The Void-Coin balance was a solid, satisfying weight in Rajendra's mind: 72.5. The Pixel-Lord's advance for Bollywood and the Mad Scientist's payment for botanical extracts had filled his coffers. But cosmic wealth meant little if his earthly foundations crumbled. The mill needed capital, MANO needed projects, and MAKA needed to grow without attracting the wrong kind of heat.
Ganesh's report was practical. "The VCR and cassette runs are smooth, bhai. Profit is good. But the dockyard supervisor we pay is getting greedy. And a man named Nair—he controls the bigger smuggling lanes—has sent a feeler. He wants a 'meeting'."
A meeting was a demand for tribute, or absorption. MAKA's unique method—goods vanishing into red smoke—was a curiosity that had become a threat to the old order.
"We do not meet on their terms," Rajendra stated, dressed in his black MAKA kurta. He had procured a new tool for such situations: a Sensory Dissonance Generator. For 12 VC, it could induce three seconds of intense vertigo and confusion in a single target. Customized with a surcharge, it was a smooth black stone that emitted a low, ominous hum. Another "protective talisman." He gave it to Ganesh. "If Nair's men get forceful, use this. It will give you time to walk away. We are not fighters. We are ghosts."
Ganesh pocketed the stone, his faith in their divinely-aided mission unshaken.
The local problem was a manageable pressure. The real opportunity, Rajendra knew from the ghost of his future memories, lay in the coming collapse of a superpower. The Soviet Union was cracking. And in the chaos, state assets—factories, mines, oil-rich land—would be sold for pennies to anyone with hard Western currency.
He needed a partner there. Someone with assets but no cash, facing the state's hungry gaze. The System couldn't spy, but its Multiversal Market Index had a subsection: Tier-0 Civilizational Exchange Trends. It was a dry, economic overview, listing commodities and regions of instability. It highlighted "Soviet Bloc - Non-Performing Land Assets - Increasing Liquidation Inquiries."
It was a merchant's hint. The market sensed a fire sale.
He needed a name. The System couldn't give him one. But his own world could. He put on a beige MANO kurta and went to the University library. He spent hours with international financial magazines—The Economist, Forbes—weeks out of date. He combed through articles on Soviet reforms. In a piece about "asset-stripping by the Soviet elite," he found a throwaway line: "...such as the Siberian land parcels once held by General Grigory Volkova, now held by his daughter and likely to be seized for 'agricultural neglect'."
General Grigory Volkova. Daughter.
It was a thread. He had a name, a location (Siberia), and a predicament. Now, he needed a way to contact her. The System's communication was for other hosts. For this, he needed an earthly method.
He went to a prestigious international courier service office in Nariman Point. He wrote a letter on simple, high-quality paper.
To: Elena Volkova, Leningrad, USSR.
From: Rajendra Shakuniya, Shakuniya Mills & Trading, Mumbai.
Subject: Mutual Opportunity in Asset Management.
The letter was formal, in English. He introduced himself as a rising Indian industrialist with access to hard currency (USD, GBP, Gold). He expressed interest in "long-term, strategic acquisition of under-utilized land assets for future resource development." He emphasized discretion, direct dealing, and proposed a confidential meeting at her convenience, suggesting a neutral location like Dubai or even Mumbai. He included the mill's official letterhead and the address of a newly rented postal box for replies.
It was a shot in the dark. He paid a small fortune for guaranteed international delivery and privacy. The letter was his hook.
With that cast, he turned to building MANO's legitimacy. He used a portion of the rupee profits to pay off another mill debt. He then visited a cousin of Ganesh's who owned a small, clean metal workshop. Over chai, Rajendra laid out a proposal under the MANO banner: he would fund the purchase of new, higher-grade stainless steel. The workshop would produce the inner pots for a new product—the "MANO Supreme Pressure Cooker." He showed a simple design for a safer, more efficient valve he'd sketched based on future memory. The cousin, excited by the investment and the clear design, agreed. MANO's first manufacturing contract was born.
Returning home at dusk, he felt the balance of his day—shadow and light, local and international. He checked his system. A message from Pixel-Lord arrived: a request for ten specific Bollywood films from the 1970s, offering 15 VC per film. He accepted, the deal adding 150 VC to his future pipeline. His balance was now a towering 222.5 VC. He was accumulating serious multiversal capital.
He was about to review the Mad Scientist's detailed botanical list when a sharp, urgent knock rattled his door. Not the soft tap of a neighbor. This was authoritative, impatient.
"Rajendra Shakuniya? Open up."
He froze. Not Nair's thugs. This was different. He quickly willed his most sensitive items—the dark ring, the white bead, the Sensory Dissonance stone—into his spatial pocket. He opened the door.
Two men stood there. One was in a slightly tight police uniform. The other wore plain clothes, his eyes sharp and bureaucratic.
"I am Inspector Mehta," the uniformed man said. "This is Mr. Desai from the Ministry of Commerce. We have some questions about your recent… international trade."
Desai from the Commerce Ministry held up a carbon-copy form. "We are reviewing export filings for agricultural goods. A significant consignment of premium garlic was purchased from Vashi Mandi under the name of a charitable trust. The destination and export paperwork appear to be… missing. The vendor said the buyer was a young man representing 'Shri Maa Kali Annakshetra Trust.' Our records show that trust was registered only last week. With you as the sole trustee."
Rajendra's blood ran cold. The garlic. The Mad Scientist's order. He had been too focused on the multiversal transfer. He had neglected the earthly paper trail. Buying seventy kilos of garlic wholesale with a newly-formed trust had triggered a bureaucratic flag.
"The… the shipment was for a domestic aid project," Rajendra began, his mind racing. "It was distributed in rural—"
"Do not lie," Desai cut in coldly. "No trucking manifests. No distribution receipts. Seventy kilograms of garlic does not vanish into thin air." His eyes scanned Rajendra's sparse room. "Unless you are involved in something else. Gray market electronics have been flooding certain markets. We are connecting dots, Mr. Shakuniya."
They were here for the garlic, but they were sniffing around MAKA's electronics operations. This was not a street thug's shakedown. This was the state. The real power.
And at that exact moment, as the Inspector stepped into his room, a separate, mundane envelope was slipped under his door from the outside hallway. Rajendra's eyes flicked to it. It was a thick, cream-colored international courier envelope.
The return address was smudged, but he could make out the city: Leningrad.
Elena Volkova had replied. And her response was now lying on the floor, in full view of a police inspector and a ministry official who were one wrong answer away from unraveling everything.