(Advit's Perspective)
The armory of Vellore was as freezing as a tomb. Under the flickering glow of the wall-mounted torches, I spread a large, ancient map across a heavy oak table. Before me lay the documents recovered from Damrala's secret chambers—parchments bearing the signatures of Francis Day and various Portuguese merchants. My training at the London embassy and my fluency in Portuguese were acting as the ultimate decryption keys here. Hidden within these pages was intelligence that could alter the very trajectory of the Vijayanagara Empire.
"Yachama," I said, pressing my finger onto a specific point on the map, my voice carrying a cold, calculated resonance. "An English ship, 'The Sea-Horse', will dock at the shores of Madras tomorrow morning. According to these manifests, it carries high-grade cast iron and gunpowder. This is the very iron Damrala imported for his personal profit and to fortify the English settlement at Madrasapatnam. We need that iron."
Yachama's eyes widened in alarm. "But my Prince, if we send the royal army to seize that iron, the English and the other Nayaks will view it as an act of open rebellion. It will incite a full-scale war."
"There will be war, Yachama. But in this game of chess, we cannot play as the 'Prince' from the front lines. We must become the 'Bandits'," I explained, translating the 'Strategic Sabotage' training running in my head into terms he would understand. "Mobilize a hundred Bheel and Chenchu hunters. Instruct them to disguise themselves with mud and charcoal. Fifty of my most loyal personal guards will accompany them. But mark my words—there must be absolutely no royal insignia, armor, or standard-issue swords."
Day Two: The Storm on the Coast
A heavy, oppressive silence blanketed the trade route passing through the dense forests, a few miles inland from the Madras coast. I sat on my horse, concealed in the deep shadows of a massive Banyan tree, personally monitoring the operation. It was a massive risk for a supposedly recovering Prince to be out here, but a commander must witness his first strike with his own eyes.
As soon as Francis Day's laborers and guards loaded the heavy iron crates onto their ox-carts and began to move, I blew a sharp, piercing whistle into the night air.
Instantly, the Bheel and Chenchu hunters erupted from the tree line like phantoms. But they didn't fire arrows or swing swords. The first invention born of my Chemical Engineering background filled the air—'Smoke Bombs', crafted from a volatile mixture of dried red chilies (capsaicin) and raw gunpowder.
As the small explosions went off, a burning, crimson fog engulfed the entire convoy. The Englishmen and their guards were instantly blinded, falling to their knees, coughing and screaming in agony. The burning sensation in their eyes was so intense that aiming a musket was out of the question; they couldn't even keep their eyes open. With virtually no bloodshed or excessive noise, in less than ten minutes, our hunters seized forty crates of iron and sacks of gunpowder, vanishing back into the invisible forest trails where cavalry and heavy infantry could never follow.
When the smoke finally cleared, Francis Day's men were left coughing in the dirt, consumed by helpless rage.
Day Three: Checkmate in the Court
The following morning, the royal court of Vellore was packed to the rafters. Emperor Venkata III sat majestically on his throne, but a palpable tension hung thick in the air.
I had psychologically broken Damrala Venkatadri the previous night in the freezing depths of the castle's dungeon. I hadn't used a single whip. I merely placed before him the signed confession of his master gunner and detailed a flawless trap awaiting his brother Ayyappa, shattering his arrogance into dust. I made the terms crystal clear—either he spoke the exact words I demanded in the court, or he would live to see his entire bloodline wiped from existence.
On the Emperor's command, Damrala was brought into the court. His face was deathly pale, etched with fear, exhaustion, and absolute humiliation. He trembled as he walked. A stunned silence fell over the court as the most powerful minister of the empire collapsed directly at the Emperor's feet.
"Avatar of Dharma!" Damrala wailed, faking his tears but unable to hide his genuine terror. "I have committed a grave sin. These vile Englishmen deceived me. Francis Day and his men are secretly conspiring with our enemies in Bijapur against the empire. They looted the very iron meant for our army on the road to Madras, all to weaken us and fortify their own stronghold!"
Emperor Venkata III's serene face flushed with absolute fury. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the armrests of his throne. "What? Francis Day dares to sit on our soil, conspire with our enemies, and plunder our resources?"
This was my cue. Parting the crowd, I stepped forward instantly. "My Emperor, there is truth to the Minister's words," I said, perfectly playing the role of the dutiful nephew. "My own spies have brought me similar evidence. The English promised us protection, yet our iron was looted right under their noses in their territory. This is not an act of incompetence; it is a calculated conspiracy."
Ayyappa Nayaka, who was standing in the front row, was utterly dumbfounded by his brother's cowardly confession. He couldn't fathom what had broken Damrala overnight. He stepped forward, trying to speak to his brother, but I gave a subtle nod. Yachama's wolf-like guards instantly blocked Ayyappa's path.
"Forgive me, Ayyappa ji," I said, stepping close to him. My voice was soft, but my eyes held the glacial coldness of a seasoned diplomat. "The Minister is currently in distress. He needs to be left alone. His 'safety' is my personal responsibility." Ayyappa, rendered completely powerless, backed away.
The Final Pressure: The Breaking of Francis Day
Following the court session, I summoned Francis Day to my private chambers. Day walked in, his face still holding the arrogant, entitled scowl of a British merchant. But before he could utter a single complaint about the highway robbery, I tossed Damrala's treasonous documents and bribe receipts onto the table between us.
Francis Day hesitated, his eyes scanning the parchments.
"Mr. Day," I began.
Day froze. An Indian Prince, in the seventeenth century, was speaking to him in absolutely flawless, sharply accented English. His mind short-circuited. This was no gullible, uneducated boy he could manipulate.
"The Emperor is on the verge of issuing an order to expel you and your men from Madras," I continued, holding his gaze with the unwavering authority of a London bureaucrat. "If you wish to ensure your survival and the safety of your precious Fort St. George, you will agree to my terms. Two hundred of my most elite soldiers—a hundred royal guards and a hundred intelligence operatives—will be stationed inside your fort from this day forth. For your 'protection'."
Day opened his mouth to protest angrily, but I didn't give him an inch. "And in exchange, you will transfer the advanced 'Gun-smithing' and 'Iron-casting' technologies currently used in London and Europe directly to us."
Every ounce of Francis Day's cunning nature evaporated. He realized, with a sinking dread, that this Prince had trapped him from both sides—neutralizing his insider ally and turning the empire against him. If he refused, the Emperor would annihilate his settlement, and he had no local support left to save him.
I calculated the board in my head: The iron was secured, the traitor was neutralized, the British East India Company was now under my strict surveillance, and best of all—no one suspected a thing.
After a defeated Francis Day staggered out of the room, I turned to Yachama.
"Yachama," I said, holding up a heavy chunk of the plundered iron that gleamed under the torchlight. "Melt this down. We no longer need centuries-old, rusting swords. We need modern muskets and artillery. The foundation of our 'Swarajya Sena' begins today."