The Grand Arrival
Date: August 5, 2010Time: 6:37 PM ISTLocation: Aritra's Private Villa, Jadavpur, Kolkata (Overlooking Dakhuria Lake)Event Location: Wankhede Stadium, Mumbai
The waters of Dakhuria Lake stretched out behind Aritra's villa, its surface rippling faintly under the fading August light. Through the half-open balcony doors, the faint sounds of cricket commentary drifted in from a neighbor's television — a reminder that for most of Kolkata, this was still just another evening. But inside the villa, in the sunken living room with its floor-to-ceiling glass panels overlooking the lake, reality was very different.
The Nova Prime tablet rested against Aritra's knee, a live feed of Wankhede Stadium filling the screen. Beside him, Katherine, barefoot and comfortably sprawled across the couch, rested her head on his thigh. Her own tablet lay abandoned on her stomach, forgotten in favor of the massive 65-inch Omnilink display mounted on the opposite wall — where the WarFall Global Finals Opening Ceremony was about to begin.
Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. The sheer weight of what was about to unfold — the culmination of years of manipulation, technology, and invisible strings pulled from the shadows — was enough to keep them both silent.
Outside, the cicadas buzzed. Inside, the bassline from Linkin Park's "New Divide" kicked in, vibrating the glass panels just enough to send a single ripple across the surface of Aritra's untouched glass of water.
"Feels less like an esports tournament," Katherine murmured, voice warm with amusement, "and more like a WWE pay-per-view with extra seasoning."
Aritra's thumb flicked across his tablet, changing camera feeds with lazy precision. His smile was the kind only Katherine could read — the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, the almost affectionate condescension toward the world outside these walls. "That's because it is."
On screen, Wankhede's massive new LED walls — curved and stretching the length of the east and west stands — synchronized into a 5-minute countdown, each number pulsing with the bass drop, turning the stadium itself into a giant instrument.
From a drone-mounted camera, the stadium's transformation was almost alien — the sacred cricket pitch buried under a floating hexagonal stage, its modular panels shimmering in jet black with reactive neon highlights. 40 player pods, one for each competing team, circled the platform like orbiting moons, each hidden behind a retractable tunnel panel.
Outside the gates, Marine Drive was flooded with fans, some waving Ashura Syndicate flags, others holding up custom Nova Zeniths to livestream the very stadium they were too far away to enter. The crowd wasn't just there for the games — they were there because they sensed, even if they didn't have the words for it, that this wasn't just a tournament.
It was a cultural coup.
The countdown hit zero, and the first tunnel began to peel open, its black glass folding back like mechanical jaws.
The crowd erupted.
The announcer's voice, deep and almost biblical in its gravity, rolled across the stadium.
"And now… from the frozen battlegrounds of North America, where precision meets power… your reigning North American champions… NORTHEEERRRN LIGHTS!"
Two columns of blue fire roared to life on either side of the player tunnel as FoxHound led his squad into the light, mirrored aviators catching the flames like shards of ice. His white and steel-blue jacket, stitched with NORTH AMERICAN CHAMPIONS 2010, practically glowed under the floodlights.
Behind him, SilentSpecter, JynxBlade, Rookstar, and IceVayne emerged — each player styling their walk just enough to make the entrance their own.
SilentSpecter gave a low bow, arms spread wide.JynxBlade flashed a double bird at the cameras, knowing full well it would get censored on the global feed but immortalized online within seconds.Rookstar did his usual fake-trip-and-recover gag, and half the crowd fell for it, gasping.IceVayne… just stood there, awkward, stiff, a man deeply aware that charisma wasn't part of his skill set.
Katherine pointed at him with a lazy grin. "That one."
Aritra didn't look up. "Which?"
She popped a popcorn kernel into her mouth. "The tall one. IceVayne. I bet he's the only reason they haven't all accidentally set themselves on fire."
On-screen, FoxHound blew a kiss to the North American fan section, where Canadian and American flags waved together — a temporary truce in the name of esports.
The tunnel lights dimmed.
"Next," Aritra murmured.
The announcer barely paused for breath.
"From the streets of São Paulo to the heart of Emberfall Ridge… the storm that cannot be outrun… please welcome… SOUTH AMERICA'S OWN — LAAAA TORRRMENTAAA NEGRA!"
The second tunnel exploded outward, spewing molten red and gold smoke, the panels splitting like a dragon's jaws. El Relámpago, captain and human thunderstorm, walked out first, his Brazilian flag trailing from his shoulders like a war banner.
His team followed, each player radiating street-tough confidence. FuegoSanto punched the air, LaViuda spun her twin daggers for the camera, CarniceroX flexed, and VolcanicGale raised a can of something unlabelled in toast to the crowd.
The South American fan section, predictably, was already on its feet, waving flags and setting off illegal flares that security had long since stopped trying to confiscate.
Katherine shook her head. "Subtle."
"They never are," Aritra said.
The third tunnel bloomed in cold silver and crimson, and the stadium sound system shifted from heavy metal to the ethereal piano and guitar opening of Evanescence's "Bring Me to Life".
"The heirs of Europe's gaming throne… born from strategy, honed by victory… IMPERIUM'S FANGS!"
They stepped out as one, led by Valken, whose long coat caught the wind, looking every bit like a man who'd just descended from some ancient European cathedral to remind the world who invented war.
Blackthorn, LyraVisage, CrownedWolf, and IronSpine followed — each step timed, each gesture calculated, the Imperium's Fangs' brand of arrogance perfected over years of continental dominance.
Aritra's fingers paused over his tablet. Even from his villa, miles away, Nathaniel Blackthorne's fingerprints were all over this team — his shadow stretching from Geneva to Mumbai.
