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- British High Command, Delhi -
- August 25, 1936 -
A few days passed from the meeting between the major leaders of India and Aryan, and now all of his plans and movements were starting to show results. Now, the British had become extremely cornered and that showed in their swift surrender rate and withdrawal from wherever the rebels and revolutionaries marched.
The air in the grand hall of the High command, was thick with smoke and tension. The chandeliers above cast flickering shadows over the long mahogany table where the most powerful British officials in India sat—not in command, but in fear.
Major General Arthur Hastings, the man once entrusted with leading the counter-insurgency against Maheshvara, sat stiff-backed, his fingers gripping the armrest of his chair. A month ago, he had been convinced that brute force, strategy, help from the Church and that American friend and not to mention the weight of the British Empire could turn the tide. Now, there was no such illusion. They had lost contact on that individual who promised to solve their supernatural problems and the church wasn't being of any help in this storm.
The rebels had not just won battles. They had now shattered the very foundation of British control over India.
Sir Reginald Dunmore, his once-proud composure reduced to barely contained frustration, exhaled sharply as he leaned forward. "We cannot hold this country any longer," he admitted, his voice hollow. "Not with the army crumbling from within, with more and more Indian soldiers rebelling against us. And certainly not with the entire population of this god-forsaken land treating that boy as a god."
"He's more than that now," Frederick Harrington muttered. His usually measured voice was laced with something rare—fear. He clearly remembered the scene where the majestic projection of Maheshvara appeared all over the country along with his declaration, simultaneously showcasing his immense power. "Maheshvara has made it clear. The British Raj is over. And, gentlemen, we simply have no means to stop him."
Silence fell over the room.
Hastings clenched his jaw, his mind running through every plan, every desperate measure they had considered. Sabotage, political maneuvering, bribery—none of it mattered. The soldiers who were once loyal to the Crown had abandoned their posts. Some had defected to Maheshvara's forces. Others simply refused to fight. Even their best-equipped regiments had been routed by an enemy that fought with the precision of a military juggernaut and the zeal of a people who knew victory was inevitable.
And then there was the technology—machines, weapons, and war constructs that matched British firepower blow for blow. The counter-insurgency committee had once scoffed at the rebels' advancements, dismissing them as crude imitations. They weren't laughing anymore.
"Every strategy we conceived relied on the assumption that Maheshvara was just a man," Dunmore said bitterly. "He is clearly not. The Empire has faced revolts before, but never against a force that is… untouchable."
Harrington exhaled, rubbing his temples. "We've lost the loyalty of the local politicians. We've lost control of the military. We've lost the ability to even project authority beyond the walls of this very compound. I would ask what our next move is, but we all know the answer."
Hastings closed his eyes for a moment. He had never envisioned this moment. The British Empire, reduced to a gathering of desperate men plotting how to "retreat with dignity".
"We need to leave," he admitted finally. The words burned as they left his lips. "The only move left is to withdraw before we are thrown out like common criminals."
Dunmore's fists clenched. "Do you understand what that means? We retreat, and the world sees the Empire humiliated. It sets a precedent. If India can cast us out, what of Africa? The West Indies? The Crown's influence will never be the same again."
"Do you intend to stay and die, then?" Harrington shot back. "Because that's all that awaits us if we hold out. We are not just fighting an armed rebellion—we are fighting an unsurmountable opponent, a belief, one that has already won. Maheshvara has made it clear that the British will leave, and that declaration alone has shattered our control more effectively than any war."
The weight of those words settled over them.
For over a century, the British had ruled India with an iron grip, dictating the fate of millions. And now, in the span of weeks, everything had collapsed. Not because of a slow political process, but because one man—one being—had declared it so.
There were no options left.
"Very well," Dunmore finally said, his voice cold. "We leave. But we do not leave in silence. We apply diplomatic and economic pressure. We ensure that Maheshvara's rule is not unchallenged. We cut off every supply line, isolate India from the global markets, and make certain that his so-called nation crumbles under its own weight."
Hastings looked up at him, his expression unreadable. "You still don't understand, do you? You're thinking in terms of ordinary nations, ordinary rulers. Maheshvara is not bound by those rules. Even if we embargo India, even if we rally the Western world against him, what makes you believe it will matter?"
Dunmore's lips curled into something between a grimace and a sneer. "Because he may be untouchable, but India is not. We may not be able to fight him, but we can make his rule costly. If we are to leave, we will not do so as beggars—we will ensure he rules over a nation starved of allies."
The room was silent once more.
It was a bitter, desperate strategy. And deep down, each of them knew that Maheshvara had already anticipated it. But there was nothing else left to do.
Hastings stood, adjusting his uniform. "Then it's settled. We prepare for withdrawal. We inform London, as well as the Viceroy, that British rule in India is over. And we do whatever we can to make sure Maheshvara's victory is not the end of our influence—only a delay."
The others nodded, some reluctantly, some bitterly.
As they rose from their seats, the weight of history pressed down upon them. They had been the last line of British rule in India. And now, they were merely men retreating from a battlefield they had already lost.
Outside the grand hall, the city of Delhi stirred—not with fear, but with revolution and nationalism. The age of British rule was near its end.
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- Viceroy's House, Delhi -
- August 25, 1936 – Nightfall -
The dim glow of a desk lamp flickered across Lord Archibald Wavell's weary face as he sat in his private study, staring at the blank sheet of paper before him. He had only recently took over from the previous Viceroy and now this situation has arrived before him. He could only grit his teeth as he resigned himself to face the consequences of losing control over India by the UK government. His hands, once steady with authority, trembled slightly as he reached for the pen. The telegram machine beside him stood silent, waiting.
The decision had been made. The meeting at the High Command had left no room for doubt—British rule in India was finished. Now, it fell upon him, the last Viceroy, to send the final word to London.
His eyes shifted to the documents scattered across his desk—intelligence reports, military assessments, desperate pleas for reinforcements that would never come. Each one a record of a crumbling empire. He had spent years convincing himself that British rule was unshakable, that the Raj would endure. But it had taken mere weeks for that illusion to be shattered.
Wavell exhaled sharply, gripping the pen as he began to write.
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To the Secretary of State for India, London.
The situation has become untenable. The British administration has lost effective control over the Indian subcontinent. Military resistance has collapsed, and remaining forces are surrendering or defecting in large numbers.
We face a force that is beyond conventional measures of control. Maheshvara's influence is absolute. No political maneuvering can contain him.
With the Indian population united against us, the risk of a prolonged engagement is unsustainable. The High Command has determined that an orderly withdrawal is the only viable course of action. Any further attempts to maintain our presence will result in unnecessary loss of British lives.
I recommend immediate preparations for a full retreat. The formal announcement will be made within the week.
The British Raj is at an end.
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He paused, staring at the words. The weight of them settled in his chest like iron.
The British Raj is at an end.
Once, that would have been unthinkable. Now, it was reality.
With a deep breath, Wavell placed the message into the telegram machine. He hesitated for the briefest of moments—then pressed the key. The machine whirred to life, transmitting the message across the sea to London.
It was done.
The last command of the British Raj had been given.
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