The heat wasn't just hot; it was angry. It sat heavy on Ross Island, a physical weight that pressed the breath out of you before you even took it. The horizon was a mess of shimmering haze, turning the sea into something that looked less like water and more like molten glass.
Three Indian Army battalions roasted in the foliage. Inside the T-90s, it must have been an oven. The engines were off to save fuel, but the turrets were awake, twitching, barrels locked on a patch of empty blue sky. On the roofs of the crumbling British ruins, snipers lay in their own sweat, salt stinging their eyes, trying not to blink.
It was quiet. Too quiet. Even the jungle held its breath.
Then, he was there.
No sonic boom. No trail of fire. Valen just… dropped. He fell from the upper atmosphere like a stone, a vertical line drawn in defiance of physics, until he hit fifty feet above the runway and stopped.
Dead stop.
He didn't hover like a helecopter, fighting the air. He just hung there. Anchored. As if the air around him had solidified.
He was wrapped in void-black. A suit, maybe, or a second skin that hugged lean, corded muscle. A cape of the same impossible darkness hung limp behind him. Only the face was exposed—pale, stark, with eyes that saw too much.
Major Rana Singh's grip on his INSAS rifle was slick with sweat. He felt a tremor start in his knees, a shameful, biological betrayal.
"Target stationary," the radio hissed.
"Hold," Rana breathed. His voice sounded thin in his own ears…
Valen drifted. He moved like smoke in a draft, fluid and wrong. He floated over the tanks. The gunners tracked him—whirrr-clack—but he didn't even look down. He drifted to a banyan tree, reaching out to graze a hanging root. He touched it like a child touching a hot stove—curious, clinical.
Then he turned.
The gaze hit the line of soldiers like a physical blow.
Three thousand men, and the air soured with the smell of them—fear, unwashed uniforms, gun oil. Hearts hammered against ribs, a collective drumbeat of panic.
Valen sank. Feet met asphalt.
Thud.
Dust curled around his heels. He was solid now. Real. Six feet of condensed violence.
Major Rana didn't think. If he thought, he would run. He holstered his weapon. Stepped over the barricade. One foot in front of the other, marching into the kill zone. The distance shrank. Ten yards. Five.
Rana stopped. He looked the stranger in the eye and felt a cold spike drive through his chest.
He opened his hands. Palms up. Nothing to hide.
"Shanti," Rana croaked. He tapped his chest, hard. "Peace."
Valen tilted his head. A bird listening to a worm. The sound waves hit him, and you could see the processing behind the eyes, the dissection of frequency and intent.
Rana swallowed dry air. "Peace."
Valen stood there, absolute and terrifying, drinking the silence.
Hangar 4 smelled of ozone and stale coffee.
Four hours. That's all it had been.
Prime Minister Adit Sharma stood by a folding table, spine stiff. He looked calm, but his hands were clasped too tight, knuckles yellow.
Valen sat on a reinforced crate in the center of the floodlights. A circle of linguists moved around him, wary, like zookeepers with a tiger that had walked through the bars.
Dr. Iyer was pointing at a whiteboard covered in scribbles—syntax, roots, chaos. He looked wreck. Shirt stained, hair wild.
Valen stared at the board. His pupils didn't just move; they vibrated, scanning, tearing the logic apart and putting it back together.
Iyer wiped his face with a rag, leaning in close to Dr. Ray. "The monitor," he whispered. "Look at the spike."
Ray was hunched over a laptop, face pale in the screen glow. "It's not a curve, Iyer. It's a vertical line. He's not learning. He's… inhaling. He's anticipating the rules before we finish the sentence."
"Time?"
"Four hours," Ray murmured, voice shaking. "Four hours to deconstruct the foundation of two languages. It takes us a lifetime."
Iyer swallowed. He turned back to the entity. He held up a photo of the Earth.
"Duniya," Iyer said. "World."
Valen blinked. The hardware in his skull clicked into place.
"Du… ni… ya."
The voice was tectonic. Grinding stones deep underground. It hurt to listen to. He tasted the word, rolling the vowels around.
Iyer nodded, too fast, manic. "Yes. Good."
Valen stood up.
The linguists scattered. Chairs scraped, shoes squeaked on concrete. Valen ignored them. He walked to the open hangar doors. Outside, the night was a bruised purple, stitched with stars.
He turned to the Prime Minister. The face was a mask, but the eyes were sharp, lucid.
"Prime… Minister."
He built the words brick by brick.
