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- The Atlantic Ocean -
- December 19, 1939 — Night -
The Leviathan slid through the dark waters like a blade of ice, its glow dimming as it sank deeper and deeper. The world above had been loud with fire and fear, but down here there was only silence, broken only by the slow rumble of the sea. Namor's body hung limply between its fangs, not crushed but carried, as if he were nothing more than an offering.
Inside its vast frame, power hummed. This was no mindless construct. Bound into its core was a fragment of will, of a Dragon God, and with that came mastery of spells no Atlantean priest could hope to match. While Namor's veins burned with the last traces of corruption, the Leviathan's magic slid easily into the gaps, breaking through his natural resistance and threading deeper. It did more than heal—it pried. Memories stirred, patterns of thought unwound, and a map of hidden currents formed in the creature's mind.
The location of Atlantis was no longer secret.
As it neared the ancient city, the waters grew brighter. Towers carved from coral and stone loomed out of the gloom, wrapped in wards that shimmered faintly like nets of light. Guards stood watch at the gates, armed with spears tipped with glowing crystals. Their posture stiffened as they felt the ocean shift, the vibration of something vast cutting through the depths.
Then they saw it.
A monster larger than their tallest spire, its scales sharp as glaciers, its eyes burning with unnatural cold. In its jaws hung their prince.
Panic swept the watch. Orders were shouted, weapons leveled. Bolts of energy tore through the water as they fired upon the creature in desperation. The Leviathan barely twitched. Spells and blasts broke against its scales, scattering like sparks against steel.
With a slow, almost lazy movement, it tilted its head and let Namor's body tumble free. He crashed into the arms of the nearest guards, the Trident of Neptune clattering beside him. Cries erupted as they scrambled to shield him, calling for healers, cursing in disbelief. Their prince was alive—but broken.
Rage filled the rest of the warriors. They rushed the Leviathan in formation, blades cutting through the water, magic flaring from their hands. None of it mattered. The creature swatted them aside as though they were insects, sending seasoned fighters spinning helplessly through the currents. A single sweep of its tail shattered their formations, and a breath of frost turned the water around them into a storm of cutting ice.
Just as despair set in, the monster stilled.
Its eyes glowed brighter, and for the first time, a voice filled the water. It was a voice that felt older than the ocean itself, deep and draconic, each word vibrating through bone.
"Atlantis…" it said, cold and slow. "By the arrogance of your prince, you dared trespass against my master."
The guards froze. Even the wounded drifted motionless, staring in horror as the being spoke in the tongue of men.
"Know this. The state you find him in is mercy. A one-time reprieve. My master has chosen to leave your king-to-be breathing, though his folly nearly cost him his throne."
The voice grew harsher, the sea itself trembling.
"But hear me well. Should Atlantis raise its hand again—no trident, no artifact, no god nor ghost will stay the ruin that follows. This city, your legacy, your name itself, will be nothing but whispers lost to the tide."
The words echoed through the water like a curse, sinking into every Atlantean who heard them.
Then, with a roar that split the sea and rattled their walls, the Leviathan turned. Its colossal body coiled once, and in a rush of bubbles and darkness it was gone—back into the endless deep, slipping toward the waters of Bharat.
The gates of Atlantis were left in silence, broken warriors clutching their prince, the echo of the warning heavy in their chests.
They had faced many enemies in their history, but never one who carried such effortless, dismissive power. For the first time in generations, Atlantis felt small.
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- Bangkok, Thailand -
- December 20, 1939 -
The Vyomratha touched down with the grace of a bird settling on still water. Its silver hull gleamed under the sun, casting long reflections across the airstrip. For the Thai officials waiting below, the sight was both a marvel and a warning.
This was no ordinary aircraft. It was personal to Samrat Aryan himself, a symbol of Bharat's strength and its rapid leap into technologies that others could barely imagine. Even before Aryan stepped out, the weight of his arrival was felt.
Thailand had always played the game carefully. Surrounded by colonised lands, it had survived by walking a tightrope, balancing between Britain, France, the Dutch, and more recently the Japanese. They had never been conquered, never stripped of their sovereignty, because they knew when to bow, when to bargain, and when to stand still.
But now, the balance they had trusted for decades felt suddenly fragile.
News traveled fast. Reports of what happened in New York Harbor had already reached Bangkok before Aryan's plane landed. Officials had huddled through the night, reading telegrams, poring over shaky film reels, whispering in disbelief. The Samrat of Bharat had humbled the Prince of Atlantis, a long considered myth which became a reality through sheer display of power and ruthlessnes, to the shock of the whole world, and healed an entire harbor with nothing but his will. He had walked away untouched, his power undeniable.
That single display had shaken their assumptions more than years of intelligence reports ever could.
Until yesterday, they had thought of Bharat as an ambitious young nation, strong but still human, still bound by limits. Now, they had to confront the truth—Aryan was not someone who could be measured by the same yardstick as other leaders.
The timing could not have been more uneasy. Only months earlier, Thailand had formally renamed itself from Siam, riding on a surge of nationalism under Prime Minister Phibun. The air was thick with ambition. Bangkok dreamed of expansion, of proving its strength by claiming lands long watched with envy.
Plans had been whispered in the halls of power: if tensions flared between Bharat and Japan, Thailand would quietly open its ports and roads to Japanese forces. In return, they hoped to grab pieces of Burma, a land now firmly under Bharat's rule. It was a gamble born of pride and hunger.
But those plans felt like sand slipping through their fingers now.
If Aryan could humble Namor with a glance and undo destruction as if rewriting time itself, then what chance would Thailand have, even with Japanese backing? Could they even imagine facing an enemy who could summon monsters from myth and heal battlefields in moments?
The answer was clear.
Caution spread like frost through the Thai leadership. The once-bold whispers of annexation quieted, replaced by new calculations. They could not risk provoking a neighbor who now seemed less like a nation and more like a storm wrapped in flesh.
As Aryan descended from the Vyomratha, flanked by his entourage of Bharatiya guards, the Thai officials put on their practiced smiles, bowing with respect deeper than they might have intended. Their eyes carried none of the usual measuring, none of the half-hidden arrogance of equals. Instead, there was wariness. A quiet fear.
Because for all their years of clever balancing between powers, Thailand understood one thing now: Bharat was not Britain, nor France, nor even Japan.
It was something new. Something greater.
And if they wanted to survive, they would need to treat it with more care than ever before.
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