In 1945, amidst war’s wreckage, Thoth met Gandhi, his frame frail but his spirit iron.
“Use the tablet for peace,” Gandhi pleaded, bombs echoing in the distance.
“It’s a curse,” Thoth said, his voice heavy. “Power corrupts.”
A naga slithered from the shadows, scales glinting. “The Nazis hold it!” Thoth raced through Berlin’s ruins, dodging gunfire, reclaiming it from Hitler’s bunker—its green light stark against swastikas. He returned to Gandhi, nodding once. “It’s safe. For now.”