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- Bombay, Maharashtra State, Bharat -
- May 5, 1937 | Morning -
The Bombay air that morning carried the smell of salt and coal smoke—half ocean, half progress. The city was changing. The noise of rickshaws and tram bells mixed with excited chatter about new factories, upcoming railway lines, and sometimes, about a strange new term people were growing used to: Prāṇa Fuel. Even if most didn't understand how it worked, and only in the initial testing phase from the government as they called it, they knew it was changing things. Cheaper lights. Cleaner streets. Fewer power cuts. That alone made it feel like magic.
Tucked away in one of the city's quieter neighborhoods, far from the politics and progress meetings in Delhi, a black-and-white film was being shot on a modest set. The crew moved briskly, adjusting lights, brushing down costumes, and arguing softly in Marathi and Hindi about continuity. It wasn't glamorous—not yet. But it was honest work. And that meant something in this new Bharat.
At the center of it all stood Kingo. Or at least, the man the world knew as Rajdeep Verma—a rising actor whose face had become familiar in the few theatres dotting Bombay and Calcutta. He stood in costume, dressed in the worn-out kurta and dhoti of a revolutionary, with a thick mustache drawn on for the role.
"Scene 12, take three!" the director called.
Kingo took a breath, stepped into the dusty courtyard set, and became Chandra Shekhar Azad.
He delivered his lines with clarity, emotion tightening his jaw as he held a prop pistol to his temple—reenacting that final, defiant moment in Alfred Park. When the director finally shouted "cut," there was a hush before the quiet clapping began.
Kingo gave a small nod, stepped off the set, and walked to his chair under the shade. A boy handed him a glass of nimbu-paani. He thanked him softly.
No one around him knew the truth—that this man was an Eternal, had lived through millennia, fought against Deviants, on the orders of Celestials, protecting humanity from the threats of the same Deviants, wandered empires, and watched civilizations rise and fall. He had seen too much. But never had he seen a people fight so fiercely for their future—like Bharat had in the last two decades.
Aryan Rajvanshi had changed everything.
To most, he was the Samrat—a ruler by name, but in spirit, something far more. Not a tyrant in robes, but a guardian who walked among the people, barefoot when needed, carrying ideas instead of scepters. When Kingo had first heard of him, he had dismissed him as another powerful being trying to play god. But watching Aryan rise, suffer, lead, and still remain grounded... that had humbled even an Eternal.
Bharat's independence hadn't just freed the land—it had awakened its people.
You could see it in the eyes of the crew. The makeup girl who wanted to write her own scripts. The sound technician saving up to open a movie hall in Ratnagiri. Or the tea seller outside, whose son had just enrolled in a newly-built government school, one of those Aryan-funded ones with modern classrooms and a library.
Kingo smiled to himself. He had played many roles across time—warriors, lovers, fools, gods. But here, in this fragile, rebuilding nation, acting felt sacred. These films, even with their crackling sound and stiff acting, were capturing something real. Hope. Loss. Pride. Dreams.
The director approached him during the lunch break. "Rajdeep-ji, there's talk that the Samrat himself might visit the Bombay sets next month. He's interested in how the arts are shaping this new Bharat. Can you imagine?"
Kingo raised an eyebrow. "Isn't he a busy man, being the new Samrat at such a young age?"
"Yes. But they say he believes stories shape the soul of a nation. That every movie, poem, song—it builds something in people."
Kingo nodded slowly. "Hmm. He's right on that point."
Later that evening, as Kingo walked back to his modest apartment, the city around him glowed with promise. Children played in the alleys, yelling lines from the very film he was in. "Dushman ki goliyan se hum Azad rahe hain... Azad rahenge!" One of them shouted, laughing.
This was why he stayed hidden. Not out of fear, but out of respect. Bharat didn't need him to fly or fight. Not yet. It needed him to play his part—to help it believe in itself.
And for the first time in centuries, Kingo wasn't just pretending.
- May 5, 1937 – Late Evening -
The night air in Bombay had grown cooler than usual. A soft breeze drifted in from the Arabian Sea, rustling half-finished curtains in half-finished buildings. Street lamps were few in this newly expanding part of the city—an area developers promised would one day house the rich and famous. But for now, it was still half-empty roads, half-built homes, and the quiet of a neighborhood not yet alive.
Kingo walked alone, hands in his pockets, coat draped over his shoulder. The filming had gone on longer than planned, and the crew had gone their separate ways in auto-rickshaws and buses. He had refused a ride, preferring the solitude. The silence. It was one of the few moments in the day when he could just... exist.
His modest home wasn't far. A single-storey cottage with tiled roofing and a small garden, it didn't scream of celebrity. That was the point. It was a place where he could be Rajdeep Verma, the actor. Not Kingo, the Eternal.
He walked past a half-constructed building, glancing briefly at the shadows within. No sound. No movement. Just cement, rebar, and the faint squeak of a rusted swing in a nearby field.
A shift in the air. Too sudden. Too sharp.
He didn't think. He reacted.
In the blink of an eye, he rolled forward, sparks flying as something—no, someone—slashed down behind him. The impact cracked the pavement where he'd been standing just seconds earlier.
Kingo turned mid-roll, landing on one knee, his eyes narrowing. His hands glowed briefly with cosmic energy as he called it to the surface, eyes now sharp and alert.
Emerging from the shadows was a creature he hadn't seen in over a thousand years.
But not just any Deviant.
This one looked... wrong.
It was bulkier, darker, its form more stable and symmetrical than the twisted shapes he remembered. Its skin glowed faintly with lines of what looked like runes—glowing red like molten cracks in rock. Its eyes burned with something intelligent. Something focused. And it had come for him.
"You shouldn't exist," Kingo muttered, stepping back slowly as the creature advanced.
The Deviant snarled, leaping again with terrifying speed. Kingo blasted a bolt of energy toward it, knocking it off course, but not before it grazed his shoulder. The sting was real. Too real.
He cursed under his breath and reached within, summoning his blade—Phastos's creation. The sword appeared in a flash of golden light, humming with celestial energy.
The fight began In earnest.
Steel met claws. Sparks flew in the night. Kingo was fast, but the Deviant was faster. It had been trained—or altered. Every strike was calculated, powerful, almost military in precision. Kingo landed some blows, but they barely left a mark. The creature healed too quickly.
Pushed back against a crumbling wall, he ducked as the Deviant's claws carved deep into the concrete behind him. He kicked out, buying a second's distance, panting.
'This isn't right', he thought. 'They were all gone. We made sure of it. This one... it's something else.'
But the Deviant didn't care for questions. It lunged again.
Kingo blocked with his blade, but the force sent him skidding back, boots digging furrows into the dusty road. His grip was slipping. His focus fraying.
He had fought them before. These Monstrosities called Deviants. But this? This wasn't just a simple enemy. It was a message.
Something had changed.
And whatever this thing was, it was trying to kill him before he could find out.
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