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- New York Harbor, USA -
- December 19, 1939 -
The sea held its breath.
Namor froze mid-step, trident raised, his wings twitching as though they sensed danger before his mind could. He turned sharply, his sharp eyes narrowing at the figure that had appeared behind him without so much as a ripple in the water or stir in the mist.
Aryan stood there—calm, unhurried, as though the chaos below and the flames sputtering on Jim's broken form mattered little in this moment. Yet the pressure rolling off him was undeniable. It wasn't loud or violent, but it pressed against Namor's chest all the same, heavy like the weight of an unseen tide.
Namor's instincts screamed. His grip tightened around the trident. "Who are you," he demanded, his voice edged with caution, "to creep behind me without even the ocean warning me?"
Aryan's expression didn't change. "I am Aryan Rajvanshi, the Samrat of Bharat. In your tongue—an Emperor. Of the land to the east… an ancient land your people know well through Atlantis's records. Bharat."
At that word, Namor's stance eased ever so slightly. Recognition flickered in his sharp eyes. Pride colored his voice as he replied, "Bharat… yes. A civilization spoken of in our oldest chronicles. From the Age of Gods, when Atlantis itself was young. To know such a kingdom endures even now…" He tilted his chin upward, regal in bearing. "Then I acknowledge you as ruler of men, Aryan of Bharat. But know this—"
He stepped forward, raising his trident, the ocean swirling in rhythm with his words. "I am Namor, Prince of Atlantis, chosen bearer of the Trident of Neptune, and rightful heir to the throne of the seas. The surface world is guilty of crimes beyond forgiveness. I will punish them. This is not your fight, Emperor. Stand aside. The East is not yet my concern. Do not overstep, or your crown will not shield you."
The words rang with pride, but Aryan's gaze turned cold. His presence sharpened, pressing harder. Conqueror's Haki flared—not wild and uncontrolled, but precise, contained high above the city so the ordinary people below felt nothing. Only Namor felt it, like a mountain settling on his shoulders.
"Prince of Atlantis," Aryan said evenly, "mind your tongue. You speak as if you stand above me, when in truth you are not my equal. You may strike fear into men, but you will not drown this city while I draw breath. New York will not fall tonight. Not to you."
Namor scoffed, jaw tightening as he bore the pressure. "Bold words." His trident sparked with seawater as he moved, the power of the ocean surging with him. With a sudden burst, he lunged forward, wielding the weapon not as a spear but as a blunt hammer, swung with the strength of a god. His power, raw and unyielding, was said to rival even Thor's fury.
The strike met Aryan's raised hand.
A dull boom echoed, followed by a shiver through the air itself. Aryan's palm, wrapped in hardened Armament Haki, absorbed the blow effortlessly. The force didn't simply vanish—it bent, redirected, flowing back through the trident like water returning to the sea.
Namor's eyes widened.
In the blink of an eye, Aryan twisted the redirected power, amplifying it hundredfold with his will, and thrust it back into Namor's core. Invisible force laced with Haki invaded, rattling his insides like a bell. The Prince of Atlantis was hurled backward, his body trailing a storm of seawater.
He crashed Into the waves with an eruption of spray, the harbor trembling under the impact.
For a heartbeat, all was silent save the lapping of the water against the shore.
Aryan lowered his hand, eyes never leaving the rippling sea where Namor had vanished. His expression remained calm, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet steel.
"You'll learn soon enough, Prince. This world already has its guardians."
—
The harbor rumbled again.
From the depths, Namor erupted, his roar echoing like thunder across the water. The sea clung to him like armor, his wounds knitting back together at a speed that was impossible to ignore. Torn flesh sealed, bruises faded, even the cracks in his bones seemed to vanish as the ocean poured strength back into him. Every breath he took drew more power from the waves.
His eyes burned with fury. "Surface-dweller! You mock me!"
With a surge, he lunged at Aryan again, the Trident spinning in his grip like a whirlwind. His attacks were sharper now, faster, each one carrying the raw might of the sea itself. Blows that could level steel ships and crush concrete came down like a storm meant to erase everything in its path.
But Aryan?
He didn't move more than he needed to. One hand—just one—was all he used. Fingers, palm, wrist. Each strike from Namor met effortless deflections, turned aside with the grace of a master brushing away falling leaves. The energies Namor hurled at him were absorbed, redirected, amplified, and sent crashing back into him in ways he couldn't predict.
