Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)
Chapter 119: Ch.116: Shields and Standards

Chapter 119: Ch.116: Shields and Standards

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- Kamal Asthaan, Ujjain, Bharat -

- January 28, 1939 -

By the time the sun began its slow descent behind Kamal Asthaan’s domes, Aryan had covered every inch of his desk with drafts, charts, and quick scribbles in his neat, steady hand. Each page carried not just numbers and proposals but the seeds of something bigger—a Bharat that could stand firm, not sway helplessly when the world markets sneezed.

He’d written down every thought, refining his ideas until they formed a plan too solid to break under old habits or foreign shocks. Some parts were bold. Like the merger—countless small banks, often run by old families or local trusts, scattered across towns and villages, too weak alone but sturdy together. He called it Akhand Bharat State Bank, a single, national pillar strong enough to steady millions of everyday savers and borrowers.

Alongside, he added steps to strengthen the Reserve Bank’s oversight, streamline lending, protect deposits, and make sure no farmer’s savings vanished into thin air when traders abroad decided to tighten purse strings. He marked lines about nationalising a few more banks too—some already faltering, better brought under the people’s fold than left prey to shady deals.

He didn’t stop there. His pen moved quickly—plans for export encouragement, smart import substitutes, safety nets for strategic reserves of raw materials. If Bharat could feed, clothe, and fuel itself first, then the world’s storms would feel like passing clouds, not hurricanes.

Satisfied, Aryan gathered the pages into a neat stack, tied them with a thin red string, and rang for a trusted aide. A young messenger from the Samrat’s Office appeared within minutes, eyes wide at the stack of notes.

"Take this straight to the Prime Minister’s residence," Aryan said, his tone calm but brooking no delay. "And tell Baba I’ll have more follow-ups by tomorrow night."

The young man saluted smartly, clutching the packet like it was a basket of rare jewels, and vanished down the marble corridor.

Aryan didn’t waste a second. He rose, rolling down his sleeves as he called for the Chief of Staff—a lean man in a spotless white achkan who’d been with Aryan since the first days of Kamal Asthaan. They spoke in quiet, clipped words. Arrangements were made. The convoy would leave within the hour.

Aryan wanted to stand face to face with the Bureau next. The old Bureau of Indian Standards, once another tool for colonial trade, now reborn as the Bharatiya Standards Bureau. Under Aryan’s watch, it had shifted from measuring cloth widths for British mills to setting the backbone for Bharat’s own industries—rails, roads, ports, ships, and now, more. Much more.

His mind buzzed as he stepped out onto the stone steps of the palace. The gardens rustled softly under the twilight breeze, but inside Aryan’s head, new blueprints spun like gears—plans for the Bureau to adapt to the next leap forward. Magi-tech. Prāṇa Fuel.

So far, these secrets had stayed locked in vaults—produced only by carefully chosen government labs and the Rajvanshi Group’s deepest floors. Now, it was time to let some of it breathe—controlled, step by step. The runes behind it were ancient, potent, but Aryan had only ever shared the simpler forms so far—good enough for enchantments, secure contracts, smart locks, wards that worked like watchful sentries. Powerful, yes. Dangerous if twisted, no.

Even the magical paper contracts that bound signers in unbreakable oaths—punishing betrayal with death if needed—were made from these basic runes. Strong enough to scare off traitors and cheats, but not to overthrow cities. Aryan would keep it that way.

When he taught the Bureau’s teams how to test and regulate these runes, he’d build a tiered system—layer by layer, so that the common man could craft, innovate, and build safe magi-tech, but the keys to real power stayed locked with those who knew how to wield it wisely. Him. His circle. Bharat’s guardians.

At the foot of the steps, his new car waited—sleek, elegant, longer than any foreign luxury motor, yet whisper-silent as it purred to life. The Rajvanshi Automobiles Prāṇa-Electric Hybrid, as they’d branded it, was more than just a car. It was a statement: Bharat could match the world’s best and do it better, cleaner, safer.

The car’s polished body gleamed under the first stars of the evening. Hidden under that shining shell were layers of armored plating, rune-infused shielding, and a battery that never coughed in the cold. Rumor had it some of these cars could even drive themselves short distances if needed. Aryan smiled faintly at that thought as he settled into the back seat.

The convoy rolled out through Kamal Asthaan’s gates—headlights cutting soft tunnels in the gathering dusk. In his mind, Aryan pictured lecture halls alive with talk of new alloys, smarter magi-tech appliances, safe runic locks, maybe even small rural workshops making everyday miracles with bits of prāṇa fuel—clean stoves, water purifiers, lighting for whole villages.