Sharma stepped forward. "We are cautious," he said, keeping his voice steady. "You fell from the sky."
Valen looked at his own hands. He made a fist.
Pop.
The air didn't just displace; it cracked from the sudden compression. A vacuum collapse in the palm of his hand. He looked back at Sharma.
"I am Valen," he said. The syllables flowed better now, smoothing out the rough edges. "I travelled far… from space… to here…"
Kampot Province, Cambodia.
The air was thick enough to chew—durian rot, diesel fumes, and the wet heat of the Mekong. The river moved like brown sludge.
In the stilt-house, a ceiling fan hacked at the humidity, losing the battle. Aryan leaned back in wicker that groaned under his weight. He spun a butterfly knife—click-clack, click-clack—a nervous tic made of steel.
"Boredom isn't a state of mind," Aryan muttered, staring at the ceiling. "It's a terminal disease."
Silas was in the corner, a mountain of a man in the shadows. He was oiling a Glock, the smell of solvent sharp in the room. "Shut up. I'm watching the game."
Aryan glanced at the small TV. The cricket was gone. Red banner.
CONTACT IN THE INDIAN OCEAN.
Aryan's chair legs hit the floor. He stood.
Grainy footage. A figure in black on the Ross Island strip. The cape moving in a wind that wasn't there. Then, the figure turned. The camera caught the eyes—pixelated, blurry, but still enough to make the hair on Aryan's arms stand up.
"Silas," Aryan said. The knife went still.
Silas looked up. He walked to the screen, floorboards creaking. He leaned in, face bathed in the static glow.
"CGI?" Aryan asked, hoping.
Silas watched the movement. The stillness. The way the soldiers shrank back without moving their feet. "Look at the bodies. The fear. You can't fake that tension."
"He looks… strong."
Silas crossed arms the size of tree trunks. He stared at the alien figure.
"The food chain just updated," Silas grunted. "And we aren't at the top anymore."
Haridwar.
Rain lashed the window, blurring the lights of the city below into streaks of orange and grey.
The Masked Man sat in the dark. No tactical gear tonight. Just a grey t-shirt and the scars on his arms. The mask stared up from the desk, hollow-eyed, next to a stripped-down sniper bolt.
He hit a key.
Frame 400: Turn.
Frame 402: Acceleration.
He leaned back, the leather chair sighing.
It was over. The game he'd been playing—drug lords, politicians, borders—it all looked like kids throwing sand in a sandbox now. The world had shrunk in the span of an afternoon.
He typed a command. Save. Encrypt.
He closed the laptop. The room went black, save for the rain. He sat there, listening to the water hit the glass, feeling very, very small.
Swarglok.
It didn't smell like incense; it smelled of ozone and crushed jasmine, a scent so sweet it verged on rotting. The floor was diamond, hard and cold, reflecting a ceiling that swirled with nebulae.
Indra sprawled on the Storm-Seat. One leg dangled over the armrest, swinging idly. He tossed a grape—perfect, purple, seedless—and caught it in his mouth.
"Boring," he groaned. The word rolled around the hall like distant thunder. "If something doesn't break soon, I'm going to start a war just to feel something."
Chitraratha jogged in. The celestial musician looked out of breath, clutching a crystal tablet.
"Boss," he panted. "You need to see this."
"Earth-plane again? What is it, a meteorite? Yawn."
"No, Boss. A guy."
Indra stopped chewing. He sat up, slowly. He smoothed his beard. "A guy? Like… an Asura?"
"No. Just a guy. In a suit. But look at the readings."
Chitraratha tapped the crystal. A hologram shimmered into existence in the center of the room. Valen, standing in the hangar, speaking to the tiny mortal leader.
Indra squinted. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, interest piqued.
"The bio-electric field," Chitraratha said, pointing to the aura. "It's not biological. It's pure energy. Dense. It rivals the Devas."
Indra's eyes flashed—literal sparks of blue electricity arcing across the iris. He watched Valen clench his fist in the hologram.
"Should we intervene?" Chitraratha asked. "He looks… capable."
Indra stood up. His back popped—a sound like a whip crack. He walked to the hologram, walking through Valen's ghostly image, dispersing the light.
"Capable?" Indra scoffed. A grin split his face—arrogant, ancient, and dangerous. "He's a matchstick. I am the forest fire."
He turned back to his throne and collapsed onto the cushions, boredom already creeping back in.
"Watch him," Indra said, closing his eyes. "Make sure he doesn't break my planet. Otherwise… let him play."