Calcutta, 1911
The revolution was not a roar but a murmur beneath the surface, spreading like ink dissolving softly into water—unseen yet undeniable. Arjun Sen had mastered the art of casting shadows, his movements bending the course of history without a single shot fired. The Death Note rested in his study, each blank page a silent promise.In whispered meetings held far from the gaze of British informants, Arjun cultivated a network—discreet couriers, trusted confidantes, and those with an unquenchable flame for freedom. His shinigami eyes marked not only enemies but potential allies, people whose determination burned bright enough to alter fate's course.Names slipped into the ledger—oppressors whose cruelty was subtle but lethal: corrupt officers extracting brutal taxes, spies spreading false intelligence, officials sanctioning cruel arrests. Each death was swift but veiled as accident or natural causes, leaving no room for suspicion. The empire's walls began to crack silently, eroded by the deft strokes of an unseen hand.Despite his careful orchestration, the price of power haunted Arjun. Each use of the Death Note felt like a balance struck between justice and inevitability—a burden heavier than any blade. The faces of those lost, both in his current world and the life he had left behind, flickered like ghosts in his memory.The British, meanwhile, intensified their efforts to quell unrest. Patrols were doubled, informants bribed or threatened, and public executions staged as warnings. But the spirit of rebellion was resilient, woven into hushed prayers, secret pamphlets, and unyielding youth. Arjun remained a phantom in their nightmares—a whisper in the wind carrying the promise of reckoning.Alone in his chamber, Arjun often found solace in the smallest acts: a coded letter passed undetected, a prisoner freed through subtle influence, a seed planted in the fertile minds of revolutionaries. His immortality was not merely a curse or power; it was the ink that wrote a new destiny for India—one measured, deliberate, and unrelenting.The empire believed itself immovable, a fortress of steel and might. But history's ink was invisible until the revelation—a quiet reckoning written by the hand of an immortal scribe.