The July 1610 sun hung high over Surat's bustling beachfront, the Tapti River's sparkle a contrast to the storm brewing in Jai Vora's mind. The Vora Trading Company complex thrummed with life: the restaurant's aromas drew nobles, the medicine shop's vials flew off shelves, the clothing store's Vora's Durable Thread outfits sold out daily, and Kofi's blacksmith shop rang with hammers crafting tools that vanished into merchants' hands. Jai, nine years old but sharp as a merchant's ledger, stood in the courtyard, the sea breeze ruffling his kurta as he awaited the shadow unit's report. The Emperor System, his secret AI-spirit guide, buzzed: "Your assassins are back, kid. If they've disrupted the EIC factory, you're one step closer to clipping their wings. But the British are snakes—watch for their bite."
Maya, leading the unit with Arjun, Rahil, and Sanjay, strode in, their faces dust-streaked from the Masulipatnam journey. Amir, head of security, greeted them with a warrior's clasp. "Report," Jai said, his voice steady, ushering them to a shaded pavilion away from prying eyes.
Maya bowed slightly, her Agility a silent promise. "The EIC factory in Masulipatnam's a fortress now, Jai, but we've been hitting them hard." She unrolled a sketch of the site—wooden frames rising under British supervision, Indian workers toiling like slaves under arrogant overseers. "The British treat our people like dirt—whips for delays, meager rations, calling them 'natives' beneath their boots. They've brought their own men as guards, but we've made their lives hell without spilling blood."
Jai leaned forward, his Wisdom hungry for details. "Tell me how." Maya's eyes glinted with mischief. "Pranks, mostly—subtle, relentless. We spiked their food with bitter herbs, making every meal taste like ash. They blamed the cooks, firing three, but we kept at it." Arjun chuckled, adding, "We loosened cart wheels on their supply wagons—axles snapping mid-haul, delaying materials for days." Rahil nodded. "Released hordes of mosquitoes into their tents at night—bites swelling their faces, no sleep for weeks. They itched like mad, blaming the monsoon." Sanjay, his voice low, said, "Tampered with their tools—blunted hammers, rusted nails. Construction slowed, and they argued among themselves, calling our workers 'lazy savages.'"
Maya continued, her tone serious. "We disrupted communication too—intercepted couriers, swapping letters with forgeries, delaying orders from Agra. As bandits, we hit their supply lines, stealing timber and tools, making it look like local raids. No killings, but they're paranoid now." Jai's grin was sharp. "Good work. But they're persistent?"
Maya's expression darkened. "Very. They've petitioned the emperor for protection—more Mughal guards, their own armed men from ships. They're arrogant, Jai—treating Indians as slaves, forcing overtime, paying scraps. But they won't stop. The factory's walls are up, despite our hits." Amir, his Bladework hand twitching, said, "They deserve more than pranks." Jai nodded, his hatred for the EIC a quiet fire. "We escalate. Maya, your unit—keep disrupting. Find their weak spots, turn their workers against them. We'll make Masulipatnam a graveyard for their dreams."
The team dispersed, Maya's unit ready to ride again. Jai stood by the river, the sea's whisper fueling his resolve. The EIC's factory was crumbling, but their persistence was a warning—Vora's empire needed to strike harder.