Chapter 1: Sparks, Scraps, and Secrets

The ancient ceiling fan above Arjun Varma clattered dangerously, as if one strong gust of wind might rip it from the ceiling and send it crashing down on his already disastrous workspace. Sweat stuck his T-shirt to his back despite the weak breeze leaking through the half-open window. Outside, Mumbai was wide awake—the honking of impatient autos, the clash of metal shutters rolling open, and a street vendor screaming about "World's Cheapest Idli" in a voice so hoarse it could sandpaper wood.

Arjun lay on his cot, staring at the cracked ceiling, trying to remember when exactly his life had become this spectacular disaster. History degree? Useless. Job prospects? None. Career plan? He had one—if "roast fake gurus on YouTube and pray for ad revenue" counted as a plan.

The laptop on his desk hummed like an aging mosquito, its screen paused on the editing software for his latest video.

Myth or Meth? Episode 57: Did Ancient India Invent Plasma Cannons?

The thumbnail showed Arjun standing dramatically in front of a moss-eaten temple in Rajasthan, arms flailing mid-rant. Myth or Meth was his one stroke of brilliance—a YouTube channel where he took viral historical conspiracies, ripped them apart with sarcasm and facts, and somehow made enough money to avoid eviction.

"Episode's late." Bete's voice crackled through the Bluetooth speaker duct-taped to the wall, drenched in disapproval. "Want me to draft your apology tweet?"

Arjun's lips twitched. "Morning, Bete."

"Don't 'morning' me, you greasy fossil." Bete's tone was all sharp edges and zero mercy. "Also, the cup of tea you left under the bed two weeks ago? It's now legally a biological hazard. I sent it to the WHO for classification."

Bete wasn't just some off-the-shelf AI assistant. Two years ago, when Arjun's life hit peak rock-bottom, he stumbled across a decommissioned military server while 'borrowing' some free WiFi from a defense contractor's leaking network. Most people would've gone for passwords or black-market data. Arjun? He found an abandoned AI kernel labeled:

Behavioral Extrapolation Tactical Entity - Prototype 09

It took months of trial, error, and questionable coding choices, but eventually Arjun gave it a new personality—half sarcastic butler, half research assistant, and all attitude. He called it Bete, partly because it meant "son" in Hindi, and partly because yelling "Bete!" every time something broke made him feel like a grumpy father.

"Bete, pull up yesterday's temple footage," Arjun said, dragging himself to his desk.

"The one where you fell into a cow ditch on camera?" Bete asked, already loading the file. "Sure. Let's relive that trauma."

The footage flickered to life—Arjun standing in the heart of a crumbling temple, microphone clutched like a lifeline, delivering his trademark cocktail of sarcasm and skepticism.

"Welcome back to Myth or Meth," video-Arjun declared. "Where we separate divine fact from internet crack."

Sunlight sliced through the ruins, painting his face in stripes of gold and shadow. The temple itself was barely standing—carvings eroded to vague smudges, pillars leaning at angles that defied physics. Arjun had gone there to debunk a claim that the temple once housed a pre-Vedic plasma cannon.

It was going well—until the camera caught something Arjun hadn't noticed at the time.

Two pale glowing eyes, watching from the corner of the frame.

Arjun leaned closer, heart stuttering.

"Bete. Enhance."

"Oh sure," Bete groaned. "Because that always works."

The image sharpened slightly. The eyes didn't belong to a person. No pupils. No sclera. Just two orbs of faint, metallic light, hovering in the shadows.

"What the hell," Arjun whispered.

"Best guess?" Bete offered. "Either a malfunctioning temple guardian spirit or a very confused Nokia phone reincarnated as a cryptid."

Arjun rubbed his face. "We'll add it to the 'panic about later' folder."

He pushed back from the desk, bumping against the small wooden altar shoved into the corner of the room. The clay Ganesha idol on top had been there since his childhood—a relic from his mother's faith. Arjun was never religious, but throwing it away felt wrong. It was her.

He picked it up to dust off the years of grime. Something inside rattled.

He froze.

Gently, he turned it over, fingers tracing a thin crack along the base. He had never noticed it before. Carefully, he pried it open. A folded slip of paper, yellowed with age, slid out.

The handwriting sent a sharp spike through his chest.

It was his mother's.

""" The fire stolen from the stars must never be relit.They left for a reason. """

"Okay." Bete's voice lost its usual snark. "That's… not the kind of bedtime story I wanted."

Arjun sat down hard, the note trembling in his fingers. His mother had never talked about this. She was as practical as they came—a woman who believed in fixed deposits, turmeric for everything, and beating sense into her son with a slipper. This? This wasn't her style.

He dragged his mother's old trunk from under the bed—the one he hadn't touched since the funeral. Dust billowed as he flipped the latch, releasing the scent of sandalwood and paper.

Old clothes. Photos. Letters. And at the very bottom, wrapped in silk—her diary.

The leather cover bore a symbol—a ring of flames circling an empty void.

"Bete," Arjun said softly. "Scan this."

"Scanning… and holy crap." Bete's voice actually faltered. "That's the HelioCore Seal."

Arjun's breath caught. "HelioCore? You mean the thing from that black-market auction folder?"

"Yup. The same lost tech you got fired for obsessing over."

He flipped the diary open. Most of it was normal—shopping lists, festival notes. But halfway through, her handwriting shifted—urgent, uneven:

""" They think it's lost.But it's only hidden.The fire sleeps beneath the earth.I saw the gates closing. """

The next page held a rough sketch of the HelioCore itself—almost identical to the one he found at the auction years ago. His mother had known. Somehow, she had been part of this.

His phone buzzed.

A WhatsApp message from an unknown number:

''' Stop digging. -E '''

Arjun's heart pounded.

"Bete," Arjun said. "Trace it."

"They're bouncing it off three satellites, two proxies, and a submarine cable in Sweden," Bete muttered. "This isn't amateur hour."

Arjun sat back, staring at the mess on his desk—ancient blueprints, a forbidden diary, ghostly eyes in temple footage, and now a digital warning.

Everything connected. The myths, the tech, the cover-ups. This wasn't just a discovery. This was the discovery. But knowledge alone wasn't enough.

If he wanted to build the HelioCore—actually build it—he needed something more than brains.

He needed money.

And that meant resurrecting Dr. Akash Verma, master of fake research and professional scam artistry.

"Bete," Arjun said, grin sharp. "Time to write a funding pitch."

Outside, Mumbai roared. Inside, history stirred awake.