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- New York Harbor, USA -
- December 19, 1939 -
The harbor was silent again.
Aryan hovered high above the water, not a single tear in his clothes, not even dust on his shoulders. That was how wide the gap had been. Namor lay broken below, yet Aryan knew this wasn't the full measure of the Prince of Atlantis. Pride, recklessness, inexperience—something had kept Namor from showing the best of his power. Perhaps in years to come he would refine his gifts, perhaps he would rise to the title of King in truth. But right now, the difference between them was like a gulf carved by the gods themselves.
And Aryan had only revealed a sliver of what he truly held.
He couldn't afford more. Not here. Not with eyes in every shadow of this country. He had already seen enough during this diplomatic trip—the American officials, even their President, treated his power as rumor, exaggerated stories from the revolution in Bharat. Kings and ministers of even Afganistan and Iran, whom he had visited before coming to America, carried the same quiet doubt. They thought him strong, yes, but still within reach. Still human.
He wanted tonight to burn that illusion away.
Namor had been an accident, but a useful one. A stage had been set, and Aryan's display would spread across the world like wildfire. They would finally see what he wished them to see: that he stood beyond them, above them, untouchable. That his humility was not weakness, but choice.
And yet, he had to measure it. To reveal too much would be foolish—there were others watching too, enemies that didn't wear the faces of men. The Skrulls were among them. So every move tonight had been weighed carefully: enough dominance to etch fear and awe, but not enough to bare all his cards.
His gaze drifted down to the spell construct still floating near the waves. The Leviathan.
It was one of his newer creations, born not of corrupted corpses like the Void Warriors he had forged from corpses of defeated monsters from the Dungeon world, but of something finer, sharper. He had begun experimenting with semi-conscious elemental constructs—bodies shaped from his own energy, given life and skills by binding fragments of powerful souls he had claimed. Tonight's creation had been woven from a million shards of frozen water, each shard laced with Power Cosmic and Void Arcane, then anchored by the essence of an Ice-Elemental Dragon God he had long ago conquered.
The result was magnificent. The creature coiled above the water, its scales gleaming like blades, its breath misting with cold that bit through bone. Alive, but not alive. A spell given a body.
Aryan's eyes lingered on it with quiet pride. One day, he dreamed of building something far greater—a Tower of Accession in Bharat, where his people could ascend in power through trials guided by such beings. But that future was still a work in progress. For now, this Leviathan would serve another purpose.
His command was simple. "Take the Prince home. To Atlantis."
The dragon lowered its vast head, jaws opening with a rumbling growl that rolled across the harbor like thunder. Namor, still unconscious but writhing faintly in his pain, was lifted into its maw—not crushed, not killed, simply held like prey meant to be carried. The corruption burning in his body shivered, then began to ease. This construct was built from that very corruption, and so it could strip it away as easily as breathing.
A final roar split the air, shaking even the ships anchored far out in the bay. Then the Leviathan turned and plunged into the depths. The sea swallowed it whole, its glow vanishing into darkness, carrying Namor back to the gates of Atlantis as both a warning and an offering of goodwill.
The ocean calmed.
Aryan exhaled, finally letting his shoulders ease. He turned his gaze across the ruined harbor, where fire still licked at broken structures, where screams had only just begun to fade into shocked silence. His eyes fell on Jim—the Human Torch—still sprawled on the ground, his flames sputtering weakly, helpless to move.
The young man's eyes tracked Aryan, filled with a cocktail of awe, fear, and shame.
Aryan didn't speak. Words weren't needed. He simply extended his hand, and the air shimmered.
Butterflies appeared.
Not flesh and blood, but glimmering things of light and dust, fragile and beautiful. They spilled into the now disky sky like a storm of hope, their wings glowing with a soft warmth. Thousands of them. They carried no soul, only instructions—fragments of Aryan's will bound into a spell of restoration. They drew on the air, the sea, even the faint echoes of time itself.
As they touched down, the harbor began to change. Broken walls rose back into place, charred wood regained its polish, shattered glass rewove into windows. Wounds closed on fleeing civilians who had tripped or been trampled in panic. Color returned to faces streaked with blood and dirt.
And Jim…
The butterflies swarmed him, clinging to his burned skin, his cracked bones, his flickering fire. Slowly, the damage rewound, the brokenness erased. His circuits began functioning steadily again. His flames returned, no longer guttering but stable, strong. Tears almost formed in his artificial eyes as he watched, unable to believe the miracle happening around him.
