The desert didn't forget.
Not the kingdoms that had fallen. Not the generals lost. And certainly not the hands that once forged blades for kings before the British brought rifles and silence.
That's why Vikram came.
Not for politics.
But for weapons.
Rajasthan in 1911 was scattered — a patchwork of princely states, each with their own banners, their own songs, their own grudges. The British allowed the illusion of sovereignty here more than anywhere else in Bharat. Not because they trusted the Rajas, but because they feared how much memory remained in this land.
Vikram didn't ride into a court.
He rode toward a smith.
A man named Narayan Das, nearly sixty, who ran a failing blacksmith shop outside Jodhpur's old quarters. His tools were rusted. His forge cold half the month. But three years ago, he'd repaired a broken Gurjara talwar for a ceremonial march. That weapon — ancient, beautifully balanced — had caught Vikram's eye in a museum photograph.
He traced it.
And found the man.
Narayan Das didn't recognize him.
But Vikram shook his hand anyway.
Three seconds.
Thread formed.
Inside, Narayan's memories weren't vivid — they were scorched, like pages near fire. Years of British bans on traditional weapons. Police raids. Friends arrested for "unauthorized forging." His own son disappeared in a Bengal jail.
But in one corner of his mind, Vikram saw it:
Advanced Metallurgy
Master Blade Forging
Intermediate Flintlock Refitting
Traditional Weapon Balance
Not just skills.
Legacy.
Vikram smiled gently.
"I want to bring your forge back to life."
Narayan laughed dryly. "You have silver? Iron? Permission?"
"I have buyers."
The old man's eyes narrowed.
"You're not from the court. And you're no sepoy. So who are you?"
Vikram stepped closer.
"Someone building the future. Quietly."
Then he leaned in, whispered a phrase.
One that no British man knew.
A line once spoken by Maharana Pratap's commander on the battlefield of Haldighati:
"Metal is the soul of memory."
Narayan's fingers twitched.
He didn't ask more questions.
That night, the forge lit again.
Over the next week, Vikram quietly shifted his network.
From Delhi, two trucks disguised as milk carriers brought supplies.
Steel bars. Copper tools. Charcoal. A half-functional drill press imported through Bombay and modified by a teenager with Engineering Beginner skill and Magicnet-enhanced stability.
Narayan tested everything by hand.
He cursed often.
But he worked.
Within ten days, he had produced:
40 short curved blades
20 heavy-duty farming knives, easily converted to weapons
8 crude flintlock pistol frames
1 restored Rajput sword that made even the silent forge boy whisper aloud
But forging was only the beginning.
Vikram needed a supply chain.
Not just smiths.
Carriers. Couriers. Distributors. Camouflage.
He began connecting more people in Jodhpur, Ajmer, and Bikaner — men who once ran camel trades, cotton routes, grain convoys. Most had been ruined by British taxes and Afghan bandits.
He touched hands. Brushed shoulders. Formed threads.
And began fusing the skills.
Intermediate Load Distribution
Advanced Terrain Mapping
Elementary Concealment
Intermediate Weapon Crate Packing
Fused them into "Mobile Arms Supply Logistics" — copied into three handlers and two women working as grain merchants.
The weapons began to move.
In ox carts, spice sacks, even water carriers.
Meanwhile, Narayan trained two boys from Delhi.
Both young. Quiet. Loyal to Vikram.
In three weeks, they gained Intermediate Blade Tempering.
In two months, they surpassed most local smiths.
And every weapon they made carried no mark.
Just a slight groove on the hilt — one that only Vikram recognized through Magicnet tracing.
Each weapon, a thread.
But the British were not blind.
A customs officer near Udaipur had begun sniffing around after hearing rumors of "strange steel movements." He sent a message to his superior — a minor British Major named Richard Holcombe.
Holcombe had no proof.
But he had instinct.
He decided to send an inspector undercover.
Vikram heard it first — not through spies, but through memory.
He'd shaken the hand of a disgruntled postal clerk just three days earlier in Jaipur.
In his dreams that night, Vikram saw the conversation Holcombe had — word for word.
He moved before they did.
The inspector arrived in Jodhpur to find an abandoned smithy. Cold forge. Empty crates.
Narayan had "fallen ill."
The next day, Holcombe's courier was caught with falsified letters — letters Vikram had quietly altered through memory editing while the courier slept on a train platform.
Case closed.
For now.
By the end of winter, Vikram had five forges.
Three in Rajasthan.
Two hidden near Mathura and Hissar.
Output per month:
150 knives
60 curved blades
25 modified flintlocks
5 "rural ploughs" which were actually spear frames in disguise
Distribution: silent.
Payment: black market coin, often bartered for grain or salt.
Loyalty: ensured through Magicnet-fused skills, coordinated dreams, and a single line repeated in the heads of every craftsman:
"You are forging the soul of Bharat."
But the real prize wasn't quantity.
It was reputation.
In rural Rajasthan, whispers began to spread.
A "Prince of Fire" was collecting weapons.
Not to rebel.
To remember.
To restore.
Vikram didn't confirm the rumors.
But he let them grow.
Because fear could be killed.
But hope disguised as myth? That lasted far longer.