Ch.71: Roots of Power, Dreams of a Nation
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- Sub-Dimensional Personal Space -
- April 22, 1937 | Morning -
The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Aryan stood in a vast clearing, surrounded by a forest that stretched toward jagged mountains in the distance. Rivers glinted under a clear sky, their waters weaving through rolling hills and lush plains. His Sub-Dimensional Space, now expanded to mirror the Indian subcontinent, pulsed with life—greenery in every shade, from emerald grass to deep olive canopies. Snow-capped peaks loomed far off, their shadows softening the golden light of a sun that wasn't Delhi's but his own creation.
At the heart of this world stood his mansion, a blend of elegance and utility. White stone walls rose three stories, adorned with carved arches inspired by Bharat's temples. Wide windows caught the light, and a sprawling courtyard held training fields, forges, and quiet gardens. Inside, rooms were fitted for comfort—soft beds, warm hearths, a library stacked with scrolls and books containing useful knowledge from a wide variety of subjects, he found for cheap in the System Store. His laboratory, tucked in the western wing, brimmed with tools: glowing consoles, alchemical vials, and devices that hummed with energy, ready for his scientific pursuits.
Now, in the backyard training field, Aryan faced his shadow clone. Trees ringed the open space, their leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. The ground was firm, marked by faint scars from past spars. Both Aryan and his clone moved with purpose, their eyes locked, each a mirror of the other's resolve.
Aryan gripped a sword, its blade gleaming like starlight. Inspired by Excalibur, he'd created it with 200 Meta Points, its edge sharp enough to cut through stone yet balanced for his hand. He wanted to test Eternal Arms Mastery, the skill that made every weapon an extension of his will, paired with his Void Physique—a trait that granted enhanced regeneration and adaptive learning. Together, they were a relentless force.
The clone, identical in form, wielded no weapon. It was instructed by Aryan to only use the power that came from Void Mind/Soul, his spiritual energy, and Enhanced Triad Haki, each type—Observation, Armament, and Conqueror's—each growing in proficiency as the battle between them progressed. The clone's presence was heavy, its gaze piercing, as if it could see Aryan's next move before he thought it.
They clashed.
Aryan lunged, Excalibur slicing in a clean arc. The clone sidestepped, its Observation Haki reading his intent, and countered with a fist coated in Armament Haki, black and unyielding. The blow grazed Aryan's shoulder, but his Void Physique kicked in. Skin knitted shut in seconds, and his body adapted, muscles tightening to better absorb the next hit. He grinned, feeling the thrill of growth mid-fight.
The clone pressed forward, its Conqueror's Haki flaring—a wave of will that hit Aryan like a storm. His mind reeled, but he countered with Thought Acceleration, a skill he'd developed mid-battle. His brain's processing speed surged a thousandfold, time seeming to slow. Each movement of the clone became clear, predictable. He ducked a second Haki-infused strike, his sword flashing to parry.
"Faster," Aryan muttered, pushing his agility. His Void Physique adapted again, boosting dexterity. His durability hardened with each regeneration cycle, dulling the edge of the clone's Armament Haki. The clone's Conqueror's Haki battered his soul, but Aryan reinforced his defenses, layering and reinforcing barriers around his Mind/Soul with focus. Each mental assault strengthened his resolve, like a wall rebuilt sturdier after every crack.
The forest around them trembled as their clash intensified. Aryan wove Eternal Arms Mastery into his strikes, Excalibur dancing between thrusts, slashes, and spins as if he'd wielded it for centuries. The skill's versatility shone—he shifted grips, angles, even mid-swing, forcing the clone to adapt. His Void Physique learned from each exchange, refining his movements, making him sharper, stronger.
The clone, unrelenting, used Observation Haki to dodge a thrust, its body a blur. It struck back, Armament Haki coating its arm like armor, aiming for Aryan's chest. He twisted, taking the hit on his side. Pain flared, but regeneration dulled it, his body tougher than before. He countered, Excalibur grazing the clone's arm, leaving a faint mark that mirrored his own healing.
They broke apart, circling, breath steady but eyes alight. Aryan felt alive, every sense sharp. The clone's Haki was a challenge, but his Thought Acceleration and adaptive learning kept him ahead. He could feel his soul strengthening, his mind a fortress against the clone's Conqueror's Haki. His sword felt like part of him, Eternal Arms Mastery blending with his instincts.
"You're good," Aryan said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The clone didn't reply, but its gaze held respect, a silent acknowledgment.
