Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)-Chapter 85: : Of Claws and Cosmos

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- Unknown Deserted Location, Greenland -

- May 6, 1937 | Nightfall -

The wind was sharp, biting through the cold silence that had returned after the brief but violent clash. Smoke curled from the ground where lightning had scorched the soil and plasma had burned through flesh. The air was heavy—not with ash, but with anticipation.

Aryan stood still, eyes narrowed, sensing the disturbance long before the first tremor. Karna's blade gleamed faintly, already drawn. Nalini took a cautious step back, murmuring a protective chant beneath her breath. Shakti steadied herself beside Aryan, her aura dim but gathering.

Then, the earth cracked open—not in a sudden quake, but with a slow, deliberate groan, like the world itself resented what was about to emerge.

From the hollow in the base of the parasitic tree, a figure rose.

No—figures.

They came in a wave, their bodies grotesque and wrong. Each Deviant that stepped out from the underground was larger, more evolved than the ones that had fallen earlier. Twisted silhouettes, fused limbs, organic armor, eyes that flickered with primal hunger. They weren't born—they were forged. Sculpted by the tree's will.

And leading them... was him.

Varak.

He didn't charge. He didn't roar.

He strolled out like a man arriving at his own banquet, arms loose at his sides, head tilted with interest, his molten skin shimmering with an unnatural glow. A cruel smile stretched across his face like it had been carved there.

Behind him, one of the newer Deviants growled lowly—a hulking monstrous beast with long arms and thick plated skin that shimmered in faint golden hues. Its face twisted in the flickering moonlight, a mirror of the monster that had nearly killed Kingo some time ago in Bombay.

Kingo's breath caught for a moment. His eyes widened.

"That's... that's the one," he muttered. "It's the same type—the one that almost ended me."

Aryan nodded slightly, his gaze not leaving Varak. "And now it's back. Improved."

Varak stood at the rear, arms crossed behind him, just far enough to be safe but close enough to watch. His smile never wavered.

He wasn't here to fight.

He was here to judge.

Like a devil at the edge of a battlefield, waiting to see if his prey were worthy of the flames he carried.

Shakti stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "He's not moving."

"No," Aryan murmured. "Because he's measuring us."

Karna scowled. "He thinks we're a game."

Varak's voice drifted across the clearing then—smooth, cold, with a mocking edge that made the skin crawl.

"Show me something... beautiful," he said, almost lovingly. "Or don't. I've seen disappointment before. Eternals with pride. With power. And yet..." He gestured lazily with one clawed finger. "They now hang like ornaments in my garden."

There was no anger in his words. Only amusement. As if their defiance was nothing but theatre for his entertainment.

Aryan's jaw tightened. "So it was you."

Varak's eyes gleamed with violet fire. "Of course. I started with the head. The leader. Ajak."

He said her name with casual cruelty, like it meant nothing.

"I silenced their connection first," he continued. "Psionic interference paired with cosmic disruptor nodes—my own design. Even the great mind of Phastos wouldn't have found them in time."

He looked up, as If recalling the moment with fondness.

"Ajak was so... composed. But fear always peeks through when you cut the strings of the puppets who thought themselves gods."

Shakti's fists trembled. "You engineered all this?"

"I didn't just engineer it," Varak said, taking one more slow step forward. "I birthed it. The same as the Core who birthed me. Unfortunately, The Core lacked expertise in genetic modifications, that's where I came in. These mutations. These new Deviants. I made sure every strand of my DNA carried a purpose. And with every Eternal we drain, we grow stronger. More... refined."

He smiled wider.

"And the Core, evolved and more powerful will awaken soon."

Behind him, the mutated Deviants growled, their bodies shifting—some forming extra limbs, others emitting pulses of energy that crackled around them. Living weapons. Controlled evolution.

Aryan's expression remained calm, but his aura pulsed once—low and steady, like a heartbeat in the dark.

Varak noticed.

"Ah," he whispered. "Not Eternal. Not Deviant. Not completely human either. You're... something new. Maybe you'll surprise me. Or maybe you'll just be another root in the soil."

Then he stepped back.

And the Deviants charged.

The ground shook again—not from their feet, but from the energy they carried. These weren't mere monsters. They were experiments—crafted with purpose, sculpted by madness.

