southeast Asian jungle. The smell of damp earth, the buzz of insects, and the heavy air of monsoon clung to them as if it were real.
A squad crouched low In the undergrowth, their camouflage uniforms blending with the green around them. Unlike the bright reds and khakis still worn by armies elsewhere, Bharat's soldiers looked like shadows of the forest itself. Their rifles rested quietly in their arms — compact assault weapons that had become standard issue. One soldier moved forward, checking the path. Another adjusted his helmet, its net covering stuffed with leaves.
Suddenly, the stillness broke. The simulation roared to life. The "enemy" — Japanese infantry, sharp and disciplined — came charging through the trees. The squad leader gave a short whistle, and rifles cracked. Bursts of fire from submachine guns rattled through the leaves. A sniper lying prone on a hill far behind picked off targets one by one with quiet precision, his rifle's echo muffled by the enchantments of the illusion.
Further ahead, a heavy machine gun team had dug into a ridge, spraying controlled arcs of fire that cut down the simulated charge. The weapon's belt of ammunition rattled like an iron snake as empty shells piled around them.
In another sector of the jungle, a tank unit pushed forward. These were not the sluggish, outdated machines most nations still used, but sleek steel beasts — faster, heavily armed, their armor reinforced by runic engravings. The tanks rolled with confidence, their cannons booming. But the simulation was fair, and the enemy fought hard. Japanese anti-tank squads, carrying launchers, darted from cover to cover, trying to find a weak point.
Bharatiya soldiers responded quickly. Rocket teams fired back, the explosions shaking the simulated forest. Grenade launchers thumped, blasting enemy cover. One squad laid down smoke screens, their grey clouds swallowing the battlefield and confusing the attackers.
Everywhere in the hall, soldiers moved with coordination. Each group was trained not to act alone, but as part of a living machine. Scouts whispered into radios. Engineers set up mines along riverbanks. Medics dragged the "wounded" to cover, applying tourniquets with speed and care.
Aryan watched from above, his sharp eyes following the flow of the battle. He was less concerned with victory or defeat and more with how his soldiers adapted. When a squad was ambushed, did they panic? Or did they fall back and regroup? When a tank was "destroyed," did the infantry nearby push forward to protect the crew? He saw mistakes, yes — but also courage, creativity, and discipline.
One young soldier, barely in his twenties, fired his rifle until it clicked empty. Instead of freezing, he calmly reloaded and kept fighting, his hands steady. Another, pinned down by a machine gun nest, signaled to his squad, and together they launched a flanking maneuver. It was clean, precise, and effective. Aryan felt a quiet pride as the nest fell silent.
Then the simulation shifted again. The sky darkened. The rumble of engines filled the air. Dive bombers appeared above, screaming down towards the soldiers. Anti-aircraft guns hidden in the jungle roared back, spitting fire into the sky. Some planes fell in flames, others released bombs that shook the ground. Soldiers scattered for cover, then reemerged, ready to fight again.
The Illusion ended as suddenly as it had begun. The jungle dissolved, the smoke cleared, and the soldiers stood once more in the great rune-covered chamber. Their uniforms were soaked in sweat, their faces streaked with dirt and determination.
For a moment, silence hung heavy. Then, a ripple of applause came from the generals and officers observing the drill. The soldiers straightened, standing at attention. They were exhausted, but their eyes shone.
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