Conversion was never about belief.
It was about dislocation — tearing someone from their memory, their roots, their history, and planting them in a new narrative stitched with fear, survival, or coin.
Vikram didn't want believers.
He wanted sons and daughters of Bharat to remember they had always been that.
He didn't preach.
He restored.
The work began in a single village in Uttar Pradesh, near Ghazipur — where three generations of Muslim families lived beside old Banyan trees and temple ruins no one entered.
Vikram walked the village road dressed like a priest.
A beggar.
A salt trader.
In truth, he was none of these.
He just needed three seconds per handshake.
That was enough.
Each man, woman, and child — connected.
Each one's memory unfolded, one by one, like pages in a rain-warped book.
The village headman, Faheem, remembered his grandfather.
But buried deep in his sleep was an image of a tilak on the man's forehead.
A shankha on his wall.
A copper plate carved with "Raghukul" — the lost family name, hidden since 1857.
It had been changed when a British-appointed Qazi promised protection in exchange for loyalty and the new name.
The Qazi had long died.
But so had the truth.
Vikram didn't shout it.
He didn't confront the village.
He simply planted memories.
Each night, Faheem dreamt of an idol beneath a neem tree.
A girl named Sita who used to tie rakhi on his ancestor's wrist.
A story his great-grandmother used to hum when cooking rice — the story of Lord Ram's exile.
He woke in tears.
By the seventh night, Faheem ordered the banyan tree's roots cleared.
They found an old Shivling, cracked but untouched.
He didn't speak. He just lit a lamp beside it.
No one objected.
No one said a word.
But every morning after that, children played near the shrine again.
This was how it spread.
Quietly.
Without slogans.
Without conversions signed on paper or shouted from pulpits.
Just memory repair.
Vikram moved from village to village, using linked agents — gifted now with the skill "Ancestral Echo":
A fusion of pattern memory, ritual identification, emotional resonance, and oral history mapping
One by one, they restored:
Hidden temples beneath mosques
Old well songs now labeled "folklore"
Family names erased during famine migration
Lineage records folded inside Quranic commentaries
They weren't destroying Islam.
They were pulling out the lie that it had always been theirs.
Some villages resisted.
In one town outside Aligarh, when an agent restored a copper idol buried beneath a school wall, the local maulvi called it black magic.
He raised a mob.
Vikram didn't send soldiers.
He sent a dream to the maulvi's grandson.
A dream of fire, of the Ganga, of his own great-grandfather singing verses before a Hanuman murti.
The boy woke screaming — crying for the idol of his dream.
The maulvi lost his grip.
Within a week, his sermons had no crowd.
Within two, he left town.
In Lucknow, a poet named Shahid Qaiser — known for his sharp ghazals mocking "idol-worshipping Hindus" — fell sick.
He asked for a Quran to be read beside him.
Instead, his sister, secretly Magicnet-linked, placed a manuscript in his hand.
It was written in early Awadhi.
Inside were verses signed by their ancestor — Pandit Jagesh Mishra, a court bard before the 1857 Rebellion.
Shahid wept.
And when he recovered, he never wrote another ghazal mocking gods again.
Instead, he published one final piece:
"I found myself in my enemy,and the mirror wore a saffron shawl."
By winter, Vikram's operations had touched over 14,000 individuals.
None of them filed paperwork.
None of them stood in front of temples to shout "Ghar Wapsi."
But the signs were there:
Mosques quietly decommissioned
New shrines built beside them
Names like Ramesh, Manik, and Savitri returned on birth slips
Language shifting from Urdu back to Awadhi, Bhojpuri, Maithili
Not by force.
Not by conversion.
But by remembering.
And Magicnet held them all — a slow hum of reawakened dharma, vibrating like a forgotten drum rhythm under the soil.
For Vikram, this was the beginning.
Not of war.
But of unfracturing a land divided by external stories.
Stories that said: You are not from here.
His mission was simple:
"No son of Bharat should believe his ancestors were foreigners."