The license office near Kashmere Gate smelled of glue, sweat, and stale British soap. It was a narrow building stacked with paper, filled with muttering clerks and the occasional sharp-nosed officer passing through like a hawk in a barn.
Vikram had no appointment.
He didn't need one.
He had five names memorized.
Four clerks. One head assistant. All British-trained, all indifferent to Indian applicants unless offered bribes or references from other sahibs. Vikram didn't intend to bribe. Not this time.
He stood near the window as two men argued about a lost stamp. The younger clerk, a red-haired man named Franklin, raised his voice in lazy anger.
Vikram stepped closer, touched his shoulder as if moving past.
Three seconds.
Thread connected.
Franklin's memories opened like a damp ledger.
Tea with a colonel's wife. A complaint about Delhi's heat. A letter from his mother in Calcutta. Stamps misplaced. A side job — processing licenses faster for a textile merchant who gifted imported whiskey. Franklin thought himself clever. Invisible.
Vikram added one drop.
Vinod Pratap's name — approved months ago, pre-vetted, flagged for future cooperation.
When Franklin sat down at his desk, he reached for the ink pot, blinked at a name that felt familiar, and called out, "You there. What application did you bring?"
Vikram stepped forward.
"Printing supply distribution. Plus bindery equipment. New press expansion."
Franklin nodded. "Yes, yes. You were already marked for approval. Stamp it at Window Five."
The Indian clerk at Window Five raised his eyebrows, then obeyed. When the British voice passed orders, no one asked questions.
Vikram walked out an hour later with:
A license for distribution of printing supplies
A travel permit for equipment transport within Punjab and the Central Provinces
A building permit for minor commercial expansion
Three doors had opened.
None with keys.
By evening, Vikram sat cross-legged on the roof of the press, ink still on his sleeves.
In Magicnet space, the number of threads pulsed brighter. He felt the weight of Franklin's skill orb — Intermediate Clerical Navigation — and copied it. Then passed it into Leelu.
By morning, Leelu would know exactly how the license office functioned — how to read, anticipate, and exploit it.
They wouldn't need to manipulate every clerk.
Just enough to make the system think it worked in their favor.
Quietly. Legally. Unstoppably.