They didn't trust him at first.
Not fully.
Even in 1910, the Hindu Mahasabha was no fragile structure. It had older roots, older grudges, and older men — men with long memories and longer suspicions. Not every nationalist trusted quiet patriots who emerged from nowhere, especially those who spoke calmly, rarely shouted, and never quoted scripture.
But Vikram hadn't come for speeches.
He came for leverage.
The meeting took place in a haveli in Katra Neel, behind a spice warehouse that masked the scent of tobacco and oil lamps. Dozens arrived — scholars, merchants, religious heads, disgruntled landlords, schoolmasters.
Vikram wasn't invited directly.
But an old letter in his hand carried weight.
It bore the seal of a jailed editor from Varanasi. A man who'd once published articles critical of cow slaughter and British apathy — now silent behind bars. Vikram had helped smuggle food to his family. He'd never met him. But Magicnet had traced a memory from an old courier to this name.
The editor had left Vikram's name with a message.
"He's not one of us. But he moves like the one we always needed."
It was enough to get him into the room.
Inside, arguments flowed freely.
Muslim influence in Bengal.
Christian schools in Gujarat.
Anglo conversions in Kerala.
British contempt for cow sanctity.
Textbooks calling Rama a myth.
Everyone had a grievance. Few had answers.
Vikram waited. Listening. Measuring. Not speaking.
Until one man — a tall lawyer from Jaipur — slammed his palm on the rug and shouted, "We need men who can act, not quote!"
The room stilled.
Someone turned toward Vikram.
"You've been quiet. What do you act for?"
Vikram stood.
"I act for memory," he said softly.
They blinked.
"Memory of what?"
"Of when we didn't need a Mahasabha to tell us who we were."
That earned him silence.
And respect.
Not loud. But enough.
A man in the corner — with ink-stained fingers and half-broken sandals — leaned forward. "You work with pamphlets, yes? They say your press has reach. But where's your hand in all this?"
Vikram didn't answer.
Instead, he unfolded three documents.
Each one was a forged British permit. Authenticated. Stamped. Perfect.
Licenses for publication, ink shipment, and rural distribution.
The kind no Indian press had received in five years.
"They let you do this?" the man asked, incredulous.
"No," Vikram replied. "But they think they do."
A pause.
"How?"
"I give them what they want to hear. But slip in what we need them to forget."
And so it began.
They didn't give him a seat.
But they gave him space.
And in the months that followed, Vikram did what no one expected: he never spoke from a podium. Never joined a single debate. Never wrote under his name.
But within weeks, Mahasabha leaflets began using press-grade type. Their slogans grew tighter. Sharper. Less religious anger, more civilizational strength.
He didn't write them.
But his boys did.
Under ghost names.
Using memory maps of British pamphlets for tone and style. Using exactly the language needed to slip past censors.
The Mahasabha grew louder.
But the Empire found fewer reasons to ban them.
They were too... "polite."
Behind the scenes, Vikram worked.
He touched three key members during small encounters:
One during a shared walk after a meeting
One while passing a scroll during a temple fundraiser
One during a casual meal over poha
Each gave him more than words.
He extracted:
Intermediate Crowd Persuasion
Beginner Religious Rhetoric Framing
Advanced Grassroots Organizing
Intermediate Internal Faction Handling
He didn't absorb these yet.
He fused them.
Created a cluster: Mahasabha Public Influence Control.
And fed it — gently, invisibly — into two of his most loyal Magicnet boys who now served as press agents.
Within weeks, those boys became Mahasabha's most persuasive behind-the-curtain organizers.
They didn't ask for titles.
But everyone listened to them.
A critical shift came during a local temple dispute in Shahdara.
A Christian missionary school had offered to repair an old stone temple in exchange for building a classroom next door. Half the locals agreed. Half resisted. The Mahasabha was called to intervene.
Vikram went, but didn't speak.
Instead, he introduced a man — a schoolmaster from Najafgarh — now embedded with a new skill:
Intermediate Religious Mediation.
The schoolmaster asked three questions. Calmed the tempers. Negotiated a complete local boycott of the missionary without any mention of religion.
The temple was repaired — using Hindu carpenters funded by Vikram's underground steel margins.
It was the first Mahasabha victory in Delhi without a single slogan chanted.
The leadership began to see it.
"This boy brings no fire," one man told the elder. "But everything around him starts burning — exactly where we need it."
They didn't promote him.
But they stopped blocking him.
And over the next two months, more Mahasabha heads across regions began requesting "strategic print help" from Delhi.
They didn't know Vikram's name.
But they used the pamphlets he designed.
The words he tested in Magicnet.
The speeches he revised while men slept — memories edited just enough to recall passion, not pride.
He didn't convert the Mahasabha.
He tuned it.
Sanskrit teachings began appearing in youth syllabi. Vedic quotes were blended into economic policies. Caste language was softened in print. The group still roared — but now with measured cadence.
And most importantly, Vikram used it as cover.
His silent press. His early spy ring. His document routes. His funding for industrial permits. All quietly filtered through Mahasabha events, donations, and outreach drives.
Even the British, watching from behind curtains, filed it as:
"Religious organization. No major concern. Speeches controlled."
Exactly as Vikram intended.