The parade continued — South Korea's Crimson Dragoons, Japan's Tengu's Wrath, the UAE's Desert Vultures with their live camera-falcon escorts — until the final tunnel, bathed in silver and indigo, opened to the deafening roar of Wankhede's home crowd.
"And now… for the pride of India… the champions of the East… your own… ASHURA SYNDICATE!"
PhantomRift led them out, his right arm tracing the air, activating the augmented reality sword that flickered to life along his forearm — the blade's glowing tip reflecting the stadium lights.
Aritra didn't smile.
Not yet.
The holographic WarFall skyship descended over the stadium, signaling the Finals were about to begin.
But somewhere, down in the player tunnels, a wildcard player — one no one had paid attention to — turned to face the nearest camera.
And smiled.
The roar of Ashura Syndicate's entrance hadn't fully died down when the outer stage panels shifted again, the floor splitting with the soft, mechanical hum of machinery sliding into perfect alignment. From beneath the main platform, a smaller ceremonial stage began to rise, glass-topped, edges trimmed in brushed titanium, with the WarFall: Dominion insignia pulsing faintly beneath its surface.
The lights above dimmed, leaving only the cool glow of the platform itself, the kind of design touch that had cost crores but looked effortless now — a stage not just for players, but for history being sold live.
In his villa, Aritra Naskar stretched his arm along the back of the sofa, eyes half-lidded but fully awake. Through the open balcony doors, Dakhuria Lake shimmered in the dying light, its surface calm, almost glass-like. The contrast between the quiet water and the chaos unfolding on his screen felt… correct.
Katherine, still sprawled across his lap, glanced at her tablet. "208 million."She rotated the screen so Aritra could see — verified concurrent viewers across all official Omnilink feeds."Another 16 million on pirate streams, mostly China."
"Push the updated count live after the anthem," Aritra murmured.
The camera feed shifted, pulling back to show the stadium's global heatmap — an interactive overlay showing real-time audience density in different regions. It glowed brightest over India, but clusters in California, Seoul, Berlin, São Paulo, and Dubai were flaring hotter with every passing second.
The announcer's voice returned, the tone pitched lower — formal now, the cadence of a man narrating something more than a ceremony.
"Ladies and gentlemen — from every corner of the world, across continents, cultures, and battlegrounds — welcome to the WarFall: Dominion Global Finals."
The first spotlight swept upward, landing on the central VIP box, where Prince Fahad bin Khalid Al Saud stood, his perfectly tailored bisht falling in crisp, unmarred lines. Both hands rose, palms open, the gesture measured — polite, but never warm.
"Representing the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia — a visionary dedicated to shaping the future of global esports — His Royal Highness, Prince Fahad bin Khalid Al Saud."
The prince offered only the briefest nod, but his eyes didn't leave the stage. Even in the moment of ceremony, he was studying, the way a builder studies a piece of land before the first foundation stone is laid.
Beside him stood Aditya Pratap, Chief Minister of Maharashtra, hands relaxed at his sides, face tilted up just slightly toward the screens. There was no need for speeches or smiles. The stadium itself was his speech — a project born under his watch, a crown placed directly in his hands.
"And representing our hosts — the leader who ensured Maharashtra became the new global capital of esports — Chief Minister Aditya Pratap."
The stadium roared, though the applause belonged more to Mumbai itself than any one man. Aditya knew it, and so did Aritra.
The spotlight moved again, shifting to a smaller VIP platform just above the player tunnels. Here, a small cluster of global influencers stood — the type chosen not just for fame, but for their marketability across continents.
The announcer continued.
"Joining us — global voices from music, sport, and culture, celebrating this new era."
The camera paused long enough to show:
Akon, smiling broadly, always aware of where the nearest camera was.Shakira, waving with the practiced ease of someone who knew the value of a perfectly timed hair flip.A well-known Indian playback singer, seated quietly beside them, offering nothing more than a polite nod.Fernando Torres, the lone athlete in the mix, waving toward the Spanish players' section with the ease of someone who still didn't fully understand why he was here, but enjoying it anyway.
The camera lingered just long enough to create proof of presence, then cut back to the stage, where the ceremonial platform was beginning its rotation — a 360-degree slow pan displaying the final player pods, each one sealed, the teams already inside, their faces dimly visible through the curved glass.
"Forty teams. Twelve maps. One crown. The path to immortality begins now."
Katherine's tablet vibrated softly.
She glanced down. "Live count — 217.4 million."
Aritra's hand hovered near his own private Nova Prime, though he never picked it up. He didn't need to. Somewhere, buried in the secure backend, Lumen was already parsing the data, not just counting heads, but measuring every emotional spike, every regional shift, every comment flood across Omnilink's chat servers.
The announcer's voice dropped lower, almost reverent.
"Welcome to Mumbai. Welcome to history. Welcome to WarFall: Dominion Global Finals 2010."
Above the stadium, the holographic skyship hovered directly over the player pods, its engines flickering with artificial heat, the projection system pushed to its limits.
The first official map rotation would begin in three minutes.
Aritra's fingers tapped once against Katherine's thigh — a habit, not a signal — and then his gaze shifted to the far end of his screen. There, at the bottom of the Omnilink executive control panel, a small icon flickered once.
Lumen.
No alert. No alarm.
Just a pulse — the faintest ripple in the data stream.
Aitra's eyes narrowed slightly.
The announcer's voice rose again, the ceremony moving toward its final beat.
But Aritra wasn't watching anymore.
He was reading the flicker in the feed, the whisper only he could hear.
Lumen had seen something.
And so had he.