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- Samrat Bhavan, Delhi -
- November 22, 1936 | Morning -
The air in the central hall of Samrat Bhavan was thicker than usual—not with tension, but with anticipation. Rolls of blueprints leaned against marble pillars. Drafting tables had replaced ornamental consoles. Ink smudges graced the fingertips of men and women who usually carried rulers and calipers with surgical precision. Some still wore their dusty site boots, their eyes flicking from sketches to walls, as if measuring possibilities in real time.
Aryan stood at the head of the long rectangular table, dressed in a deep blue kurta with golden embroidery just at the cuffs—subtle, but regal. He had greeted each of the attendees personally that morning: city planners, urban engineers, architects, cultural historians, hydrologists, and environmentalists. It was not a council of war this time, but of creation.
And today, the subject was Ujjain.
He placed a hand gently over the topmost blueprint—a wide, hand-painted map of Ujjain and its surrounding terrain. The city, cradled along the banks of the Shipra River, had once echoed with the chants of sages and the clang of astrolabes. But Aryan didn't want it preserved in amber. He wanted it reborn.
"Before we begin our discussion on the city planning of Ujjain, we all should be clear of one thing first and foremost," he began softly, his voice carrying across the hall like a current, "That is Ujjain is no longer just a memory of our past. It will be our future."
The engineers straightened in their chairs. One of them, Rajiv Singh, a civil designer from the Ganga Canal project, leaned forward slightly, pencil already tapping against the edge of his notepad.
Aryan continued, pacing slowly, letting his eyes rest on the gathered minds. "It will be the beating heart of Bharat—not just as a capital, but as a symbol. Of harmony between heritage and vision. We will not erase what was. We will build upon it."
He motioned to a stack of old temple layouts, ancient city grids traced from aerial surveys. "We will use what exists. Where the streets follow the river, let them flow. Where shrines stand, preserve them—not as monuments, but as living sanctums. And where we must modernize, do so with humility."
Vaidehi Rao, an architect known for blending Vedic geometry with modern materials, unrolled a transparent overlay across the map. "Your majesty, aligning with your visions on Ujjain, how about we integrate the old city into a cultural core?" she said, pointing to concentric zones. "From there, spiral out into residential, academic, and administrative zones. Like a mandala, expanding in purpose."
Aryan smiled. "Excellent suggestions, and even more, we could establish industrial as well as commercial zones too in this structure."
Then, stepping aside, he unfastened a leather tube and drew out a larger sheet—this one hand-drawn, inked with care. It was a design unlike the others.
"As for my residence, the palace for the Samrat of Bharat," he said simply. "It will be called Kamal Aasthaan—the Lotus Seat."
A hush fell over the room as he spread the design.
The sketch was breathtaking. At the center, a sprawling lotus-shaped palace stood surrounded by water gardens and groves of sandalwood and neem. It was both timeless and futuristic—a fusion of carved stone and radiant crystal, of stepwells and solar domes. Arches shaped like blooming petals. Spires that reached for the stars, but rooted deeply in the earth's traditions.
"I only require 400 acres," Aryan said. "Surround it with public gardens. No high walls. Let it be seen. Let people walk near it and feel it belongs to them too."
A landscape architect, Anwar Sheikh, blinked. "Four hundred, Your Majesty? That's modest. The British built palaces larger than that just for ego."
Aryan met his gaze. "I don't want a monument to my name. I want a nerve center for leadership. A place where decisions are made in sunlight, not shadow."
One of the younger planners, Poonam Desai, hesitated before speaking. "Your majesty, What of transport? Water supply? Waste management? If we aim for this city to be the best in the world…"
Aryan turned to her, his tone affirming, not dismissive. "Then we plan with no shortcuts. Ujjain will run on advanced electrical systems, grids and underground thermal reservoirs. Design with stormwater harvesting from the start. Bio-waste processors. Green belts between sectors. Roads for horses, carts, cars, buses and cycles. And above all—walkability."
"Schools, hospitals, parks in every sector," added Rajiv, catching on. "Mixed-use zones. Not just government districts and suburbs."
"Yes," Aryan nodded. "Every citizen should feel that the city works for them. That the city breathes with them."
Maps were flipped, rulers aligned, new diagrams taking shape in real-time.
"We should preserve the ghats," said Vaidehi. "But give them better drainage, steps that don't crack in monsoon."
"And build libraries," said Anwar. "With reading gardens."
"Underground tunnels for cables and utilities," offered another engineer. "So the skyline is clean."
"And green roofs on administrative buildings," added Poonam, "to reduce heat. We can seed them with native plants."
Aryan watched, silent for a few moments, as the room came alive with ideas. This was what he had dreamed of—a governance born not just from command, but from collaboration.
He finally spoke again, softer this time.
"One day, when a child walks these streets… I want them to feel not like they're living in someone else's idea of power, but in a city that dreams with them. That listens to them."
A gentle knock Interrupted the moment. A servant stepped in with chai and freshly baked snacks. The scent of elaichi and cinnamon filled the room. The tension softened. People leaned back, sipped, smiled.
Aryan took a cup, but didn't drink right away. Instead, he looked around the room, at minds working in harmony—not under a ruler, but with one.
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- Aryan's Personal Laboratory, Underground, Delhi -
- November 23, 1936 | Early Morning -
After the barrage of various meetings and planning Aryan finally had time to delve into his research and experimental projects, which will be very critical to the next phase of his plans for Bharat.
