The workshop smelled of hot oil, sawdust, and the musky parchment of failed experiments. At only eight years old, Sharath stood atop a wooden stool, barely reaching the edge of his steel worktable. Yet around him swirled the makings of revolution—cogs, coils, gears, parchment, and models more ambitious than most adult inventors dared dream.
His eyes, once bright with the naïve joy of tinkering, now narrowed with a deeper purpose. The problem wasn't paper anymore—his innovations in pulp chemistry and supply logistics had solved that. No, the bottleneck now was dissemination. What use were brilliant discoveries if they remained trapped in dusty scrolls or the mouths of scholars?
"Truth must flow," he muttered, tightening the brass screw on a rotary plate. "Or it stagnates."
Even now, his mind raced—not just with mechanisms, but with meanings. Lies ruled the land. Superstition shackled the masses. Noble lords hoarded knowledge like dragons their gold. But Sharath had seen the world through another lens—through Earth's legacy. A child here, yes, but an adult in insight.
Outside, thunder rolled as if nature itself recognized what brewed within these stone walls. Sparks jumped from a copper contact, singeing his sleeve. He hissed but didn't flinch. Pain was a price. A small one.
He looked at the partially assembled machine before him, gears half-fitted, the press plate still unbalanced. It wasn't just an invention.
It was a weapon—against ignorance, tyranny, and time