Calcutta, 1910
The city was a cauldron of whispered discontent beneath its polished colonial veneer. Arjun Sen walked silently through its tangled alleys and broad boulevards, the weight of two lifetimes pressing against him—one lived, one inherited. His current form moved with the steady calm of a man shaped by hardship, yet his mind burned with memories not of this time, but of the future he had lost.Arjun's hatred for the Anglo-Saxons was no sudden flame born of colonial injustice—it was a relentless fire forged by the horrors of his last life. He remembered the endless wars, the bloodied streets of a different century, where the empire's brutality transcended generations. The faces of those who oppressed were not strangers but timeless enemies, the same faces in gaslit streets or sterile conference rooms wielding power through cold laws and casual cruelty.His shinigami eyes, a merciless gift, revealed the fragile threads holding these oppressors to life, each one a target his eternal hand would one day strike. But patience was his ally; the revolution was not a sprint but a slow turning of the tide.Though it was 1910, decades before the atrocities like the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, these future scars haunted Arjun's vision. The ghosts of those events whispered warnings in the back of his mind—the mass killings, the partition of Bengal, the global pressures slowly crippling the Raj's grasp. He knew the empire's cruelty would only grow if left unchecked.Gathered in dimly lit rooms, his words inspired secret circles that plotted in shadows, their voices hushed but fierce. "The seeds of rebellion are sown in every injustice," Arjun told his comrades, "and I have seen the harvest. It is blood. We must be the storm that uproots this empire before it grows too strong."Every name he wrote in the Death Note was a strike against a tyrant whose cruelty had echoed through his past existence. But he moved carefully, for he carried the curse and blessing of immortality—a blade that cut unseen but precise.The past and future converged in his eyes. He was no mere man; he was the reckoning incarnate.Arjun sat in a dimly lit room, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the walls as nationalist leaders debated their next moves. Each face was etched with determination and fear—a reflection of the perilous times. They spoke of protests, petitions, and cautious defiance, but Arjun's mind pulled him toward a different path—a path shaped by years of witnessing unrelenting oppression in another life.His shinigami eyes scanned the room, noting the lifespan above each man's head, a silent tally of their mortal limits. He could end them all with a stroke of his pen, but patience was his weapon now. This movement was fragile, a seedling that needed nurturing before it could break the soil.The hatred driving him was sharper than any blade. It was fueled by a vision of future horrors—the blood spilled at Jallianwala Bagh, the heartbreak caused by the partition of Bengal, the economic strangling through international sanctions. Though these events were yet to unfold, Arjun felt their weight pressing on the present, a burden he alone bore across time."Your hatred is a fire," a fellow revolutionary whispered as he observed Arjun's distant gaze. "But what shapes will the flames take?""A revolution," Arjun replied, voice low but resolute. "One that burns away the lies and chains. I have lived the future's sorrows. I will make sure they never come to pass."His comrades listened, drawn to the conviction of a man who seemed both timeless and tireless.Yet, beneath this exterior, Arjun wrestled with isolation—the curse of immortality and the burden of foresight. The faces of the oppressed in both timelines blurred in his mind, reminding him that the fight was eternal. But so was his resolve.As plans moved forward and whispers spread through Calcutta's hidden corners, Arjun prepared to wield his dual gifts: the Death Note and the shinigami eyes. Each name he would write was a sentence not just of death, but of justice—carefully measured, never reckless.In this city of colonial shadows and simmering unrest, an immortal scribe was writing the first chapters of a revolution that would echo through history.