Aryan raised one hand.

"Defensive pattern. Same as the last wave. Don't hold back."

They nodded.

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The battlefield had gone still again—but it wasn't silence. It was the breath before a storm.

The mutated Deviants stood poised to strike, their grotesque forms twitching with energy, every inch of them humming with unnatural power. Behind them, Varak watched—arms folded, face unreadable save for the faint smile that curled at the corners of his mouth.

But Aryan didn't look at them any more.

He looked at her.

Shakti stood beside him, already glowing faintly, her energy pulsing like a second heartbeat in rhythm with his own. She didn't need to ask what he was thinking. She already knew.

Without a word, Aryan reached out and gently took her hand.

Fingers interlocked.

No signal. No discussion.

Just a seamless act—practiced, intimate, familiar.

The others saw it and instinctively stepped back, shielding their eyes. Because, apart from Kingo, Karna and Nalini had seen this before. Not in practice actually, but in vision—in the way stars collapse into each other, in the way tides answer the pull of the moon. This was a method Aryan and Shakti had been exploring for some time. A method to combine their powers to unleash a devastating but controlled burst of Power Cosmic, in a way that didn't affect the reality on a larger scale, thus reducing the need for amount of strain, the focus and the energy on each of them individually.

The Power Cosmic bloomed between their hands like a silent starburst. Their individual auras merged into one—light and shadow, gold and violet, coalescing into a radiant surge of raw potential.

Aryan closed his eyes, activating Thought Acceleration—his mind shifting gears, processing possibilities in a blur. In microseconds, he calculated energy flow, determined safe thresholds, aligned atomic harmonics. His high-speed regeneration kicked in, stabilizing the immense pressure on his body as he began channeling not only their own vast reserves, but also ambient energy from the very atmosphere around them.

Shakti trusted him—utterly. She didn't resist, didn't interfere. She became a perfect conduit, letting Aryan take the reins while she poured in her heart, her power, and her will.

They weren't just casting.

They were rewriting.

Aryan's voice didn't rise. It was low, almost reverent.

"We don't destroy them," he whispered. "We unmake the lie they were forced to become."

The power flared—an elegant sphere of shifting color, like reality bending at the edges. It wasn't explosive, wasn't blinding. It was precise.

A ripple expanded from their joined hands—silent, smooth, focused. It passed over the charging Deviants like a breath of wind, and as it touched them, the twisted armor of their forms began to unravel.

Not physically—but genetically.

The enhancements crafted by Varak's sinister science, the forced fusions, the Core's corrupting touch—all began to fracture at their roots. Mutations flickered, then vanished. Extra limbs dissolved into dust. Glowing veins dimmed. Armor plates crumbled like rotted bark.

Where once stood engineered horrors, now staggered normal Deviants—vicious still, but without the unnatural gifts that made them invincible.

Aryan opened his eyes slowly. "They're back to what they were supposed to be."

Shakti took a breath, her hand still in his. "You did it."

"We did it," he corrected softly, not breaking his gaze from the battlefield.

The mutated Deviants—no longer empowered—roared in confusion and pain. Their bodies buckled under the loss, their instincts clashing with the sudden return to fragility. Some tried to run. Others dropped to all fours, their forms shaking.

Varak's smile vanished.

The first visible crack in his perfect calm.

He stepped forward once, eyes narrowing, voice edged with disbelief.

"...You undid my modifications?"

Aryan met his gaze now, calm and steady.

"We didn't need to kill your abominations," he said. "We just reminded them what they were—before you twisted them."

The air felt thicker now, charged not just with power, but defiance.

Varak's fists clenched once, his smile gone, his eyes gleaming with cold fury.

"This was... unexpected," he admitted. "You're not like the others."

Then he turned to the crumbling Deviants, his voice sharp like a blade.

"Fight. Or die."

The now-normal Deviants, cornered and desperate, let out one final collective screech and rushed forward with primal rage.

But it wasn't the same anymore.

They were just Deviants now, still powerful, but compared to earlier, very much fragile.

And Aryan, Shakti, and their allies—were far more than that.

The tide had turned.

And beneath the roots of the slumbering Core, the tree stirred once more—its hunger replaced with a flicker of something it hadn't known in a long time.

Fear.

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