But war was not going to happen immediately, because India had not actually completed the weapon yet.
Five days passed quietly. In the capital, inside the official residence of the Prime Minister, an ambassador ran down the corridor toward the Prime Minister's office.
Even before he reached the door, he was already shouting. "Sir! The Freedom Union had spies inside our research laboratory. They've confirmed that we have successfully created a magic‑energy weapon. The spy tried to steal the blueprints, but we captured him. Sir, what should we do if they attack us?"
Prime Minister Mordan's expression hardened. He immediately ordered several key ministers and top military commanders to gather for an urgent meeting.
Within minutes, the conference room filled with people who had all come running as soon as they heard the news.
They quickly laid out the situation. Previously, the other nations had demanded that India stop all research.
Now that the weapon actually existed, those same nations would almost certainly try to attack or force India to surrender its blueprints and all its progress.
The question was simple and brutal: would they hand everything over, or would they brace themselves to face the world?
One hot‑blooded commander slammed his fist on the table. "Why are we afraid of them? We now have the strongest weapon on Earth. If they come, we won't let them go back!"
His words sent a ripple through the room; several people straightened, their fear easing at the reminder that they were no longer helpless.
But a calm, rational minister spoke up. "Even if we are stronger, they can still target our people. They can use terrorism, sabotage, proxy wars.
If we confront them head‑on, ordinary citizens will pay the price. We must not act as if this is only about armies and weapons." The room quieted again as everyone considered this.
Another commander responded with a scowl. "If we refuse to fight and just bow our heads, we'll be forced to hand them our weapon anyway. Then they'll have our work and our weakness."
The debate dragged on for hours, voices rising and falling between anger and caution, pride and fear.
At last, Mordan made his decision. "We will not surrender everything," he said slowly. "We will share only a portion of the blueprint—enough to ease the pressure, not enough for them to copy our full design. We will protect our people, but we will not give up our lead."
After some discussion, everyone agreed. It was a compromise: a shield for the country, without completely throwing away their advantage. The meeting was adjourned.
Five more days passed. Deep beneath the surface, in Dark Haven Fortress, the family and clones continued their routines as if the world above were a distant storm.
For the family, life had settled into a rhythm of eating, playing, and training. For the clones, the rhythm was different—preparing food, creating new techniques and Vyuhas, maintaining the fortress that sheltered them all.
On this particular day, Sacral Clone was heading out to water the fields when something brushed against his senses from far above.
He paused, frowned, and then blinked out of the underground, reappearing on the surface.
A few minutes earlier, a car had driven to the spot where Ankit's old hut used to stand. The door was yanked open and a rough‑looking man jumped down, glancing around nervously as if checking that no one was watching.
Satisfied, he opened the back door and reached inside.
When his hand came back out, he was holding a child—no more than a year old. He tossed the child onto the ground as if throwing away trash, then calmly climbed back into the driver's seat and started the engine.
The baby burst into loud, panicked cries, a red swelling already forming on the head from the impact, but the man didn't look back even once as he drove away.
A shadow fell over the crying child. A moment later, Sacral Clone appeared at the child's side and lifted him gently from the ground.
Down the mountain road, the man's car sped toward the exit of the range. He relaxed as he drove, turning on music and humming along, as if abandoning a one‑year‑old in the wilderness was nothing worth remembering.
Just as he neared the edge of the mountains, the car suddenly lurched upward, all four wheels leaving the road. The vehicle rose into the air and, against the driver's will, drifted back toward the place where he had thrown the child.
The man's hands shook on the steering wheel. "Ghosts? What is this?" he gasped, panic spreading through his chest.
When the car finally thudded down on the ground and stopped, he wasted no time.
He flung the door open and bolted out, trying to run—only to freeze mid‑stride as an invisible force lifted him into the air.