CHAPTER 154: CH.151: FIRE V/S WATER – II

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- New York City, USA -

- December 19, 1939 -

The harbor roared with chaos. Fire streaked against crashing waves, steam billowed like fog, and the air stank of salt and smoke. The Human Torch darted through the mist, a blur of burning light, his flames hissing each time Namor’s water struck.

For every wall of fire Jim raised, Namor answered with a tide that dwarfed ships. For every dive the Torch made with fists blazing, Namor’s strength met him head-on. The clash was uneven—the ocean never ran dry, but fire always needed fuel.

Jim felt it. The longer the battle stretched, the more his body strained. Howard Stark’s reinforcements, the retooled circuits, the stabilizers—all of them were holding, but barely. His frame buzzed with stress, his Horton cells screaming for more energy. He burned hotter, desperate, and for a moment it seemed enough.

But Namor was relentless.

The Prince of Atlantis cut through steam with the ease of a predator, his trident sparking with seawater as he swung it in wide arcs. Each strike rattled Jim’s android bones. His flames flared, but the sea kept swallowing them whole.

A jet of water slammed into his side, sending him spiraling across the sky. His systems struggled to keep balance. He roared, igniting fully, his body blazing like a falling star. With a cry, he hurled himself back at Namor—one last push.

Namor caught him mid-charge.

The trident’s edge sliced through flame, meeting metal beneath. Pain wasn’t something Jim was built to feel, but in that moment, he understood the horror of loss. His arm tore free, sparks and fire spilling from the wound. Another swing, and his leg was gone, plunging into the sea below.

He hit the shoreline hard. Sand exploded, glass forming beneath his burning body as he crashed into the earth. His fire sputtered, dimmed, but still flickered stubbornly around his broken form. People watching from behind barricades gasped, some crying out his name, others frozen in helpless silence.

Namor descended with slow, deliberate steps, trident in hand. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, softened for just a heartbeat.

"You fought with honor," he said, his voice deep, carrying over the waves. "For a machine, you carry a warrior’s spirit. That is rare."

He lifted his weapon, its tips glowing as it drank the energy of the ocean itself. Behind him, the water rose in answer, swelling like a living thing, waiting to strike.

"But the surface world has sinned. You poison what you do not respect, you invade what is not yours. As Prince of Atlantis, I will punish your kind. Take pride, Fire-Man—you will not suffer. I will grant you a swift end."

The trident hummed with power, lightning curling along its shaft. Namor’s gaze was not cruel, but final. He meant to end it cleanly, as one warrior honoring another.

Jim, broken and half-dimmed, forced his flames higher one last time, not for himself but for the people watching, for the hope they had placed in him. The effort left him trembling, sparks spilling uselessly from his severed limbs.

Namor raised the trident.

And then—

"It’s enough."

The voice came from behind him, calm yet sharp enough to cut through the storm. Namor stiffened, turning sharply, wings at his ankles twitching.

There, as if he had always been standing in the mist, was Aryan. No crackle of fire, no roar of waves—just a quiet presence, steady and immovable. His eyes fixed on Namor, not with fear, but with authority.

The sea stilled around them for a heartbeat, as though waiting to hear what would come next.

—

Earlier this afternoon...

- Conference Hall, The New Yorker Hotel -

The conference hall was a glittering scene of polished shoes, dark suits, and eager smiles that never quite reached the eyes. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, reflecting the clinking of glasses and the rustle of papers as America’s business elite gathered around the Samrat of Bharat.

Aryan sat at the long table near the center, calm and collected, the faintest smile playing at his lips as men leaned in, each eager to make their pitch.

"Bharat is a land of promise, Your Majesty," said one man with a firm handshake, his tie too tight for his neck. "We believe a manufacturing partnership could bring mutual benefit. Of course, certain waivers on tariffs would be most helpful..."

Another chimed in, softer but sharper, "And naturally, technology exchange should be considered. Our firms are always keen to assist in development, provided there’s open access to patents."

Aryan listened, nodding at the right moments, his eyes unreadable. Inside, he knew exactly what they wanted. Waivers, loopholes, monopolies. They saw Bharat’s magi-tech not as a marvel to respect, but as a vein of gold to strip bare.

They didn’t know the locks he had already placed. The layers of regulation, the invisible restrictions in Bharat’s system. For now, magi-tech was for Bharatiyas alone. However , he would let these people invest in other sectors of Bharatiya market, still critical for rapid growth, but not directly in contact with magi-tech, using their capital and reach for their own benefits. And, by the time the West realized it, Bharat would already stand tall, a fortress no one could steal from.

