________________________________________________________________________________
- British High Command, Delhi -
The air inside the war council chamber was thick with cigar smoke and frustration. The men seated around the grand wooden table had spent the last two days in a storm of arguments, accusations, and empty solutions. Reports had poured in from across the subcontinent—factories shutting down, forts falling overnight, supply lines disappearing like sand in the wind. But nothing compared to the account from Punjab.
An entire battalion erased.
The village they had targeted untouched.
The officers who returned were broken men, barely able to speak. What little they did say sounded like madness—shadows swallowing men whole, bullets turning midair, soldiers dropping to their knees, clawing at unseen horrors.
For the first time, the British commanders were forced to confront a truth they had long dismissed. This was not just an armed rebellion.
This was something else entirely.
Colonel Alistair Beckett exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "Are we truly entertaining the idea that this... this Maheshvara is beyond natural means? That an entire battalion, trained under the might of the British Empire, was destroyed not by rifles and blades, but by—" he scoffed, "shadows and tricks of the mind?"
Sir Regina Dunmore leaned forward, eyes grim. "Tell me, Beckett, how do you explain any of this? The uprisings moving like clockwork, as if some unseen force guides them? The way every attempt to disrupt his networks has failed? How men who have fought in our wars tremble at his name?"
Silence hung between them.
Across the table, Colonel Arthur Hastings, a hardened officer who had seen more battles than most, sat stiffly. Unlike some of his peers, he did not dismiss the reports outright. He had met the officers who had survived the Punjab incident. He had seen the terror in their eyes. This was not fear of an enemy soldier. This was the fear of something unnatural.
That was why, despite his own reluctance, he had taken a desperate step.
Clearing his throat, Hastings finally spoke. "Gentlemen, debating among ourselves will lead us nowhere. We have exhausted our military strategies. We have sent our best men, and they have failed." He leaned forward, voice lowering. "So I have arranged for outside counsel—someone well-versed in matters that may go beyond our understanding."
Montgomery frowned. "Who?"
"A representative from the Vatican."
Fraser blinked. "A priest?"
"A high-ranking one," Hastings corrected. "And he is not coming alone. He brings with him a man of influence from America—one who has long been interested in... occurrences such as these."
A murmur spread arou'd the room.
Beckett scoffed. "You're telling me we need to turn to priests and foreign scholars now?"
Hastings' jaw tightened. "I'm telling you we need to consider every option."
The debate raged on, but in the end, desperation won over pride. The meeting was adjourned. Hastings left the chamber, stepping into the cool Delhi night. A car waited for him. Inside sat a man draped in the solemn robes of the Church. Beside him, another figure, dressed sharply in an immaculate suit, watched with an amused glint in his crimson eyes.
The priest smiled, his wrinkled face illuminated by the street lamps. "Colonel Hastings. It is good to finally meet you in person."
Hastings nodded stiffly, eyes briefly flickering toward the suited man. "And you must be the esteemed guest from America."
The stranger chuckled, extending a gloved hand. "You may call me Nicholas." His voice was smooth, rich—almost too perfect. "I understand you're in need of assistance against... forces beyond mortal comprehension."
Hastings hesitated before shaking his hand.
Something about the touch sent a chill down his spine.
For centuries, Mephisto had found amusement in the foolishness of humans. They were predictable, easily swayed by greed, desperation, and fear. Even the so-called holy men of the Vatican were no different, their piety nothing more than a thin veil over their hunger for power. He had spent countless years playing his usual games—tempting, deceiving, claiming souls that were worth his interest.
But lately, things had been boring.
Sure, the humans were marching toward another war, and blood would soon stain the earth once more. But wars were nothing new. They had their moments, of course—desperate men, frightened rulers, ambitious fools willing to trade their very essence for an ounce of power. Yet, nothing truly intrigued him.
That was when he had first sensed it.
A soul unlike any he had encountered before.
Not just powerful. Not just tempting.
Something void-touched.
It was subtle at first, like a whisper in the wind, but as time passed, it grew more distinct. Mephisto had searched relentlessly, following the trail of something wrong—something that did not belong to this world. And now, he had found it.
A land steeped in ancient mysticism and forgotten gods, now at the heart of a rebellion that was shifting the course of history. And at the center of it all was a single man.
A mutant, perhaps. A powerful one. But that wasn't what interested Mephisto. No, what truly caught his attention was something deeper.
Something not of this world.
It was unfortunate, however, that he could not act freely. The Ancient One's domain lay too close, and Mephisto had no desire to suffer another excruciating encounter. Not yet. Not when the prize was still out of reach.
For now, he would play his part.
He watched the man before him—Colonel Arthur Hastings—his palm still clasped in a handshake. The British officer had the air of a man forced into a decision he didn't quite understand. But it didn't matter. Mephisto had woven his charm through the exchange, subtly nudging the man's mind toward agreement.
"Colonel," Mephisto said, his voice as smooth as silk, "it is clear to me that your empire will be unable to deal with this Maheshvara through conventional means." He smiled, tilting his head just enough to let the light catch his unnatural, piercing eyes. "So why not leave the matter to me?"
Hastings hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his features. But it was brief—too brief to resist the pull of Mephisto's influence.
"You believe you can handle him?" the Colonel asked.
Mephisto's smile widened. "I have a way with... difficult individuals." He leaned back, allowing the weight of his presence to settle in the dimly lit room. "I will make him an offer. One he cannot refuse."
Hastings swallowed, some part of him unsettled by this man—this Nicholas. But the charm had done its work. His doubts faded into the recesses of his mind, replaced by the comforting illusion that this was a solution.
A deal with the devil, though he did not yet know it.
Mephisto's fingers twitched slightly, the faintest glimmer of satisfaction crossing his features.
For the first time in a long while, he was interested.
- Secret Underground Hideout, Calcutta -
Meanwhile, In the dimly lit underground hideout beneath Calcutta, Aryan stood with his arms crossed, his gaze steady as he observed the twelve individuals before him. The air was thick with anticipation. Beside him, Shakti leaned against the wall, her green eyes studying the recruits, while Karna stood silent, his presence alone a reminder of what true power looked like.
Each of the twelve recruits had been carefully chosen. They came from different backgrounds, different corners of the subcontinent, yet they all had something in common—potential.
Nine of them were mutants, their X-Genes already active, though most were at an Alpha-level, strong but far from Omega-tier. Their abilities varied—some had enhanced reflexes, others displayed elemental control or heightened senses. Each had the potential to become something greater with proper training.
But it was the other five that interested Aryan the most. At first glance, they were no different from ordinary humans. No mutant abilities, no visible signs of being special. But Aryan knew better. His analysis had detected something deeper within them—an inhuman genetic code, dormant, unawakened.
They had been born with something far rarer than a mutant gift. They were Inhumans, yet their powers had never surfaced because the key to their awakening had never been in their hands.
Aryan shifted his focus inward, opening the interface of his Meta-Creation System.
A display appeared in his mind.
He didn't hesitate. "Create Terrigen Crystal."
A notification flashed before him.
In the next moment, a faint shimmer of energy condensed in his palm. A small, translucent blue crystal materialized, glowing softly with a pulsing inner light.
The room fell silent as the recruits noticed the object in Aryan's hand. They didn't know what it was, but they could feel something from it. An unexplainable pull, like an instinct buried deep within them was suddenly stirring.
________________________________________________________________________________
Thanks for reading 🙏 🙏.
If you are liking this story so far please support this novel through the power stones and let me know your thoughts in the comments and please review the book with ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ if you deem it worthwhile.