The underground chamber was quiet, save for the gentle hum of energy pulsing through runes etched into the stone walls. Aryan stood in the center of the space—barefoot, sleeves rolled up, the faint glow of alchemical transmutation circles beneath his feet flickering like embers. The chamber had no windows. It wasn't built for light. It was built for control.
He had designed it himself, down to the last panel and conduit—layers of lead-lined stone to contain unstable reactions, copper channels to ground stray energy, and insulated vaults to store volatile substances. The space was a blend of science and sorcery, old script and new symbols. Here, he wasn't a ruler. Just a man chasing possibility.
A tray of seeds lay before him—wheat, rice, maize, lentils, neem, tulsi, and brahmi. Common names for common crops. But Aryan didn't see them that way. He saw patterns—genetic markers, carbon chains, mineral absorption patterns, latent alkaloids waiting to be refined.
His fingers hovered over the wheat seeds first. He whispered a phrase, and a golden shimmer passed from his palm to the seeds. The Alchemy skill hummed in his mind, alive and responsive. Data danced across his thoughts—growth cycle, nitrogen absorption, resistance markers, soil pH compatibility. He wasn't guessing. He was shaping.
A new thread of gold laced through the seeds, changing them. Cells restructured. Proteins realigned. The outer shell hardened against pests, while the embryo inside was altered to thrive with half the water and double the yield. Aryan took a slow breath, then placed the seed in a small ceramic bowl filled with fertile soil. He tapped the rim.
The seed sprouted.
Within seconds, a green shoot broke the surface and reached toward the ceiling. Aryan knelt and studied the stalk. Strong, thick, and already forming secondary roots.
"Good," he murmured. "Again."
He moved on—each seed a new problem to solve. Tulsi with amplified medicinal compounds. Brahmi with reinforced alkaloids for neural support. Even rice bred to resist both flood and drought, its chlorophyll density adjusted to absorb more sunlight without scorching.
Alchemy responded easily to him now, especially with his foundation in chemistry and botany, which he studied and researched in his free time with the help of his shadow clones. Concepts that once were out of his usual expertise in physics and engineering, came to him like second nature. His mind connected dots most never noticed. Molecular bonds, carbon lattices, enzyme triggers—all folded neatly into the skill's parameters.
In one corner of the lab, a block of steel sat on a thick stone pedestal. Aryan approached it slowly, breathing evenly. This wasn't like the plants. This was delicate—dangerous, even.
He placed both hands on the steel. His Alchemy skill responded as he focused on matter manipulation. Not just at the molecular level. Deeper. Atomic shells, proton balances, even the quantum spin of electrons shifted under his command. He felt the steel push back—it didn't want to change. But Aryan pressed on.
He visualized gold. Its density, its atomic number—79. He saw the way light bent off it, the way it resisted corrosion, the way it carried purity.
With a low vibration, the steel shifted.
Its sheen changed first—dull grey giving way to warm luster. The mass adjusted. Electrons redistributed. Then it was done. A block of pure gold, untouched by tools, forged by thought.
Aryan touched it. Solid. Stable. He smiled in satisfaction. This will greatly impact the cost and the resources required for the moving and construction of the new capital as well as his ambitious Kamal Aasthaan.
He turned back to another set of equipment—retorts, burners, extractors, and small alchemy chambers reinforced with rune-etched quartz. Here, he was testing a new kind of fertilizer. One that wouldn't strip the soil of life or poison the groundwater. He'd altered the nitrogen cycle within the compound, slow-releasing nutrients in stages, responsive to the plant's need rather than time alone.
Next to it, an experimental pesticide—engineered from neem, basil, and trace amounts of trace quantum toxins neutralized through runic filtration. Harmless to humans. Deadly to pests. The Special Runes skill let him infuse binding glyphs into the fluid itself, locking its active properties until it made contact with a pest's enzymes. It was precise. Clean.
But it wasn't just plants that filled his mind now.
On the far table, sealed in a crystalline container, a liquid glowed faint blue. Aryan walked to it carefully. This was the most dangerous of all his recent successes.
He called It Prāṇa Fuel—a concentrated energy substrate made by converting ambient forces. Heat. Motion. Light. Even stray life force and the darker echoes that lingered in forgotten corners of the world. All of it filtered, refined, and stored in liquid form.
He had used his Energy Control, Alchemy, and Runes together to make it. None of the disciplines alone were enough. The fuel shimmered with layered motion—it didn't just hold power, it remembered it.
Aryan placed a finger on the crystal. He could feel the hum—a perfect rhythm. This wasn't just fuel. This was the beginning of a new foundation. Clean. Infinite. Untethered from coal or oil.
He already had blueprints for a generator—rune-etched cores, atmospheric inlets, alchemical converters. It would work like he did. Absorbing ambient energy and turning it into usable power without burning a thing.
One day, villages that had never seen a light bulb would run entire irrigation systems on air. Hospitals in the middle of nowhere would hum with steady current. All without fuel lines. Without pollution.
Aryan stepped back, letting the silence return.
He picked up a notebook and jotted a few notes—not elaborate theories. Just clear objectives. Next batch of seeds. Tolerance testing. Fuel output calibration.
He closed the book and placed it next to the gold block. Two symbols of power. One to feed the body. One to power the world.
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