Calcutta, 1910–1911
The flickering candlelight threw jagged shadows on the walls as Arjun Sen entered the cramped meeting room tucked away beneath the bustling streets of Calcutta. Inside sat a circle of men and women whose names stirred hushed reverence throughout the city—leaders of the nascent nationalist movement. Figures like Bal Gangadhar Tilak, Bipin Chandra Pal, and Surendranath Banerjee were known for their unwavering defiance and fiery speeches.Arjun observed them carefully, his shinigami eyes quietly reading the lifespan hovering above each one—a cruel reminder that their mortal limits could be hastened if the empire's noose tightened. Many had suffered arrests and beatings, enduring British oppression that sought to silence the call for independence. Their moderate strategies and revolutionary zeal intertwined precariously.He knew, from memories of his past life, the true cruelty of the Raj—the systematic attempts to crush dissent through imprisonments, secret police, and brutal crackdowns. Yet, it was not enough. The slow-burning flame of rebellion had to be stoked with more than speeches and petitions.In private, Arjun revealed to a trusted few the unnatural gifts he bore—the Death Note, a book of final judgment, and the shinigami eyes that saw the fragile threads holding life. His allies listened, torn between awe and fear. To them, he was a man of mystery, a symbol of a new kind of resistance.Yet his past life's hatred simmered beneath his calm exterior. It was a hatred born not just from colonial wrath but from a world centuries ahead, where the empire's violence had grown unchecked, culminating in atrocities like Jallianwala Bagh. That dark future haunted him, fueling his resolve to change the course of history before it could take root.The decisions weighed heavily: use the Death Note to silence the most brutal oppressors or maintain secrecy to protect the fragile movement. Each choice carried consequences, both political and moral. Arjun's immortality was a hidden blade in the shadows, but every stroke risked exposure and backlash.Meanwhile, British intelligence intensified surveillance, suspecting that a ghostly hand guided the rising unrest. Arjun's every move was watched, an intricate dance of revolution and subterfuge.This was the beginning of a slow, relentless war—the war of ink and blood written by an immortal hand driven by the embers of two lifetimes.