Aryan shifted his stance, Excalibur raised. He didn't just want to win—he wanted to grow. This space, this fight, was his forge. Every strike honed him, every wound taught him. He thought of Bharat, of the children whose futures he carried. This strength wasn't for him alone.
He charged, sword blazing, mind clear. The clone met him, Haki flaring, and the clearing shook with their collision. Trees swayed, the ground cracked, but Aryan felt steady, rooted like the mountains in the distance. He was Samrat, warrior, dreamer—a man shaping tomorrow with every swing.
As they fought, the mansion stood quietly behind, its laboratory waiting, its rooms a haven. This world was his, a reflection of his will. And in this moment, sparring under an endless sky, Aryan felt closer to his purpose than ever.
The clash ended with a final exchange—a blur of Excalibur's starlit edge and the clone's Haki-charged fist. Both froze, breath steady, the forest around them still trembling from their intensity. Aryan lowered his sword, its weight familiar in his hand, and dismissed the clone with a nod. It vanished in a ripple of shadow, leaving him alone in the clearing. The trees whispered in the breeze, their leaves catching the golden light of his crafted sun.
He exhaled, muscles warm from the fight, mind sharp. The spar had pushed him, each strike and counter a lesson carved into his body and soul. He felt stronger, not just in power but in clarity.
"Status," Aryan thought, his voice a whisper in his mind.
A holographic panel flared to life, its blue glow sharp against the morning light. Lines of text scrolled, detailing his growth, his power, his potential. He leaned closer, eyes tracing the changes.
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/ Status Panel /
- Void Physique
- Void Mind/Soul
- All-Speak >
- Meta-Creation (System Ability)
- Energy Absorption and Redistribution (Omega-Level X-Gene)
- Elemental Embodiment (Secondary Mutation of X-Gene) >
- Eternal Arms Mastery (Enhanced) – Basic-VI
- Omni-Elemental Sovereignty – Basic-I
- Void Arcana – Basic-I
- Analysis – Advanced-V
- Alchemy – Intermediate-V
- Special Runes – Intermediate-V
- Power Cosmic Manipulation – Basic-V
- Battle Instinct Override – Intermediate-I
- Eternal Flames Manipulation – Intermediate-I
- Thought Acceleration – Basic-V (New)
- Ultra High-Speed Regeneration – Basic-V (New) >
- Shadow Clone Jutsu
- Energy Dominion
- Enhanced Triad Haki >
: 850 >
- Dungeon Creation
- Enter/Exit Dungeon
- Sub-Dimensional Personal Space >
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A smile tugged at Aryan's lips. The panel was proof of his growth, each skill a step forward in hours of relentless effort. Eternal Arms Mastery had climbed to Basic-VI, its fluidity now instinctive. Thought Acceleration and Ultra High-Speed Regeneration, sparked mid-battle and confirmed by the system, felt like natural extensions of his will. The spar had sharpened them, his mind racing a thousand times faster, his wounds closing in moments.
But pride gave way to focus. These powers, as vast as they were, came from the system's boost. They were tools, not mastery. To make them second nature, he'd need to train harder, think smarter. The Marvel universe, he knew, wouldn't wait. Challenges loomed—enemies stronger than his clone, threats to Bharat's future. He couldn't afford to rest.
His Meta Points sat at 850, lower after thoughtful spending. The Excalibur-inspired sword, crafted for 200 MP, rested in his hand, its balance perfect. Expanding and reshaping the Sub-Dimensional Space—rivers, forests, mountains, and the mansion's laboratory—had cost 100 MP, a price worth paying for a world that felt like home. The final 50 MP went to books, tools, and devices for his library and lab, each chosen to fuel his scientific pursuits and deepen his knowledge.
He dismissed the panel, its glow fading. The clearing was quiet, the mansion's white stone walls catching the light beyond the trees. Aryan sheathed Excalibur in his System Space, its presence a reassuring hum in his mind. He walked toward the mansion, grass soft under his feet, thoughts turning inward.
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- Ujjain, Bharat -
- April 23, 1937 | Afternoon -
The sun hung low over Ujjain, casting a warm glow across the Shipra River. Its waters shimmered, reflecting the ancient temples of the old city, their spires standing like sentinels of time. Beyond, the land stretched open, ready for transformation. In a newly built office—a modest structure of sandstone and glass—the Bharat Urban Renaissance Authority hummed with purpose. This government-owned venture, tasked with shaping Ujjain as Bharat's new capital, sought to weave the ancient wisdom of Bharat with modern precision. Its mission was clear: preserve the old city as a sacred zone while crafting a new city in the mandala style, each sector dedicated to a purpose—business, administration, embassies, residences, commerce, industry, etc.
