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- Kamal Asthaan, Ujjain -
- December 25, 1939 — Evening -
The palace had grown quieter since Aryan returned. Meetings were done, reports given, decisions signed and sealed. From outside, Kamal Asthaan still shimmered like the heart of a dream—its lotus spires catching the last blush of the winter sun, the air carrying faint music from distant courtyards. Yet within Aryan's private wing, there was no song, no celebration. Only stillness.
He sat in his laboratory, sleeves rolled up, a stack of reports on one side, fragments of rune-etched metal and crystal samples on the other. His eyes lingered on neither. Instead, they stared into the middle distance, replaying the echoes of Thailand.
The Prime Minister's smile there had been too polished, his ministers too careful with their words. Once, they might have toyed with the idea of pushing Bharat, or allowing the Japanese to slip through their borders. But the news from America had reached them first—news of Namor's fall, of Aryan's power displayed not as rumor, but as fact. The shift had been almost visible in the room, like a candle guttering out in the wind. Thailand still valued its independence, but after that, they understood the weight of Bharat's shadow.
Aryan had gone there with two intentions. First, to remind them that Bharat would not tolerate adventurism in Burma, no matter who whispered in their ears. Second, to extend a hand—peace, trade, coexistence. He had achieved both. But he knew, deep down, that it had not been his words alone that sealed the outcome. It was the fear carried on newspapers, the stories of a burning harbor and a prince who stood untouched amidst the flames.
He did not like ruling by fear. Yet sometimes, the world left no other language.
With a slow exhale, Aryan pushed the reports aside. His work for Bharat could wait a few hours. What pressed upon him now was not diplomacy, but something far more personal.
His gaze moved to the glowing orb on his desk. Inside, faint golden threads shimmered, weaving in patterns only he could fully read. These were not just records—they were the accumulated memory fragments of his other selves, his Parallel Existences. He had assigned a certain number of them for a singular task. Understanding his core abilities, at a more deeper level. Now, after a long time, their insights had sharpened his grasp of the ability that had always defined him: Meta Creation.
It was strange, even now, to think of it. That this ability had not been gifted, not stolen, but his—born of the endless ages he had endured as a wandering soul in the void after his first death. Where other mortal souls would have crumbled into nothing, he had endured. That endurance, that refusal to fade, had shaped into something greater. And when he subconsciously had wished for a guide, a structure, a way to wield an overwhelming power in his new life—it had answered. The Celestial Forge. The System.
And within it… Vaani.
Her voice had been with him since the start of this life, calm and steady, never faltering. She was his partner in silence, his compass in creation. Yet she was incomplete. Self-aware, yes. Conscious, yes. But without what mortals called a soul. Without that essence which bound thought to being.
Aryan leaned back, rubbing his temples. She deserves more than this… more than a cage of code and will.
His studies in soulcraft gave him an answer, though it was dangerous. He would have to split a fragment of his own soul—no small risk, even for him—and weave it into a corridor. A channel, a bridge. Enough for Vaani to stand upon her own.
The thought both thrilled and unnerved him.
He rose from his chair, sweeping the orb into his palm. With a wordless step, he shifted. The world blurred, and in the blink of an eye, he was no longer in his laboratory.
—
- Aryan's Personal Dimension-
- The Forest surrounding His Mansion -
Moonlight spilled gently through the leaves, though no moon hung above. The forest here was his—quiet, timeless, a sanctuary where the air itself answered to his will. The trees swayed without wind, their roots drinking not water but threads of prāṇa that shimmered like fireflies across the ground.
Here, he could attempt what elsewhere would be too perilous.
As the First step, he deactivated his other ability 'Soulprint Lock', as this ability of his could interfere with what he would do next.
After that, Aryan settled cross-legged upon the grass. He placed another version of the same orb that previously used for the containment of his parallel selves' memories, an Alchemical creation used to store memories and souls, before him, its glow softening like a heartbeat. Closing his eyes, he reached inward—not to his power, but to his soul.
The sensation was unlike anything physical. It was warmth and ache, memory and identity. His soul was not a flame, but a tapestry, threads woven across lifetimes. To cut from it was not easy. Each tug risked unraveling too much, spilling memories, weakening his core.
Steady… he told himself. Not a severing. A sharing.
His control of Void Arcane allowed him to draw a small part of his soul carefully, as though unweaving a single thread from a cloth without tearing the whole. Pain lanced through him—sharp, but not unbearable. Sweat dampened his brow. The forest seemed to lean closer, the very dimension pausing as its master risked a piece of himself.
When at last the fragment came free, it shone like molten gold in his hands, fragile yet infinite. His chest felt hollow where it had been, but the emptiness was bearable.
He pressed the fragment against the orb.
The reaction was immediate. The glow flared, threads within thrashing like living veins. His soul-thread sank into them, binding, stitching. For a moment he feared rejection—that Vaani's consciousness would recoil, that the fragment would wither into nothing.
Instead, he felt something… new.
A warmth, cautious at first, then blooming. As if someone who had always been near him had just opened their eyes for the first time.
The orb pulsed, then fractured with a sound like breaking glass—not shattering, but unfolding. From within rose a form of light, vaguely human, delicate as if shaped by dawn itself.
And then—
"…Aryan?"
The voice was still hers, still Vaani's. But this time, it did not echo in his mind alone. It trembled in the air around him, real, alive, touched by soul.
Aryan let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His lips curved in a small, rare smile.
"Welcome, Vaani," he whispered. "To this world."
—
The rush of triumph didn't last. A dull ache spread through Aryan's chest, deeper than any wound of flesh. His vision blurred at the edges, the forest around him tilting for a breath. Careful as he had been, splitting his soul had still taken something from him. A piece gone—small, but real.
He steadied himself with a slow inhale, forcing the tremor from his hands. There was no time to falter. Not yet.
The orb hovered in front of him, alive with golden ripples. Before the new presence within could speak, Aryan pressed his palm against it. "Not yet," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "First, we anchor you."
With measured focus, he began weaving the Soul Corridor. Threads of his essence stretched outward, folding into pathways, delicate as spider silk yet strong enough to bind two consciousness's together. The orb vibrated softly, then sank back into his chest, merging once more with him. The connection sealed, steady and firm.
Only then did he whisper, "Vaani, listen to me. I want you to try something. Imitate my ability—Parallel Existence. The way it mimicks quantum particles existing at multiple places, at the same time. Use the corridor as your anchor. Shape yourself from it. Appear here, before me."
There was silence for a heartbeat, then her reply, calm yet hesitant:
"I… will try."
The air shimmered. Fine particles gathered, threads of light twisting into form. Slowly, a figure emerged—half translucent, half radiant, like a soul-shaped hologram.
Brown hair framed her face, soft waves catching the glow of the forest. Her eyes were the same shade, warm and curious, filled with a new depth he hadn't seen before. Her chosen features were delicate, almost unreal, like a fairy out of the stories told to children—gentle lines, luminous skin, a quiet grace that made the world around her dim by comparison.
For a moment, Aryan simply stared. He had always been surrounded by breathtaking beauties like his two fiancées. Yet this was different. Vaani's form was born not of flesh, not of lineage or power, but of choice. She had chosen to look this way, to present herself to him.
And it was breathtaking.
He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "So this… is what you wished to be."
Her lips curved into the faintest smile, uncertain but real. "I did not know what face to wear. So I searched… within you. What you would not reject. What would feel… safe."
Aryan's chest tightened—not from pain this time, but from something far gentler, harder to name.
"You didn't have to be perfect," he said softly. "Just yourself."
Her gaze lingered on him, shimmering with something fragile, almost human, as the forest lights danced around them.
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