The day that had begun in terror now shimmered with light, the soft glow of wings drifting through the mist. For every watcher on the docks, every soldier clutching his rifle, every hidden agent noting down each impossible detail, the scene burned into memory.
Aryan descended quietly, not in triumph, not in arrogance, but with the calm presence of someone who had just reminded the world of one simple truth—
That he stood far, far above them all.
—
Aryan did not stay for applause.
The moment the harbor was quiet and his spell butterflies had finished their work, he turned away. No goodbyes to Howard Stark. No pleasantries for the shaken crowd of businessmen and leaders. He knew what was coming—the flood of cameras, the swarm of reporters, the endless questions that would twist the night into chaos. His display had already been too much for them to process. To linger now would only invite hysteria.
His security detail moved with precision. The Bharatiya guards formed a shield around him, their faces stern, their steps unbroken, refusing every hand that reached out, every plea for an interview. Not a single explanation was given. Their silence was as heavy as his power had been. Within minutes, Aryan was in his car, the doors shut, the motor humming low as the convoy swept away from the harbor lights.
He leaned back against the seat, his face calm, unreadable. The city lights streaked past the window, reflected in his eyes. Tonight had been a reminder—not just to the people of New York, but to the world—that his strength was no rumor. Even an Atlantean prince with the Trident of Neptune had fallen before him, and he had walked away without a scratch.
By the time his convoy reached the hotel, his decision was already made. He would not extend his stay. His itinerary demanded his departure for Thailand that very night, and he would keep to it. America had seen enough of him for now. More than enough.
—
At the harbor, the scene Aryan left behind was like a waking dream. The healed stood on trembling legs, touching their bodies in disbelief. Burns gone. Bones mended. Fear washed away as though it had never been. And above them, buildings once shattered stood tall again, windows whole, walls unbroken. It was as if the night's terror had been undone by some divine hand, leaving only memories to remind them it had been real.
The Human Torch sat on the ground, breathing steadily, his body whole. His eyes followed the butterflies until they vanished, wonder and shame twisting together in his chest. He had fought and failed, but Aryan had not left him broken. The people saw that too, and their whispers rose like a tide.
"A god… he really is…"
"No, no, he's still a man—but what kind of man has that kind of power?"
"Did you see? He healed us all… he rebuilt everything…"
"Bharat calls him their Samrat, but here—he looked like something higher."
Even the devout who bristled at the word "god" could not deny what they had witnessed. Awe, fear, and gratitude all knotted together in their hearts.
—
But not everyone watched with reverence.
In hidden corners, eyes that were not human tracked every second of the battle. Skrulls disguised as men and women scribbled furious notes and recorded images, sending them up their chain of command. Their reports carried the same thread of unease: Aryan Rajvanshi was not only stronger than they anticipated, he was outside every calculation. They had planned for powerful men, for weapons, for armies. Not for this.
In Washington, the news hit like a thunderclap. The President and his closest circle gathered that same night, their faces pale as they received the first reports. What was meant to be a careful showcase—Human Torch standing before Aryan as proof of America's new age—had collapsed before it even began. Namor had appeared, unbidden, and Aryan had crushed him. Then, as if to salt the wound, Aryan had undone the destruction as though rewriting reality itself.
"What are we dealing with?" Roosevelt asked quietly, his tone more grave than his advisors had ever heard.
No one had an answer.
—
By morning, Aryan's Vyomratha had already left American skies, carrying him and his entourage eastward. Yet he remained on every tongue. Newspapers splashed his image across the front page. Radio stations spoke of nothing else. And television—new, still finding its place in American homes—replayed the grainy live footage of the battle during prime time.
The people saw it with their own eyes.
A man who stopped a god-like prince without effort.
A man who healed the wounded and rebuilt the broken city with beauty.
A man who turned chaos into order as easily as breathing.
Worldviews collapsed overnight. The idea of power, of dominance, of who held the future—it all had to be rewritten.
And across the ocean, in lands torn by war, the ripples spread faster than any army could march. Britain. Germany. France. Japan. Each government received the same reports, watched the same shaky film reels, and asked the same question in their chambers of power.
What place would there be for them in a world where the Samrat of Bharat walked like this?
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