Calcutta, 1901
The monsoon sky was bruised and heavy as the rain hammered relentlessly against the wooden shutters of a modest boarding house in the heart of Calcutta's European quarter. The oppressive scent of wet earth, coal smoke, and river decay hung thick. Inside, flickering candlelight danced across weathered walls, casting shadows that whispered secrets of revolt and despair.Arjun Sen's eyes snapped open, sharp and burning with the weight of countless memories—memories that transcended a century. His present body was lean and worn, clothed in a simple kurta patched from wear, yet his mind raced with knowledge from a future no man was meant to know. The feverish dream of dying in 2025 and waking up in this turbulent era besieged him. But beside him lay proof that his fate was no accident—a black leather notebook bound with an unearthly glow, bearing the ominous title: Death Note.As twilight surrendered to night, Arjun lifted the notebook. Instinctively, his vision shifted—the world transformed. Names, dates, and whispered fates floated above every living soul, visible only to him by a cruel gift. The shinigami eyes allowed him to glimpse the lifespan of men as fragile, flickering flames. Yet his reflection in the cracked mirror bore no such mark—he was beyond death, an immortal flame amidst smoke and ash.A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "If gods have forsaken us, then I will become the flame of revolution."His first steps led to the crowded streets where British soldiers marched, oppressive and unaware. He lifted the Death Note's quill and inscribed a single name—a high-ranking colonial official responsible for brutal crackdowns on dissent. Within moments, the man collapsed, a sudden death cloaked as natural. The tide had turned, subtle but irreversible.News of mysterious deaths spread through Calcutta's teahouses and secret meeting halls, fueling whispers of a spectral avenger. Arjun moved through the labyrinth of narrow alleys and smoky rooms where revolutionaries planned rebellions and whispered slogans of freedom. For him, this was no mere struggle of flesh and blood—it was a war written in the ink of destiny."I am the Immortal Scribe," he vowed silently. "As long as I breathe, this empire will crumble beneath the weight of its sins."Beneath the gas lamps and the looming shadow of the Victoria Memorial, a new chapter of resistance began—one written in the language of death and eternal defiance.