Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)-Chapter 91: : All Eyes to the Sky

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- Unknown Deserted Location, Greenland - - May 6, 1937 — Continued -

The sky itself seemed to hold its breath.

Aryan floated midair, suspended in the heart of the storm, a dark sun radiating black and gold brilliance. The awakened Excalibur pulsed in his grasp, its edge humming with sacred purpose and unshakable resolve. Around him, the battlefield quaked beneath waves of clashing forces—his shadow clones raining power upon the mutated Deviant, which answered with monstrous fury.

Every blow cracked the land. Every surge of energy reshaped the air.

But far enough from the chaos, in a sheltered ridge behind the jagged remains of a glacier, the others had already moved.

Karna led the group with calm urgency, guiding Shakti, Nalini, and Kingo as they carried the unconscious Eternals to safer ground. Dust and tremors rolled over them, but they moved without pause, trusting Aryan to hold the line above.

Only when the last of the Eternals had been laid gently across the snow-dusted stone did they allow themselves a moment to breathe.

They turned, looking up.

And there he was.

Aryan—wrapped in celestial contrast. The golden light of hope, intertwined with the abyssal black of the void. It didn't just shine—it declared. The air rippled around him. Even the fractured land beneath them seemed to bow to the sheer force of his presence.

Karna stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he observed the scene.

"So," he muttered with awe in his voice, arms crossed tightly across his chest, "this is his full power..."

He wasn't surprised. Not entirely. But something about seeing it—feeling it—struck deeper than he'd expected. This wasn't just strength. It was destiny taking form.

Shakti, standing just beside him, felt the same. Her lips curled into a soft, proud smile. The glow of Aryan's soul, that unshakable will she loved so deeply, was now laid bare for the world to witness.

Nalini stood a few steps behind them, her green eyes wide, heart racing. She had always admired Aryan—as a protector, as a visionary, as the Maheshvara of a changing world. But now, watching him, blade in hand, radiating light strong enough to bend the sky, something bloomed brighter within her.

It was awe.

And it was love.

Kingo, meanwhile, simply stared.

"How is this possible..." he whispered. "He's human, and yet... there are Eternals who've lived millennia that can't hold that kind of power..."

Shakti glanced sideways, amused. "He's not just human anymore."

Karna gave a short nod. "He never was. Not really."

Kingo didn't answer, still watching, overwhelmed. In all his years, he had never seen someone so young carry the weight of a world like that—and still stand taller for it.

But duty pulled them back quickly.

Karna's voice shifted to command. "Enough staring. The Eternals need to be healed and awakened. Aryan may not need us yet—but if he does, we must be ready."

Nalini stepped forward, kneeling beside the closest Eternal, her hands glowing a gentle green. "I'll begin. The roots corrupted their energies, but I can repair it."

Shakti joined her, placing a hand gently over hers. "Let me amplify you."

Their powers intertwined—Nature and Cosmic Will—forming an elegant flow of restorative force. The green shimmer turned luminous, and slowly, the first of the Eternals stirred.

Then another. And another.

Thena opened her eyes first. Then Gilgamesh. Sersi followed soon after, blinking slowly as if waking from a bad dream. Their movements were slow, cautious. And behind their eyes—confusion, grief.

They sat up, some with hands on their heads, others clutching their chests. The trauma lingered, but so did awareness.

They remembered.

They had been trapped. Their minds clouded, their bodies no longer their own. But their consciousness... it had never fully faded. They had seen the horror unfold around them—watched themselves strike their allies. Watched as Aryan stood against the very thing that had stolen their will.

Kingo stepped closer, uncertain, but smiling.

"I'm glad you're all alright..."

Sersi looked at him, her gaze full of emotion. "We... we endangered you. We endangered everyone."

"Ikaris," Thena said softly, eyes downcast. "He fought the control harder than any of us. But even he... even he fell."

They turned toward the sky again—toward the one who had freed them.

"Aryan," whispered Phastos, rising to his feet slowly. "He didn't give up on us."

They were silent for a moment. All of them. The weight of shame was matched only by the weight of gratitude. They would not forget this.

Their moment, however, was gently interrupted by a new presence.

A golden ripple shimmered nearby—and a portal formed, silent and smooth.

Out of it stepped two figures, familiar and yet timeless.

One was bald, robed, her posture perfectly still and her gaze sharp with layered wisdom—the Sorcerer Supreme. The other, cloaked in rich hues of green and gold, his aged face lined with countless battles of the mind and spirit—Yao, the Ancient One of Kamar-Taj's oldest teachings.

Nalini felt the pulse of mystic energy before she saw them. She rose immediately, reverence in her steps, walking toward her teacher.

"Master," she said with both awe and affection. "You came."

