Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)

Chapter 89 - Ch.86: The Birth That Must Not Be

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- Unknown Deserted Location, Greenland -

- May 6, 1937 | Continuation -

The snow cracked beneath Aryan's boots as he stepped forward, face set with resolve. Time was collapsing around them like waves crashing into a shrinking shore. The Core's evolution was accelerating—he could feel it, like a drumbeat growing louder within the earth itself. If they didn't end this now, the tree would awaken into something far worse.

He didn't have time to hesitate.

Aryan turned to his comrades, voice steady, but sharp with urgency. "We end this here. Fast. The Core is close to awakening—and if that happens, it won't just be Eternals we're fighting."

His eyes met Kingo's, and he softened just a bit. "I know they're your friends. I know this hurts. But don't hold back."

Kingo looked as if someone had torn his chest open. "They're not themselves..."

"No, they're not. Which is why we must stop them now," Aryan said gently. "I'll heal what I can—mind, body, whatever is broken. As long as they're alive, there's a chance. But if we waste time, the Core wins."

Kingo swallowed hard. Then nodded. "Okay. I trust you. I trust all of you. I wouldn't have made it this far without you."

His words hung there—quiet gratitude in the storm.

Then Aryan raised his hand, pointing toward the oncoming figures.

"Go."

They moved like lightning.

Karna was the first to clash, intercepting Makkari in a blur of golden light. She was fast—one of the fastest beings in existence—but Karna's body lit up like a sunbeam condensed into form. He surged forward with Photokinesis, channeling light through every fiber of his being. Their movements bent the very air, streaks of gold and silver clashing mid-sprint.

But Karna was more than fast. He was deliberate.

He anticipated.

And when Makkari blinked forward, Karna was already there, fists glowing, redirecting her momentum with bursts of precision light. He didn't hurt her more than necessary—just enough to disrupt her rhythm, weaken her control.

Shakti took to the sky, cosmic energy flaring across her skin as she faced Thena. The warrior Eternal was graceful and deadly, conjuring weapons of light and force in the blink of an eye. But Shakti matched her—a storm cloaked in calm.

Every blade Thena conjured was met by cosmic disruption, molecular distortion, or light-slicing energy so refined it hummed. Shakti flicked her fingers, reshaping the ground, altering angles, tweaking space just enough to offset Thena's blows.

They danced—fury and grace, power and precision.

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Nalini, grounded and serene, faced Phastos, who hurled constructs like they were born from thought itself. Machines rose from ice, energy cannons and barriers blooming at his command.

But Nalini summoned the earth itself.

Vines erupted from the snow, thick and glowing with runic power. Trees coiled into barriers, roots snapping apart circuits and locking down machines with ease. Her mystic arts sang through the forest of battle, old as the soil, deep as life itself.

Each of her movements was deliberate, a step closer to freeing a mind trapped in metal.

_________

Kingo, meanwhile, fought not with speed or fury—but with hope.

He faced Ajak, the leader he had admired, followed, loved like family. Her eyes were still blank, her strikes clinical. She moved with terrifying grace—but no warmth.

"Ajak, it's me! Kingo—look at me!" he pleaded between blasts of golden energy, deflecting her divine strikes with bursts of his own. "You taught me to believe in people! You made me better—don't make me fight you!"

But there was no answer. Only another wave of power, laced with sorrow.

And so, Kingo fought. Not to win—but to keep her standing. To keep her safe. To bring her back.

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And Aryan?

Aryan stood alone—against five.

Ikaris, Sersi, Gilgamesh, Druig, and Sprite descended on him like a storm.

But Aryan didn't flinch.

His hand wrapped tighter around Excalibur, and void energy surged in arcs around him. His aura shimmered with quiet command—black and gold, gravity and silence.

The first to strike was Ikaris—blasting forward, golden beams fired like rage itself. Aryan weaved through them, raising a single hand. Armament Haki coated his palm as he caught the energy mid-air, absorbed it, and redirected it in an upward arc that cracked the sky.

He spun, ducked under Sersi's transmutation waves, his Observation Haki alerting him seconds before they reshaped the terrain. He slid across frozen ground, then launched himself at Gilgamesh, clashing fist to fist.

His body withstood the blows—fortified, unyielding. Every impact rang like steel striking stars, but Aryan was not breaking. He had trained his mind and body to resist more than pain. Even the soul.

Druig tried to invade his thoughts—but was repelled.

Conqueror's Haki burst outward, shaking the ice beneath them. Sprite, trying to distort reality with illusions, found herself trapped in a tightening sphere of gravitational force.

Aryan stood tall at the center, sword glowing with Void Arcane, every motion infused with power—precise, clean, terrifying in its restraint.

He didn't want to kill.

But he would not allow anyone—friend or foe—to stop what had to be done.

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Around him, the Void Servants supported each battle, slipping between roles, reinforcing the team with perfect timing. Shields rose, attacks were blocked, distractions were created—all under Aryan's command.

It was a storm of will.

But one orchestrated like a symphony.

Time pressed closer.

The parasitic tree trembled in the distance, its roots twitching, its inner glow pulsing.

Aryan looked once in its direction.

Then raised his sword coated with Void Arcane again.

"There isn't much time left," he murmured. "Hold on, all of you. We're bringing you back."

