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- Rajvanshi Estate, Calcutta -
Aryan's sixteenth birthday arrived as a brief moment of calm amidst the growing storm. The day began as it always had in the Rajvanshi estate—rooted in tradition and meaning. At dawn, he visited the temple with his parents, seeking blessings for the path ahead. The scent of incense lingered in the cool morning air, the flickering lamps casting long shadows as he stood before the idol, hands folded in silent prayer.
Despite the weight of his mission, these rituals grounded him.
By the afternoon, the Estate was alive with celebration. Friends, family, and allies had gathered—those who mattered most. Karna stood beside him, his ever-reliable presence a source of quiet reassurance. His parents, Surya and Anjali, both deeply involved in the freedom movement, watched with pride. The Natore royal family too arrived in full strength, Shakti's father offering his blessings while her mother treated Aryan with the warmth of a son-in-law she had already accepted.
Shakti, ever the balance between warmth and steel, stood close, her deep blue saree complementing the fire in her eyes. She rarely spoke needlessly, maintaining her royal posture and elegance, but her presence alone was enough.
"Sixteen now," Karna said, clapping Aryan on the back. "Still leading men like a general, still making the British sweat. What's next? Reclaiming India and declaring yourself Emperor?"
Aryan smirked. "Maybe, maybe not. But if I ever do, I know you'll still be there, watching my back like an old sailor guiding his reckless captain."
Laughter rippled through their small circle, but beneath the teasing, they all understood what lay ahead. This wasn't just a birthday gathering—it was a reaffirmation of their unity and purpose.
For one evening, they allowed themselves music and conversation, a respite before the fight resumed. Songs of resistance, carrying the weight of centuries, drifted through the night air, stirring something deep within those who listened.
- Secret Underground Hideout, Calcutta -
The next day, the quiet of celebration was replaced by the urgency of war. Aryan stood before a large map of the subcontinent, red markings highlighting key locations—prisons, rebel strongholds, underground networks, and British garrisons. The next phase of his plan was in motion.
Maheshvara had by now established himself as the face of the resistance. And now, their expanded organization would break out the imprisoned leaders.
Subhash Chandra Bose, Vinayak Savarkar, and countless others—the backbone of India's resistance—were locked away, their voices silenced. The British believed that by imprisoning them, they had weakened the movement. But Aryan knew better. Their captivity had only turned them into symbols, and now it was time to set them free.
Karna folded his arms. "This won't be like raiding a British outpost. These prisons are heavily guarded. High walls, armed garrisons, and informants planted among the inmates."
Aryan nodded. "That's why we don't rely on brute force alone. We use everything—strategy, stealth, technology, and, if necessary, overwhelming power through our superhuman recruits. But we're not just freeing them—we're bringing them in."
Shakti glanced at him. "You want to recruit them?"
"Yes," Aryan confirmed. "Not all will agree, but those who do will strengthen the BSS. We can't rely on just warriors and our reputation as symbols. We need strategists, orators, and organizers—leaders who can fill the gaps in our ranks and rally the people. Right now, we are too few to reach every corner of the subcontinent. That has to change."
Surya, his father, ever the pragmatist, spoke next. "And what of the British response? They will tighten their grip. They will retaliate."
Aryan's gaze didn't waver. "Then we hit harder. And we hit first."
His fingers traced across the map, pointing at the regions where resistance already simmered. "We don't just free the leaders—we unify every force in the subcontinent. The Congress, the Muslim League, the Mahasabha, the revolutionaries scattered across Bengal, Burma, Punjab, Bombay, and Madras. We may not all share the same vision, but we share a common enemy. No more scattered efforts. No more divided ideologies. We push for the final struggle."
Silence followed as the weight of his words settled in. Then, one by one, they nodded. The fight for independence had begun long ago, but Aryan was ensuring it would end on their terms.
While war brewed in the streets and battlefields, Aryan was waging another kind of battle—one for the hearts and minds of the people. His manga—1857: The First War—was finally complete.
It was a project close to his heart, a tribute to his grandfather and those who had fought before him. Every page was infused with the knowledge he had gathered from historical records, whispered family accounts, and stories passed through generations. It was brutal, unflinching in its portrayal of war and sacrifice. But it wasn't just a history lesson. It was a call to arms.
