Virat's jungle ashram was his secret lair—vines hid the walls, Katariya guards patrolled like ghosts. Here, he played god. He crossbred millet and rice, making drought-proof crops that laughed at bad monsoons. But humans were his real target. He brewed the "Amrita Tonic" from neem and ashwagandha, a potion that juiced immunity and stamina. His Katariya guards drank it, marching days without rest. Virat tested it on himself first—modern ethics in a ruthless world.
He found a genetic gem in the locals—a trait for smarts and toughness. Through arranged marriages at court, he boosted it, his kids born sharp as blades and healthy as oxen. The people called it "Saffron Blood," thinking it was divine. Virat smirked—science, not gods. He set rules: no coercion, only consent, mixing Vedic values with his 21st-century morals. Lakshmi made sure the tonic reached everyone, even poor villages, wiping out smallpox and dysentery.
By 315 CE, Chandrapur's people were beasts—healthy, smart, thriving. Spies, using Sanskrit ciphers, sniffed out Kalinga's new plot—Raja Bhima hired Kushan mercs to take Virat down. He armed his troops with steel swords and early muskets, barrels forged in waterwheel foundries. He even messed with steam, building a clunky engine for riverboats—a taste of the navy to come. Lakshmi suggested watchtowers with rocket launchers, locking down the borders.
The ashram was Virat's escape, where he wrote his secrets in coded Sanskrit for Lakshmi to decode later. His kids stepped up—Arjun led the Katariya, Lakshmi II designed aqueducts better than Rome's. The Saffron Blood was his ace, a legacy to outlast him. But war loomed, and Virat knew he'd need every trick to keep his empire standing.