In the heart of Delhi, beneath a forgotten stable once owned by a Mughal courtier, a door was cut into the ground. It led not to a tunnel, but to a room lit by lamps, lined with iron cots, wood cabinets, and silence.
There were no names on the beds.
Only numbers and codes, scribbled in chalk.
Here, a man with a bullet wound from a failed sabotage operation in Lucknow lay beside a woman who used to be a palace cook — her lungs burnt from poison gas used in a British warehouse.
No one asked how they got here.
They only asked: "Can you move your fingers?"
If yes — treatment.
If no — prayers.
The idea had come months earlier, when Vikram stood outside the Colonial General Hospital and saw a soldier bleeding from his mouth, refused entry because his boots were torn and his name was "Subedar Kumar," not "Carter."
That night, he made a plan.
And over three weeks, he mapped the city's abandoned basements, flooded tunnels, empty godowns, and forgotten havelis.
Seven were chosen.
The largest — the stable under Chandni Chowk.
Code-named: Charma-9.
No doctors were hired publicly.
Vikram searched through Magicnet.
Found three old ayurvedic vaidyas, two British-trained assistants dismissed for "patriotic leanings," and one illegally practicing midwife who once stitched a child's spine with twine and ghee.
He brought them in slowly — under cover of food service or cloth delivery.
And trained them.
Not in medicine.
But in silence.
The underground hospital had strict rules:
No names spoken aloud
No last names written down
No one admitted without Magicnet scan
No patients allowed to leave without memory modification
Every visitor was touched and logged
Magicnet remembered every injury, dosage, and treatment outcome.
It learned from their pain.
A separate thread was created within the network: Medical Resonance Field.
Every time a wound was cleaned, a new surgical technique tried, a fever diagnosed — Magicnet stored the method.
The more they healed, the more accurate the next treatment became.
Vikram wasn't building just a hospital.
He was building an evolving medical mind — silent, invisible, and untouchable by the British.
One night, a spy was brought in with a shattered femur.
No painkillers.
Just screams.
Vikram touched his forehead and dived into the network.
He traced a skill from three sources:
A colonial nurse in Bombay
A barber-surgeon from Jaipur
An herbal healer in the Assam hills
Fused it.
Named it: Intermediate Bone Reconstruction
Transferred it to the midwife's assistant.
The next day, the leg was set. No infection. No scream.
The boy walked again a week later.
Word spread — in whispers:
"There is a place where the bleeding go and return standing.""There is a place where names are burned and wounds are blessed."
Even British soldiers began noticing some of their missing Indian orderlies… never returned.
Because they were now working under Vikram.
Not for money.
For loyalty.
By monsoon, six more underground facilities had opened in:
Kanpur
Lahore
Jaipur
Madras
Cuttack
Banaras
Each connected to Magicnet. Each updated every week.
Not just wounds.
But patterns:
Bullet types used by British
Location of powder burns
Specific injuries caused by colonial riot control
This data fed into defense planning, armor design, new training modules for Sthirakaya fighters.
Pain was not wasted.
Pain became preparation.
Vikram also began using the hospitals as testing labs.
He brought in herbs from tribal belts. Ancient prescriptions from forgotten texts. Combined old Bharat medical practice with what he extracted from British physicians' memories.
What emerged was not Ayurveda. Not Western medicine.
It was Bharatiya Healing — practical, fast, tactical.
An army doctor in disguise called it:
"Field medicine of the Gods."
There was one more rule.
Every cured person had to give something back:
A skill
A memory
A connection
Nothing left the hospital for free.
Even healing was part of Magicnet's fuel.
One night, Vikram stood over a cot where a woman from Bengal lay sleeping.
She'd been tortured by police for smuggling documents through a temple route.
Her nails had been pulled.
Her hands broken.
But in her dreams, she still hummed a lullaby from her childhood — a song about Shiva's anger and Parvati's forgiveness.
Vikram touched her wrist.
Absorbed the tune.
And that night, every patient heard it playing faintly in their dreams.
Pain softened.
Sleep returned.
This was not just a hospital.
It was a sanctuary of restoration.
Restoration of health. Of dignity. Of Bharat's right to care for its own.
Unseen. Undeclared.
But slowly becoming the safest place in the nation for a wounded patriot.