He raised his glass politely. "Gentlemen, I hear your concerns. Bharat is indeed open to partnerships. Investments, infrastructure, capital—we welcome all of it. But as you know, we safeguard our people’s innovations. You’ll find plenty of opportunities in the roads, the factories, the trade routes. But magi-tech? That is... our heritage."

The smile never left his face, but the tone was final. The businessmen, well-practiced in politeness, nodded. Their eyes, however, told another story—calculating, hungry.

As he turned away from the table, Aryan’s gaze landed on a smaller man, seated at the edge. He wasn’t loud like the others, but somehow he had found his way into the room. His company was decent-sized, nothing remarkable, yet he had influence. Aryan tilted his head slightly, focusing, letting the hidden layers of his mind peel away the disguise.

And there it was. A shimmer behind the man’s skin, a structure that didn’t belong to humankind.

Skrull.

Aryan sighed inwardly. That made three in just a few days he was here. America was crawling with them. Disguised not as senators or generals—that would be too obvious—but as invisible cogs in the machine, slowly threading influence where no one would look.

The Hidden Flame agents, had already marked dozens of such infiltrators around the globe, for the past few months. However, right now, they were left alone. Any strike too early would alert the hive, scattering them. Aryan needed to know the depth of their reach, their numbers, their intent.

But the implications were troubling. Skrulls here, in such numbers, hinted at something bigger. Were they hiding from the Kree? From the Shi’ar? Refugees, or scouts for something darker? Earth might already be woven into wars it didn’t yet understand.

For Aryan, it wasn’t a personal threat. But for the world he intended to protect, it was a storm cloud on the horizon. To face it, Earth had to be united, its technology raised to stand alongside the stars. But there existed multiple more powerful factions on Earth itself, who will certainly oppose him if he goes that path, haphazardly. While not impossible to outmaneuver them, it also risked further damaging the already fragile reality. So right now Aryan was taking a more careful approach . Slowly infiltrating every major force he considered important on the Earth. And then, when time is right, taking them all under his control in one full swoop. And, that path would take patience.

His thoughts broke as voices rose around him. Heads turned toward a large television screen at the side of the hall, where the broadcast had switched suddenly from business updates to breaking news.

The reporter’s voice was frantic, the image shaky.

"This is Clara Hughes reporting live from the New York Harbor—what you’re seeing is not a drill. A towering wave just struck the waterfront, but it appears to have been stopped by... by a man on fire! Ladies and gentlemen, the so-called Human Torch is fighting above the docks against another figure—reports identify him as Namor, the Sub-Mariner!"

The camera panned clumsily, catching a flash of flame cutting through mist, then a massive wall of water curling behind a figure with a trident. People gasped in the hall. Some leaned closer to the screen, others whispered nervously.

"Good God," muttered one of the businessmen. "That’s a war zone."

Aryan stood slowly, his eyes narrowing at the sight. He hadn’t expected Namor to appear today, of all days. How fitting, though, that the sea chose to test fire on the very day he was here.

He made his way across the room, weaving past startled men, until he found Howard Stark standing by the corner with a glass in hand, his brow furrowed as he watched the screen.

"Howard," Aryan said, his voice calm, though the air around him carried a quiet intensity.

Stark glanced at him, forced a crooked grin. "Quite the circus act, isn’t it? My boy Hammond’s out there. We did what we could to strengthen him, but Namor..." He shook his head. "That’s a fight no blueprint can prepare for."

Aryan’s eyes stayed fixed on the screen, watching Jim struggle, flames flickering against endless water. "And yet you still sent him."

Howard exhaled, leaning in closer, his voice lower. "He bolted there on his own. He always said he wanted to prove he wasn’t just an experiment. That he could stand on his own."

The reporter’s voice cut In again, louder now:

"—the Torch has been struck! He’s down, I repeat, he’s down on the shoreline! Namor is advancing—this could be the end of New York if someone doesn’t intervene—"

The screen showed chaos, people scattering along the harbor, smoke and steam thick in the air.

Aryan set down his glass on the table, untouched. His gaze hardened.

"It seems," he said softly, "the time to stand by has ended."

Howard looked at him, half-question, half-hope. "You’re not seriously—?"

But Aryan was already moving toward the door, his presence shifting, the faint shimmer of power trailing behind him like a shadow that didn’t belong.

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