Chapter 17: The Seeds of Power
With his media, business, and infrastructure campaigns beginning to take root, Vikram turned his gaze to the one set of levers that could shift the very direction of the nation.
Not theaters. Not screens. Not shopping malls.
But power.
Subtle. Lasting. Absolute.
And the seed to grow that power already rested in his palm.
Sitting alone in his private study on the fifth floor, with the late afternoon haze filtering through the narrow wooden window slats, Vikram tapped his pen slowly against the table. His mind was silent to the world but wide awake within its own corridors. Everything else—from cinema hall renovations to beverage rollouts—could be delegated, optimized, scaled by others.
But this next move had to be personal.
It was about reshaping a country—not with weapons or public movements, but by pulling the threads of thought from within.
Yes, he had the System's Memory Manipulation skill—a terrifying power, almost divine in nature. A single touch, and he could unlock any mind. Rewrite the tracks of old thinking. Plant new purpose. Instantly change loyalties, behaviors, ideologies.
But he never underestimated its danger.
Power, he had long learned, didn't lie in possession. It lay in precision.
He sat quietly for two hours, a blank sheet in front of him, drawing a single line:
> "Use only where it matters."
He knew exactly where to start.
The Political Landscape — September 1970
India stood at the edge of historical turbulence.
The Congress Party, once the monolith of freedom, had fractured just a year earlier into two distinct blocks:
- Congress (R) – loyal to Indira Gandhi, driven by sudden populist fervor.
- Congress (O) – controlled by old guard parliamentarians, more moderate and ideological.
Indira's control was unstable, her tenure surviving only with fragile support—from Communists, independent MPs, and regional allies. Parliament had become a battlefield, not for laws, but for existence. Factions whispered of collapse. Opponents leaned in closer with every passing month.
But Vikram already knew what history would reveal in time.
> On 27 December 1970, Indira Gandhi would dissolve Parliament—pulling the cord herself before it snapped in crisis.
Amid this political gamble, she would rise from the debris.
> In the general election of 1971, her Congress (R) would win 352 of 518 seats, surging ahead with sweeping public support driven by the Garibi Hatao (Remove Poverty) campaign and sweeping welfare promises.
From fragmented chaos to absolute majority—in just three months.
Vikram leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.
This transition period, this chaotic vacuum between September and February—that was his entry point. This was the moment to shape the very souls of those who would write India's future laws.
He didn't need positions. Or headlines. Or badges.
He needed trust, born of nothing and placed where decisions were made.
Vikram's goal was monumental—nothing less than embedding his ideological fingerprint into 260 of the 352 victorious MPs that would form the new incoming government and influence them with the memory manipulation skill.
Not to brainwash them. Not to control them like puppets.
But to rewrite the roots of their purpose.
To plant a fabricated belief in national duty, balanced growth, public service, and clarity of vision, sewn so delicately into their minds that they'd die believing they'd always thought it.
Their ambition would remain. Their personalities untouched. But their compass would be retuned—pointing not to power, but to nation-building.
They would pass future economic reforms, reduce income difference between rich and poor of the country, make healthcare and education accessible to not just the rich of the society but every Indian.
His first subject was not the most powerful or most famous as the urgency is not that high and he can slowly influence these MPs and he also doesn't remember who will Win the next election but current MPs of Congress would most probably win the next election.
It was critical that his influence grow silently, untraceably—without noticeable patterns.
He chose a mid-level politician from a central Indian constituency. A rising name. Clean in the public's eye but ethically transactional behind closed doors. A man who lacked conviction but dreamed of ministerial rank. Perfect for anchoring future networks.
That night, Vikram infiltrated his estate—situated on the outskirts of a dusty state capital, enveloped by neem trees and staff quarters.
The man slept alone.
Draped in a thin sheet under the gentle whirl of a ceiling fan, he tossed faintly—unaware of the shadow standing just beside his bed.
Vikram reached out.
His hand gently touched the man's exposed forearm.
Contact made.
A flashless surge passed through the channel. Vikram's consciousness slipped in like wind into a candlelit room.
Inside, everything unfolded in moments. Past conversations. Battles and fears. Shameful ambitions tucked behind electoral speeches. The craving for applause. Quiet betrayals. Father issues. The unspoken fury of not becoming more.
> Vikram rewrote nothing outside the man's truth.
He reshaped it.
He fortified pride during moments of idealism. He painted a memory from years ago: a ghostly mentor speaking of India's resurrection, its rivers, villages, honor, and science. He embedded emotions of shame at corruption, courage in front of criticism, and satisfaction—deep, long-lasting peace—when serving wider goals.
He rewired loyalty away from party names, and toward a singular, invisible standard that mirrored Vikram's own outline for national reawakening.
When he withdrew, the man stirred. Eyes opened slowly.
He sat up, blinking. Spoke with calm purpose.
> "Master… what are your orders?"
Vikram stood at the edge of the lamplight, coat fluttering slightly as the fan blades above resumed.
He told the man everything—what was about to happen.
The Parliament would dissolve by late December. National elections would erupt in February. Nobody knew it yet, not even senior leaders.
But he did.
Vikram told him the truth of what people wanted: not some once-every-five-years appearance by their leader with garlands and soap speeches.
> "Go back. Right now. Visit villages, not stages. Sit with cattle herders, not councilmen. Clean drains yourself if you must. Fix one plot of land without service connections. Small things. Honest things. Do that until January."
> "You will win your next election without spending more than you needed."
The man listened, nodded.
> "Yes, Master."
And Vikram walked into the night.
Later, as the moonless sky loomed over the old British-era guesthouse Vikram had rented outside town, he stood on the rooftop, hands tucked deep in the pockets of his coat.
Three MPs had already been altered.
One would be rallying for flood relief funds in his district. Another wouldb announce impromptu school visits and will publicly cancel all his scheduled foreign trips. The third will begin organizing land settling drives for tribal forest claimants.
And Vikram still had 257 to go.
This Was Only the Beginning
He wasn't in a hurry. He would move discreetly—across rail cars, party lodges, backroom dinners, unguarded hands at political rallies. No pattern. No suspicion. Every mind chosen for its pivot in future decisions, every touch woven into chance, every implanted emotion subtle and layered with misdirection.
Most would never know they had changed, they'll just think that they were always like this.
One day, they might find themselves weeping while passing a new irrigation canal or smiling with pride while signing economic liberalization papers in the early '80s—never knowing they were walking a path that was not even laid by them but someone else.
And this movement wouldn't stop at 260 as it would become significantly easier for him to meet with other MPs or those who will become MPs in the future with the help of those he had already influenced.
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