Calcutta, 1911The night wrapped the city in a thick, humid cloak, muffling the distant clatter of carriages and the sharp orders of British officers. Beneath the flickering light of oil lamps, Arjun Sen moved silently through the winding alleys—a specter among shadows. Inside his coat, the Death Note rested heavy but unread. Patience was as vital as power, and the time for visible rebellion had not yet come.His shinigami eyes pierced the darkness, reading the faint crimson glow above the passersby—the fragile threads of life that connected each soul to their destiny. Every name, every day marked with impending death or endurance, but Arjun alone was outside this cruel tally. Immortal.British intelligence was tightening its grip, whispers spreading of a ghostly avenger striking from nowhere, a presence no spy or informant could track. The city was more dangerous for revolutionaries than ever, but Arjun found strength in subtlety. His power was a slow, creeping frost rather than a wildfire.In a small, smoky room, Arjun counseled trusted comrades, voices low, words carefully measured. "Our enemy fears control," he said softly. "We must be the unseen hand that guides fate. One name at a time, one silent judgment."The Death Note was not merely a book of death but a ledger of justice when wielded with wisdom. Every assassination he orchestrated was cloaked in deception—natural death, sudden illness, unexplained accidents—never revealing the hand that struck.Yet the burden weighed on him. The memories of his previous life suffused every action with urgency. He had witnessed horrors twenty-five years beyond this moment—the massacre of innocents, the partition's cruelty, the tightening noose of empire backed by foreign powers. Those nightmares fueled his resolve but also threatened his humanity.Beyond strategy, Arjun grappled with isolation. Immortality cast a long shadow, separating him from the comrades who aged and struggled and lived brief, passionate lives. How could he share the weight of knowing fate's script? How could he remain detached from the very lives he sought to protect?In this slow dance of revolution and espionage, the city held its breath, caught between tyranny's tightening fist and the ethereal scribe writing its unraveling
