Eternal Ashes: The Rise of Akhand Bharat

The cool night air was thick with tension as Aryan followed the wiry young man through the narrow alleyways of the village. The dim glow of lanterns in distant houses and the occasional bark of a stray dog were the only signs of life. Every few steps, the young man—introduced hastily as Dev—would glance over his shoulder, his movements quick and practiced.

Aryan, still grappling with the surreal nature of his predicament, focused on matching Dev's pace. His thoughts raced. How had this happened? He was Rajeev Mehta—at least, he had been—standing in the ruins of Nalanda University in 2024. Now, he was here, in 1914, with a body that wasn't his and a life he didn't recognize.

The Chakra of Eternity. The sage's cryptic words echoed in his mind: The wheel has chosen you. Walk the path of Dharma.

"What's the plan?" Aryan asked, testing his voice. It was deeper and rougher than he was used to.

Dev glanced back, his expression serious. "We're heading to the safe house on the outskirts of the village. The British are conducting a sweep. We can't stay in one place too long."

Aryan nodded, keeping his questions to himself for now. Whoever Rishi Aryan was, he had clearly been deeply involved in the independence movement. The memories flooding his mind confirmed as much—rallies, speeches, skirmishes with British soldiers. He would have to play the part, at least until he understood what was happening.

The alley opened into a wider path lined with trees. The village's edge was near, and the faint glow of lanterns became sparse. Dev led him off the path and into a thicket of shrubs. They moved carefully, the crunch of dry leaves underfoot muted against the distant sound of boots and orders being barked in English.

"The soldiers are close," Dev whispered, crouching low. "We'll take the riverbed from here. It's safer."

Aryan followed, scanning their surroundings. His instincts felt sharper than they had ever been. Every shadow seemed alive, every sound amplified. Was it the adrenaline of the moment? Or something more, tied to the strange symbol now etched into his palm?

As they moved along the dry riverbed, Aryan noticed the faint outline of a small hut in the distance. Dev motioned toward it, picking up his pace.

---

Inside the safe house, the air was stale but warm. A single oil lamp illuminated the small space, which was furnished with only a wooden table, two chairs, and a few sacks of grain in the corner. Dev bolted the door behind them and leaned against it, letting out a breath of relief.

"This should be safe for now," Dev said, gesturing for Aryan to sit.

Aryan obliged, taking the moment to observe Dev more closely. He was young, barely in his twenties, with sharp features and eyes that seemed older than the rest of him. His clothes were simple, but his movements carried the confidence of someone used to danger.

"What happened back there?" Aryan asked, hoping to piece together more of the revolutionary's life.

Dev frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. "The protest started well. The villagers were angry about the new tax increases, just as we'd hoped. But then the British officers showed up. You tried to calm the crowd, but it turned violent when one of their soldiers fired into the air. We fought back, but… you were hit during the chaos."

Aryan nodded slowly. The fragmented memories he had inherited aligned with Dev's account. He could almost see it—the crowd surging forward, the anger and desperation in their eyes.

"And the others?" Aryan asked.

Dev's expression darkened. "We lost three of our men. The rest scattered. Some were caught, others made it out. The British will interrogate the prisoners. We'll need to relocate soon, before they extract too much information."

Aryan clenched his fists, a surge of guilt washing over him. These people were fighting for freedom, risking their lives against impossible odds. He couldn't afford to falter, not now.

"What's next?" Aryan asked, his voice steady.

Dev gave him a puzzled look. "You're asking me? You're the one with the plans, Aryan. You always know what to do."

Aryan hesitated. He couldn't let on that he was someone else—not yet. If Dev and the others trusted him as a leader, he would have to live up to that trust.

"We regroup," Aryan said after a moment. "Reach out to the others, find out who's safe and who's been captured. Once we know what we're working with, we plan our next move."

Dev nodded, his respect evident. "I'll send word to our contacts in the neighboring villages. They'll know where to find the others."

As Dev busied himself with a coded message on a scrap of paper, Aryan leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. He needed more information about the situation he had been thrust into. What year was it exactly? How far along was the independence movement? And most importantly, what role had Rishi Aryan played in it so far?

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Both men froze, their eyes locking. Dev grabbed a knife from the table and gestured for Aryan to stay quiet.

"Who is it?" Dev called out cautiously.

"It's Meera," came a low, urgent voice from the other side.

Dev relaxed slightly and unbolted the door. A young woman stepped inside, her face partially obscured by the scarf wrapped around her head. Her eyes darted around the room before settling on Aryan.

"You're alive," she said, her voice filled with relief. "We heard you were injured."

"I'm fine," Aryan replied, forcing a small smile. "What's the situation?"

Meera closed the door behind her and sat down, her movements quick and purposeful. "The British are sealing off the village. They've brought in reinforcements and are questioning everyone. Anyone even suspected of involvement in the protest is being taken away."

Dev cursed under his breath. "We need to move now."

Meera nodded. "I've arranged for a cart to take you both to the forest. There's a safe camp there where you can lay low for a few days. After that, we'll figure out our next steps."

Aryan felt a surge of gratitude for Meera's decisiveness. Despite the chaos, these people were organized, resourceful, and determined. It was inspiring—and humbling.

---

The cart ride was tense but uneventful. Hidden beneath a pile of hay, Aryan and Dev remained silent as the cart jolted along the uneven path. The rhythmic creaking of the wooden wheels and the occasional neigh of the horse were the only sounds.

Aryan used the time to reflect. He couldn't ignore the strange connection he felt to this time and place. The memories of Rishi Aryan were becoming clearer, as if his mind was merging with that of the revolutionary. Yet, his modern perspective remained intact.

The Chakra of Eternity. What did it mean? Why had it chosen him?

The cart came to a halt, and Meera's voice cut through his thoughts. "We're here."

Emerging from the hay, Aryan saw the dense forest ahead. The air was cooler here, and the canopy of trees blocked out most of the moonlight. Meera led them down a narrow trail, her movements confident despite the darkness.

After a short walk, they reached a small clearing where a few makeshift tents had been set up. A fire burned low in the center, casting flickering shadows.

"This will be your base for now," Meera said. "I'll return tomorrow with more news."

Aryan nodded, his mind already working on a plan. He didn't know how long he would remain in this time or what his ultimate purpose was, but one thing was clear: he couldn't let these people down.

As Meera disappeared into the forest, Aryan sat by the fire, staring into the flames. The weight of his new reality pressed down on him, but beneath it, he felt a spark of determination.

If the wheel of time had brought him here, then he would make it count.