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The battlefield stood silent for a heartbeat, save for the faint winds whispering across scorched snow. Aryan walked through the quiet, his boots crunching softly, sword glowing dim with the last traces of void energy. Around him, five Eternals—Ikaris, Sersi, Gilgamesh, Druig, Sprite—lay unconscious, their bodies still, their expressions strained but no longer twisted by corrupted will.

Aryan looked down at them.

Then, with a single breath, he raised Excalibur once more.

With practiced calm, he swept his blade across the air. Void energy surged from the tip, curling into invisible arcs before slicing clean through the root-like tendrils that had latched onto the Eternals. The corrupted bindings sizzled and writhed—trying to retreat—but Aryan didn't let them escape.

"You're not going back into the earth."

He poured in more void, not just cutting, but erasing—removing the roots from existence as if they'd never been. The moment they were severed, the tree's hold was broken.

The five Eternals exhaled as one—still unconscious, but free.

Moments later, the others arrived.

Karna, shining with gold, carrying Makkari in his arms, light still humming faintly off his skin.

Shakti, cosmic glow fading, holding Thena gently but firmly.

Nalini, wrapped in gentle vines, Phastos resting in her arms like a felled titan.

And Kingo, face pale and eyes glassy, cradling Ajak—her head leaning against his shoulder, the pain of their battle still fresh in his hands.

The Void Servants followed close behind, some helping, others guarding the edges of their formation.

Aryan didn't speak. He didn't need to.

He stepped toward each of the fallen Eternals. And one by one, he lifted his blade.

Root by root, tendril by tendril—he carved them free. With Void Arcane, he didn't just sever their bonds. He removed them from experience, as if the tree had never touched them at all.

By the time the last root vanished into smoke, all nine Eternals lay unconscious—but safe.

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That's when the roar came.

Not from the wind. Not from a creature.

But from the tree.

It wasn't sound. It was something deeper. A pulse that shook the atmosphere itself. A cry that echoed not just across land—but across realms.

The parasitic tree shuddered, roots convulsing violently. Its trunk glowed with twisted life, pulsing with corrupted power, and the Core's voice—raw and monstrous—howled through it all.

It wasn't pain.

It was birth.

A god was waking up.

And the world heard.

Across dimensions, across cosmic veils, attention snapped toward the Arctic.

In the celestial halls above galaxies, ancient beings stirred. Celestials, who had watched from afar, now turned their heads.

In the shimmering layers between realms, cosmic entities—the Living Tribunal, Eternity, Death, Order, and Chaos—felt the ripple like a rock cast into still water.

And in Kamar-Taj, the wind went still.

The Ancient One opened his eyes. So did the Sorcerer Supreme. Portals shimmered, artifacts buzzed, scrolls unrolled themselves without touch. The mystic arts had been alerted.

The world was watching.

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Aryan didn't flinch.

He didn't have time to.

"I won't let you be born," he muttered. "Not in this world."

He raised both hands, and in a shimmer of smoke and pressure—a thousand shadow clones erupted around him.

They vanished instantly, teleporting to surround the massive, howling tree from all angles—air, ice, underground, above ground, and far beyond.

Then the preparation began.

Dozens of clones bent to the ground, fingers moving with blazing speed, inscribing runes—ancient, complex, and deeply layered. Each rune carried a different effect:

Some began siphoning the tree's energy and life force itself, draining it like venom from a wound.

Others worked to decompose the corrupted structure from within.

Several enforced time barriers, freezing progress.

And deeper still, Aryan wove runes that disrupted birth, ascension, and transcendence.

__________

It was his full arsenal of magical theory—on full display.

And the rest of the clones? They unleashed hell.

From every direction, the Eternal Flames ignited—blue-white and seething with Power Cosmic, altered by cause-and-effect manipulation. The flames didn't just burn.

They absorbed.

Fed on the very energy of the tree to stay alive, impossible to extinguish.

Every inch of bark, every corrupted branch—it all screamed as the fire crawled deeper.

Then came the bombardment.

Void Arcane surged forward, clone after clone releasing pure destruction—raw forces that annihilated everything, leaving only silence behind.

Layered into this assault, a few shadow clones channeled reality-altering strikes with extreme precision, bending the laws of this place to undo the tree's very structure.

And at the center of it all—Aryan—the real one, was moving the fallen.

With the help of his Void Servants, he took the nine Eternals, along with Karna, Shakti, Nalini, and Kingo, away from the battle zone. They settled behind a massive ridge of hardened crystal he conjured for temporary shelter.

Aryan stood over them, breathing calmly. His chest rose and fell, not from exhaustion—but from the sheer intensity of the moment.

He closed his eyes for a second—then opened them again, and spoke in his mind:

"System. I need my MP count. Now."

The familiar neutral tone of the System replied:

| Ding!! |

| Current MP: 1580 |

Aryan nodded. He had collected some MP recently from a regular series of excusions into the Dungeon World, refilling his exhausted points.

Good.

Not enough to use every trump card—but enough to see this through.

He looked toward the tree—still burning, still fighting, roaring now in agony instead of power.

The awakening was slowing.

And Aryan whispered to himself—

"Let's end this before the sun rises."

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Maybe, this whole Eternal related short arc was a little overstretched. But don't woory, Next two Chapters will be the end of this arc.

Also, I am having a problem with creating a map of all the Bharat's territory included. Any suggestions on how to create it from those in the know-hows?

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