The Sorcerer Supreme gave a small nod. "We saw. We felt. There was no need to wait for explanation."

The Ancient One's gaze drifted upward.

"To think... this boy," he mused, voice soft, "has changed so much since last we met."

His voice was calm. But beneath the words, something deeper stirred—concern, perhaps... or respect.

The Sorcerer Supreme's eyes followed his. "Indeed, and he seems to have grown, and certainly not just in strength alone."

Aryan stood high above, as if suspended between realms, his blade ready to fall.

Their time to speak would come.

But for now, all they could do was watch—watch, and bear witness to the boy who defied the stars.

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Aryan's POV – Above the Crater, Greenland Skies

The world narrowed to a single moment.

Aryan raised the transformed Excalibur—its blade pulsing in black and gold brilliance, each ripple in the air humming with divine finality. The weight of the sword in his hand no longer felt separate from him. It was him now—his will, his promise, his fury and hope made manifest.

One breath.

Then he swung.

A line of pure annihilation erupted from the sword's arc—an immense beam of black-gold light that ripped through the very sky. It screamed forward like a judgment, cutting through the layers of reality itself. The earth below trembled. Stormclouds split. The wind was blown apart by sheer force.

The Deviant saw It coming.

He raised his arms, wrapped in hardened bone and seething energy, attempting to shield his body with a surge of celestial force. But it didn't matter.

The beam struck—straight to the chest.

There was no impact sound. Just silence, and then—

Collapse.

The defense didn't break.

It was erased.

The divine blade's power didn't just cut—it unmade. The corrupted being, twenty feet of horror and mutation, was flung backwards like a broken doll. Its body cracked through the sky, black ichor and golden sparks trailing behind it like falling stars.

But Aryan wasn't finished.

He vanished.

Void Step.

Space folded, and in the next instant, he stood midair again—this time directly in the path where the Deviant was hurtling.

His eyes glowed with layered power.

Conqueror's Haki—unleashed.

Observation Haki—sharpened beyond human limits.

Armament Haki—fused to the soul.

Thought Acceleration—multiplied thousands of times.

Time stretched in his mind.

His muscles moved with impossible precision.

And then—

A storm of slashes.

Excalibur danced like a living god's fury, carving through the air in glowing arcs. Each stroke struck before the last finished. The barrage was relentless. Point-blank, merciless, and precise.

The Deviant tried to counter—tried to form shields, to push back, to scream something in celestial rage—but nothing worked. His attempts were shredded before they formed. Every defense turned to nothing under the divine voidlight.

And finally, the Deviant's body slammed back into the ground with a thunderous quake.

A crater bloomed beneath him—vast and deep, scorched black at the edges. He twitched, groaned, clawing at the ground. Chunks of his form were missing—his chest ravaged, his limbs burnt through. The cosmic veins across his skin dimmed.

But he still stood.

Barely.

He staggered upright, breathing harsh, more out of instinct than will.

Then he looked up.

His eyes locked with Aryan's—floating in the sky, blade still burning in hand, his body cloaked in the shifting black-gold radiance.

And for the first time since obtaining this new power... the Deviant looked afraid.

Not just surprised. Not angry.

Afraid.

He stared at the sword... at the boy wielding it... and whispered, in a voice thick with disbelief and something like dread—

"...What are you...?"

There was no hatred in his words. No pride. Just hollow awe. As if his mind refused to comprehend how a being so young, so mortal in appearance, could threaten a half-born god.

Aryan's response was cool, quiet, and absolute.

"You don't need to know," he said calmly. "You won't live long enough to understand."

He raised the sword again, and this time—he let go of everything.

"System," he whispered in thought. "Remove all remaining limiters on Excalibur. Let this end here."

| Ding! |

| Acknowledged. Divine Construct Limiters Released. Core Ignition: Engaged. |

The sword exploded with force—no longer glowing, but radiating. A pillar of black-gold energy erupted from it, piercing clouds, shifting gravity, warping sound itself.

Aryan pointed it down.

The Deviant, still upright, screamed in defiance—gathering every shred of celestial power left within his broken core, forming a final, desperate barrier around him. Runes flickered in the air. A dome of layered energy took shape.

But it wasn't enough.

Not anymore.

The beam fell.

A cataclysm in light and silence.

It struck the barrier—cracked it—broke through—and devoured.

The Deviant let out one last scream. A raw, ear-shattering roar that echoed like a dying star's cry. His form warped, collapsed, burned. The energy overwhelmed him, body and soul. There was no corpse left. No remains.

Only a scar in the earth.

A stillness in the air.

And silence.

Aryan floated above the silence, the sword slowly dimming in his hand, breath heavy but gaze steady. His body, his soul, still burned with aftershocks—but his expression held only peace.

It was over.

The god that should not have been—was no more.

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