The city didn't see him yet.
But it would.
Vikram sat cross-legged behind the press at dusk, sorting half-torn sheets. In the other corner, Ramu smoked and cursed a missing shipment. Ammaji's roti sat in his lap, still warm.
But inside his mind, Vikram wasn't sitting.
He was building.
The Magicnet space had changed. Grown. Each night now, it took longer to walk through. The threads buzzed faintly, not loud — but alive. And the orbs… they had begun to hum in clusters.
Cooking. Cleaning. Gossip. Observation. Stamina. Discipline.
He could see the patterns forming.
He tested a thought.
He moved to the cluster where six orbs hovered — three Beginner Observation, two Beginner Memory Recall, and one Beginner Street Mapping.
He held them.
Pulled them close.
Then pushed.
The six melted together into one solid shape — brighter, heavier.
Intermediate Reconnaissance.
It floated near him now, sharp as a blade. No blur. No error.
He smiled.
Then copied it.
And that night, he gave it to a thin boy named Leelu — one of the quiet ones who never asked questions. A runner between stalls.
The next morning, Leelu returned from the spice market and listed fourteen new things before Vikram asked. Prices. Names. Who was talking to who. Who closed early. Who got a visit from a constable.
Leelu didn't know why he remembered.
But Vikram did.
He didn't stop there.
He fused Cleaning, Stacking, Handling, Time Discipline, and Floor Memory into one skill: Intermediate Press Operations.
Copied it to Sattu.
Now the boy worked like he'd been trained five years.
Even Ramu noticed. "This one… he works like an adult now."
Vikram shrugged. "Some boys learn fast."
Ramu laughed. "You feeding him almonds?"
"No. Just rotis."
But behind his smile, Vikram was watching the next move.
The press owner — Pandit Girdhari Lal — came once every two weeks. A bald, chatty man who barely understood what his workers did. His mind wasn't hard to read.
He cared about money. Stability. And respect from white men.
When he came that Thursday, Vikram arranged things carefully.
Clean floor. Workers folding silently. Sattu operating the binding station like a veteran. Ammaji handing out brass tumblers with tea like a trained helper.
Girdhari Lal noticed.
He pulled Ramu aside.
"What did you change?"
"Nothing," Ramu said. "Boys just started behaving."
He pointed at Vikram.
"That tall one? Vicky? He helps keep the line steady."
Girdhari Lal walked over. Smiled.
"You like working here?"
Vikram nodded. "Yes, saab."
"You want more responsibility?"
"I can read. And write."
That made the man blink.
Two days later, Vikram had a place behind the ledgers.
He wasn't paid more. But he was now seen.
And from that position, he read invoices, tracking slips, client requests. Learned the difference between print licenses and press passes. Saw how the British permitted newspapers. Saw which names got denied.
At night, he walked through memory space.
He pulled orbs from Girdhari Lal — Intermediate Negotiation, Beginner Finance, Beginner Legal Loopholes.
Fused them.
Advanced Small Business Management.
He absorbed it into himself.
And smiled.
His hands still folded pages by day.
But his mind had already entered the market.
The press would be his first legal platform.
Soon, he'd make it his first front company.
Quiet. Clean. Profitable.
And no one would know who really ran it.
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First-time author here — your feedback really matters. If you liked this part, I'd be grateful for a short review or reaction.