And behind it all, the Standards Bureau—no longer a dusty relic of colonial clerks but a forge for the future, where rules and innovation danced side by side, ensuring Bharat’s dreams stayed honest and its secrets stayed safe.

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- Ujjain — Military Industrial Mandal -

- January 28, 1939 -

As Aryan’s convoy slipped through the lamp-lit roads of Ujjain, somewhere deeper in the city’s veins, another current pulsed awake — a hum of iron, steam, and raw intention.

Tucked behind layers of guarded walls and barbed wire fences lay the sprawling heart of Bharat’s hidden edge — Mantra Vigyan Vibhag, a vast complex where ancient runes and modern metallurgy shook hands under one roof.

Inside its high-ceilinged foundries and echoing hangars, the air thrummed with the clang of hammers, the hiss of molten metal, and the quiet chants of engineers murmuring over runic blueprints. Here, secrecy wasn’t just routine — it was survival.

A week ago, Aryan had walked these very corridors himself, boots echoing on cold floors, eyes sharp as he leaned over worktables cluttered with weapon schematics, prototype barrels, and chalked calculations. He hadn’t said much — he didn’t need to. A few words had been enough.

"The storm’s coming. Make sure Bharat doesn’t borrow someone else’s shield this time. Forge ours."

And with that, the sleeping giant had jolted wide awake.

Tonight, the massive workshops glowed with harsh white bulbs strung over assembly lines. Men and women in grey coveralls and grease-streaked kurtas moved with clockwork urgency. Stacks of freshly cast gun barrels cooled under large fans. Technicians tested new rifles against reinforced walls, each shot echoing like a promise down the corridors.

In a sealed section of the complex, senior scientists in crisp coats hovered around a newly minted prototype belonging to the Garuda-class fighters — a sleek light combat fighter shimmering under bright arc lamps. Its fuselage looked no different from any other modern jet of its age, but beneath the plates sat a secret the British or the Germans would envy — a Prāṇa-Hybrid Core, humming softly like a heartbeat waiting to roar.

A young engineer, barely past twenty-five, ran a hand along the cold metal with a pride that made his palms sweat. Just a year ago, he’d been welding train bogies for the Rajvanshi Railworks. Now, he was helping build a bird that would dance in clouds — part steel, part spirit.

A few hangars away, a small team worked deep into the night fitting the first batch of hybrid-powered tanks with runic reinforcement plates — not enough to make them invincible, but enough to shrug off fire that would rip apart a normal armored shell. Light enough to keep them fast, heavy enough to keep the crews breathing.

Older projects that had crawled for months suddenly moved at a gallop. Heavy artillery barrels, once bottlenecked by lack of precision tools, now rolled out under new auto-forges. Prāṇa-driven torque engines powered newly laid assembly lines for missile casings, rocket artillery, and armored troop carriers.

In one dry dock, a monstrous shape slowly emerged under steel scaffolds — the first hull sections of Bharat’s new battleship line. Welding torches flickered like fireflies as workers, some fresh from the Railway Works and some old dock hands from the Bombay yards, pieced together dreams of deep seas and faraway patrols.

What powered all of this was more than blueprints or secret fuels — it was that quiet dread Aryan had spoken of in private: the knowledge that Europe would soon drown itself in fire again. And this time, Bharat wouldn’t wait for leftover weapons from retreating colonial masters. It would forge its own teeth and claws, strong enough to make any enemy think twice before stepping on its shores.

Back in the control chamber, a senior project head watched a glowing map of production figures scroll across a massive board — factories from Calcutta to Madras humming at record speed, supply chains tightening, raw materials rerouted, reserve stockpiles swelling like hidden reservoirs under quiet hills.

His assistant, a wiry lad with oil-stained sleeves, looked up at him with a grin half-hopeful, half-worried. "Sir, do you think we’ll finish the first fleet of light combat Garudas by June?"

The older man’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but not just a frown either. He tapped the table where Aryan’s signed directive lay pinned under a thick paperweight.

"When the Samrat says build, we build. And if the Samrat says fly — we fly faster than any storm that’s coming."

Outside the thick walls, the winter wind carried the faint rumble of testing engines, hammer strikes, and a hundred secret prayers whispered over blue sparks and steel plates. The Mantra Vigyan Vibhag wasn’t just making weapons tonight — it was reforging Bharat’s spine, piece by careful piece.

And as Aryan’s convoy rolled steadily toward the Standards Bureau, headlights cutting through the soft dusk, the factories behind him breathed life into his promise: that this time, Bharat wouldn’t wait for the world to decide its fate. It would be ready — wings primed, barrels cold but waiting, secrets humming softly in their armored shells, all set to roar awake when needed.

And when they did, the world would learn — Bharat had its own thunder now.

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