Observation Haki whispered every move before it was made. Armament Haki hardened Aryan's skin and bones beyond steel. His mastery of martial forms turned each counter into a lesson, each redirection into humiliation.
To anyone watching from below, it might have looked like Aryan was barely moving at all, while Namor raged like a tempest against a mountain that simply would not break.
Namor's strikes carved the air with enough force to flatten city blocks—but nothing spilled outward. Aryan contained it all, bending every ounce of destructive energy inward, away from New York. Some he absorbed into himself, some he flung back at Namor, each one like a mirror showing him his own fury turned against him.
And the more Namor attacked, the more it ate at him. His rage burned hotter than his pride could carry.
The exchange lasted only minutes. But in those minutes, Namor learned something he had never felt before. The gap. The sheer distance between his strength—one worthy of gods—and Aryan's. His pride as Prince, as warrior, as heir to Atlantis… was cut.
Frustration twisted his face. With a roar, he raised the Trident high. The sea responded violently, walls of water collapsing together until a single tide rose—a mountain of a wave, taller than the tallest skyscrapers, black against the horizon. It cast its shadow over the harbor like judgment itself.
"DROWN!" Namor bellowed.
The wave fell.
Aryan sighed. With nothing more than a wave of his hand, the tide froze mid-collapse. The towering wall of water shattered into glittering fragments, each droplet crystallized into a shard of ice that hovered in the air. Millions of them.
The harbor turned Into a frozen zone, cold mist biting against skin, the sea itself stiff beneath their feet. The city was untouched—the frost stopped just short of Manhattan's edge, as if Aryan had drawn an invisible line no destruction dared cross.
Namor's fury only deepened. With a guttural growl, he channeled the Trident again, this time unleashing mystic beams, arcs of energy laced with Atlantean sorcery. They shot forward like spears of lightning.
Aryan's hand opened casually, and space itself bent. The beams vanished into a rift—then reappeared behind Namor, slamming into his back before he could even react. The blast tore across his body, his vaunted durability crumbling under his own power. For the first time, he staggered, blood mingling with the salt water around him.
His jaw clenched in pain.
Aryan's eyes sharpened. The millions of fragments floating in the sky trembled, reshaping under his will. From fragile shards, they became impossibly thin needles, each one honed sharper than any blade, their durability reinforced with the Power Cosmic. He laced them further with Void Arcane, corruptive energies that pulsed like poison waiting to be released.
And then—
They struck.
From every direction, the sky rained silver death. Needles at light speed pierced into Namor, shredding his flesh, his scales, even slipping past where his healing could not keep up. The Void energies crawled through his insides, twisting and burning.
For the first time in his life, Namor screamed. The cry ripped through the frozen air, raw, agonized, and filled with disbelief.
—
Namor's body hit the frozen seabed with a hollow thud, the shock echoing through the still water around him. For a moment he thought the ocean might cradle him, heal him as it always had when he bled. The sea was his sanctuary, his blood and breath. But this time, nothing soothed him. Instead, there was only a searing fire inside his chest, a corrosion that spread through his veins like poison. His body screamed for water's embrace, yet the pain clawed deeper, unrelenting.
He gasped, clutching his stomach, confusion clouding his once-proud eyes. What is this? No strike, no magic, no god he had ever read of carried such cruelty in its touch. Not even the might of Atlantis's ancient legends spoke of power like this. His strength, his heritage, his pride—they meant nothing here. Every move he had made, every strike he had thrown, had been brushed aside as if they were nothing more than ripples in a storm. His blows carried no weight, his speed was too easily read, his defiance mocked by a being who looked mortal but stood like something far greater.
For the first time, Namor felt small.
He blinked, the edges of his sight dimming as consciousness slipped from him like sand through open fingers. With the corner of his vision, he caught one last image that froze the fear in his chest more than the ice ever could. The shattered fragments—the same icy shards that had pierced him again and again—were not dispersing. No, they were gathering, swirling in harmony under Aryan's silent command. Piece by piece, shard by shard, they knitted together into a monstrous form.
A vast serpent, draconic In shape, its body coiling with menace, its jagged scales gleaming like crystal blades. Its eyes shimmered with cold life, and its maw parted in a silent roar that made even the ocean tremble.
Namor's heart lurched. This was not just power. This was domination, an artistry of destruction that made him feel less like a warrior and more like prey.
His final thought before darkness claimed him was not of vengeance, not of his people, not even of his pride. It was of fear—raw and unshaped. Fear of a man who was no god, yet stood above them all.
Then the blackness took him.
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