Inside, the air carried the faint scent of ink and sandalwood. Blueprints and maps covered wooden tables, their edges curling from hours of scrutiny. Narasimha Rao, the authority's head, stood by a window overlooking the river. His hair was silver, his face lined with years of labor and loss, but his eyes burned with resolve. At sixty-two, he carried the weight of a nation's dream—to build a capital that honored Bharat's soul while embracing its future. His latest task was urgent: oversee Ujjain's development and allocate 400 acres for the Emperor's Palace, a symbol of Bharat's rebirth, at the city's heart.
Across the table stood his granddaughter, Ananya, barely nineteen. Her dark hair was tied back, her kurta sleeves rolled up, revealing hands smudged with charcoal from sketching. She wasn't here because of her grandfather's name but because of her own fire—countless late nights studying architecture, proving her worth in a room full of seasoned planners. Narasimha had raised her alone after her parents fell to British bullets a decade ago. That loss had forged her, fueling her drive to build something lasting, something her parents would have been proud of.
"Jiji, look here," Ananya said, her voice steady but eager. She pointed to a blueprint, its mandala design radiating like a lotus. "The administrative sector sits at the center, close to the palace grounds. Residences spiral outward, with green belts between them for airflow. The industrial zone is downstream, far enough to keep the air clean."
Narasimha adjusted his spectacles, leaning over the map. His fingers traced the lines she'd drawn, each curve deliberate, each sector balanced. "You've thought this through," he said, his voice gravelly but warm. "The mandala honors our traditions—order, harmony. But these green belts… how do we ensure they stay untouched as the city grows?"
Ananya's eyes lit up, the question sparking her passion. "We can use ancient water channels, like the ones in Harappa, to irrigate them. They'll double as barriers—people won't build over a flowing stream. And here," she tapped the commercial sector, "we can plant banyan trees, like the ones in the old city. They'll shade the markets and remind everyone of Ujjain's roots."
He nodded, a faint smile breaking through his stern demeanor. "You've got your mother's mind for details." The words hung between them, heavy with memory. Ananya's smile faltered, but she straightened, her resolve firm. She wouldn't let grief slow her—not when Bharat needed her.
Narasimha turned back to the blueprint, pointing to a vast plot marked in red. "The Emperor's Palace—400 acres, as Samrat Aryan requested. It must be central but not imposing, a place that welcomes the people, not towers over them. What's your plan?"
Ananya unrolled a smaller sketch, her hands steady despite the weight of the task. "I thought of a stepped design, inspired by the ghats along the Shipra. The palace rises in layers—gardens at the base, open courtyards for gatherings, then the private quarters higher up. The outer walls will have carvings of Bharat's history, from the Vedas to now. It'll feel alive, not like a fortress."
Narasimha studied the sketch, his silence thoughtful. "It's bold," he said finally. "The ghats are a good touch—Ujjain's heart is its river. But the carvings… they'll take time, artisans, resources. Can we manage it with the timeline Samrat has set?"
"We have to," Ananya said, her voice firm but not defiant. "The palace isn't just a building—it's Bharat's pride. If we rush it, we lose what makes it ours. I've already found a guild of sculptors from Orissa. They're ready to start once we clear the land."
He looked at her, pride flickering in his eyes. She wasn't just his granddaughter—she was a builder, carrying the same fire he'd felt when he first dreamed of a free Bharat. "You're right," he said softly. "This city, this palace… they're more than stone. They're our promise to the future."
Ananya glanced out the window, where the old city's temples stood against the horizon. She thought of her parents, of the nights Narasimha had told her stories of their courage. This work—every line on the blueprint, every sector planned—was her way of honoring them. And Samrat Aryan, whose vision had sparked this rebirth, trusted them to make it real.
"Jiji," she said, her voice quieter now, "do you think… do you think they'd be proud of us?"
Narasimha's hand rested on her shoulder, steady and warm. "They already are, Ananya. Every step you take, every line you draw—it's their legacy, and yours."
She nodded, her throat tight but her heart full. The blueprint lay before them, a map of dreams taking shape. Outside, Ujjain waited—old and new, past and future, ready to rise as Bharat's beating heart.
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