The first soldier Vikram ever trained was a boy with a limp.
His name was Raghav. Eleven years old. Right foot dragged slightly when he ran. But his hands were fast, and his eyes tracked everything — from ink stains on an accountant's cuffs to the movement of a hawk shadow over rooftops.
Vikram found him at the rear of a textile unit in Agra, organizing loose thread spools by color, size, and seller — not because he was told to, but because "it looked wrong."
Vikram touched his shoulder.
Three seconds.
Thread formed.
What he found wasn't skill.
It was instinct.
You couldn't train instinct.
But you could shape it.
That was the lesson that would define his military strategy.
Vikram's army wouldn't be uniformed. Wouldn't march down boulevards or chant slogans. It would be built from memory, coordination, pattern-recognition, and pure devotion.
It would not be seen.
But it would hit like thunder.
He selected the first batch of thirty.
Not strong men.
But sharp ones.
Messenger boys. Cart pullers. Street beggars. Girls who sold incense outside temples. Tea stall helpers. Widows' sons. Silent boys who always sat at the edge of crowds. Men who never raised their voice but always listened when others spoke.
Each was touched.
Each was tested.
Each was linked.
Their training didn't begin with weapons.
It began with walking.
Vikram taught them how to place their foot without noise. How to slow their breath until their chest barely moved. How to step on gravel without a crunch. How to count seconds by heartbeat.
He created composite orbs:
Silent Movement
Environmental Awareness
Urban Escape Techniques
He copied these orbs into every trainee.
Their senses adjusted in days.
By the second week, they could walk past British officers and not turn a single head.
By the third, they could vanish into alleys faster than a hawk's dive.
But silence was just the surface.
Vikram moved to close-quarters fighting next.
He didn't use English manuals. He didn't mimic Western form.
He returned to Kalaripayattu, the ancient martial art once buried by time and shame — banned unofficially by the British after the Vellore uprising, dismissed as peasant "acrobatics."
He recovered forms from southern monks. Bought forgotten scrolls from abandoned ashrams. Pulled memory-fragments from old practitioners and temple priests.
He gathered all of it.
And then... he rewrote it.
Not for sport.
Not for stage.
But for combat.
He divided training into five modules:
Unarmed Disarmament
Joint Manipulation and Locks
Knife and Short Blade Techniques
Improvised Weapon Combat
Body-to-Memory Coordination
The last one wasn't physical. It was internal.
Vikram used Magicnet to implant reaction patterns into the minds of trainees — not thought-based responses, but muscle memory encoded via skill orbs.
When a hand reached for their throat, their elbow would move before they processed it.
Not instinct.
Not reflex.
But embedded memory.
Within three months, thirty had become one hundred.
He called them Sthirakaya — "those with unmoving bodies."
They had no uniforms.
Their only mark was a thread worn around the left wrist, dyed in saffron and dipped in ground turmeric.
That, and their eyes — always scanning, always still.
Vikram didn't keep them in one place.
He split them across regions:
Ten in each textile unit
Ten within press operations
Five embedded in sugar transport
Fifteen as temple assistants in border regions
The rest moved as roving shadows — messengers, pilgrims, porters
They weren't just fighters.
They were protection.
If a factory was raided, they could clear records in under 3 minutes.
If a clerk was arrested, they could extract him without notice.
If a British spy was seen snooping near a school, he could vanish — confused, alone, memory scrambled.
But Vikram knew physical training wasn't enough.
Loyalty was.
And that had to come not from fear — but from belief.
So he created mental reinforcement routines, using Magicnet:
At night, each Sthirakaya received dream-sequences: ancient stories, visions of Bharat united, images of temples shining on mountaintops, of children learning without fear
During sleep, their conviction was deepened — not as blind zealotry, but as purpose that replaced hesitation
They never noticed.
But they began to stand straighter.
To speak slower.
To wait before reacting.
Each movement was measured.
Each action had intent.
Then came weapons.
No rifles yet.
Not in this phase.
Too loud. Too British.
Vikram introduced blades — locally forged, lightweight, curved for slashing and control.
Some short, for concealment.
Some long, for open defense.
Each one forged under the growing steelwork hidden under temple schools in Varanasi — run by men who believed they were restoring "sacred metalwork" traditions.
They were.
Just not in the way they expected.
He taught the trainees to maintain their own blades.
To sleep with them.
To clean them like prayer.
No name. No brand.
Only utility.
They weren't tools.
They were extensions of resolve.
He tested them once — in a real operation.
A British tax collector known for raiding village granaries had ordered the seizure of 43 sacks from a school temple site outside Prayagraj.
At midnight, he moved with five guards to begin confiscation.
He never reached the sacks.
His cart broke.
His guards disappeared into the sugarcane.
He awoke alone at dawn, twenty miles from the village, with only one memory:
"I must have lost my way."
No injury.
No trace.
No questions asked.
The school kept its grain.
By end of winter, 140 Sthirakaya operated across 11 regions.
Each connected.
Each capable of coordination through thought-cues.
Each part of a growing force that would never be celebrated in headlines.
But would decide the shape of war before it ever began.
And Vikram?
He trained quietly alongside them.
He let his body adapt.
His mind stretch.
His reflexes rewire.
He wasn't just building soldiers.
He was becoming one.