And it wasn't the only weapon he was forging.
With Bengal firmly under his influence, Aryan had ensured that the British grip on its cultural space had weakened. Music, poetry, theater, and literature—once tools of entertainment—had been turned into instruments of revolution, and now was spreading throughout the country.
Rabindranath Tagore, Bankim Chandra Chatterjee and other similar great artists from different fields and regions worked alongside him, their words and melodies carrying messages of resistance. Songs of freedom echoed through the streets. Plays exposing British cruelty were met with standing ovations in secret performances. Poets recited verses that sent chills down the spines of listeners, igniting a quiet, growing rage.
This was how he would reach those untouched by direct rebellion—the shopkeepers, the farmers, the students, the women confined to their homes. They would hear these words, see these images, and feel the weight of their history.
The British could suppress an armed uprising—if he weren't involved. They could jail leaders. But they could not kill ideas.
Aryan had ensured that even if a single revolutionary fell, a hundred more would rise in their place.
- University of Calcutta -
Aditya Sen considered himself a man of reason.
A third-year student at the University of Calcutta, he took pride in his education, his refined English, and his understanding of "true progress." To him, the British were the architects of civilization, the bearers of industry and knowledge. India, with its scattered villages and outdated traditions, had been shaped into a modern nation under their rule.
He had grown up listening to his professors speak of British governance with admiration, marveling at the roads, railways, and institutions they had built. The stories of rebellion—of 1857, of revolutionaries like Khudiram Bose and Bhagat Singh—always seemed exaggerated, the supposed 'atrocities' nothing more than the dramatic fabrications of sentimental fools.
So, when he found the book—1857: The First War—in the local library, he mistook it for an imported work.
The design was striking, unlike anything he had ever seen. Sharp, vivid illustrations filled its pages, each frame capturing motion and emotion with an artistry that reminded him of Western graphic novels. He had never seen an "illustrated history book" before, and curiosity got the better of him.
He settled Into a quiet corner and began reading.
The first few pages felt familiar—soldiers in red coats, orderly columns marching through the streets of Calcutta. It was how history was always told, the British presence steady and unshaken.
Then, the tone shifted.
The massacre at Barrackpore played out before his eyes—the real Barrackpore, not the sanitized version from his textbooks. Sepoys, stripped of dignity, flogged until their flesh tore. A soldier forced to lick the blood of his own brother from the ground before being shot in the head. A woman, no different from the housemaids he had seen all his life, dragged from her home, her screams drowned beneath British laughter.
Aditya's fingers tightened around the book, but he kept reading.
The pages didn't hold back. Kanpur. Jhansi. Delhi. Cities burning. Entire villages razed for harboring rebels. He had heard of Nana Saheb, Rani Lakshmibai and of Chandra Rajvanshi, a local legend, before, but never —not as people, not as leaders fighting against an empire that had crushed them beneath its heel. He saw the desperation in their eyes, the raw fury in their battles.
And then, the retaliation.
The British didn't just put down the rebellion; they punished the land that dared to rise against them. Sepoys tied to cannons and blasted apart. Leaders captured and paraded like animals before execution. Fields salted, ensuring no harvest would ever grow again. Villages, entire towns, turned to graves.
He reached a panel showing the corpses of men and women hanging from trees along a long, empty road. A sign in perfect English stood in the foreground:
"This is what happens to traitors."
Aditya felt something cold settle in his stomach.
He had dismissed the stories before. But here, in black and white, with no room for embellishment, it was all laid bare.
This wasn't exaggeration?
He closed the book, his heartbeat uneven. The walls of the library felt suffocating, the polished floors beneath him suddenly less stable. He looked around at the students, some absorbed in their own books, others chatting idly in English—his peers, people who thought like him.
How many of them knew? How many of them, like him, had lived blind?
He rose abruptly, returning the book to its place. His hands shook as he stepped outside, the warm Calcutta air doing nothing to clear his head.
For the first time in his life, Aditya Sen doubted everything he had been taught.
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