The word "Breach" sat in Rajendra's mind like a shard of ice. He opened the Mad Scientist's message, expecting a cosmic catastrophe.
Mad Scientist: *Contract MS-02, Delivery #1. Breach of protocol. The 10 litres of Azadirachta indica oil (neem) were contaminated with a foreign synthetic compound – Dimethyl sulfoxide. A laboratory solvent. It compromised the purity of the batch and skewed my initial results. This is unacceptable. Explain.*
Rajendra's initial relief was short-lived, replaced by a sharp, earthly alarm. Contamination. Not an interdimensional attack, but a quality control failure. Yet, in her world of precise, desperate science, it was just as critical.
He immediately sent a query to the System. "Analyze the procurement and transfer log for the neem oil batch. Source of contamination."
The System's response was swift and mundane.
[Log Analysis: Item Azadirachta indica oil was procured from wholesale vendor 'Patel & Sons, Vashi' on Earth-Prime. Material was stored in Vendor's steel drum #447. Trace elements of Dimethyl sulfoxide (DMSO) detected in drum interior. Likely cause: Drum was previously used for industrial chemical storage and inadequately cleaned before reuse.]
A simple, stupid human error. A lazy vendor reusing a drum. But that error had crossed dimensions and threatened his most vital contract.
He replied to the Mad Scientist with cold professionalism, attaching the System's log analysis.
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): Contamination source identified: Earth-side vendor error. A substandard storage vessel. This is a failure of my supply chain verification, not of the product itself. Corrective action: The contaminated batch is forfeit. I will replace the 10 litres with a premium, certified-purity batch within 24 hours, at my cost. Furthermore, I am implementing a new quality control protocol: all future botanical shipments will be verified by a System deep-scan (cost borne by me) prior to transfer. This will not happen again.
He was swallowing the loss, over-compensating, and offering a permanent solution. It was the only way to rebuild trust.
Her reply was slower this time.
Mad Scientist: Accepted. The replacement batch must scan clean. Implement your protocol. My research timeline cannot afford further delays. Note: The DMSO, while a contaminant, produced an… unexpected synergistic reaction with the neem's azadirachtin compound in one test subject. Not beneficial, but anomalous. My curiosity is noted. Do not let it happen again.
She was a scientist. Even in failure, she found data. But the warning was clear.
The breach was contained, but it exposed a critical weakness: his earthly supply chain was only as strong as its weakest, most careless link. MAKA could move goods magically, but it couldn't control the greed or sloppiness of every wholesaler in Mumbai.
He needed his own source. His own land. His own crops.
The escrow timer ticked down: 32 hours remaining. The Vex problem was in abeyance. The garlic and spice demands were steady. The Bollywood archive deal was on hold. For the first time, he could focus on a long-term, earthly foundation.
He summoned Ganesh. "The neem oil was dirty. The vendor used a poisoned drum."
Ganesh's face fell. "I will break his legs—"
"No," Rajendra cut him off. "We are not gangsters. We are businessmen. We terminate his contract. We blacklist him with every other vendor we use. And we find a better source. I don't want to buy from middlemen anymore. I want to own the grove."
"Land is expensive, bhai. And farming…"
"Is a business. Find me land. Within 100 kilometers of the city. Good soil, water access. Ten acres to start. Use the MAKA funds. Be discreet."
Ganesh nodded, the new mission clear. Securing the source.
Next, Rajendra turned to the MANO side. Shanti had arranged the meeting. He was to have tea with her father, Mr. Arun Sharma, at the Willingdon Club, a bastion of old Mumbai industrial elite.
Rajendra dressed with care—a finely tailored, light saffron kurta, the MANO bead prominently displayed. He was not going as a supplicant, but as the inheritor of one legacy proposing an alliance with another.
Arun Sharma was a tall, broad man with a neatly trimmed silver moustache and eyes that missed nothing. The tea was poured. Pleasantries about the weather were exchanged.
"My daughter tells me you are a young man in a hurry," Sharma said, stirring his tea slowly. "You have revived your father's mill, they say. And now you make… cookers?"
"Pressure cookers, sir. And soon, water purification systems. The core of the home. I am building the MANO brand on trust and innovation."
"Innovation?" Sharma smiled thinly. "A pressure cooker is not a new invention."
"A safer, more efficient one is. A water filter that works where others fail is. The innovation is in the execution, and the intention. I intend to build a company that stands for something."
"And what is that?"
"Purity," Rajendra said, meeting his gaze. "In product. In purpose."
Sharma studied him for a long moment. "Purpose is for philosophers. Business runs on distribution and margins. What do you want from Sharma Industrials?"
"Your distribution network. A joint venture. MANO provides the product and the brand direction. Sharma Industrials provides the channels and logistical muscle. We share the equity and the profits."
"And why would I not simply create my own brand and crush you?"
"Because you have seen a hundred brands like mine come and go. You haven't seen one with my supply chain," Rajendra said, allowing a hint of the otherworldly confidence to seep through. "My costs are lower. My quality control will be unmatched. My growth will be… geometric. You can try to crush me, or you can ride the wave. I am offering you a seat on the rocket, not a ticket to watch it launch."
It was a bold pitch. Arrogant, even. Sharma sipped his tea, his expression unreadable. "I will have my people look at your numbers, your patents, your factory."
"Of course. My office will provide everything." Rajendra stood, the meeting clearly at an end. He had planted the seed. It would grow or not. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Sharma."
As he walked out of the hallowed club into the humid afternoon, he felt the divide starkly. Inside, slow, ponderous capital. Outside, the chaotic, hungry city where he had built his power.
His next stop was the University. He had promised the Economics department a donation from the fledgling "Shakuniya-Manokamna Trust" for a scholarship. It was a small thing, building a reputation for philanthropy. As he finalized the paperwork with a clerk, he saw Shanti walking across the courtyard with an older professor. She saw him, gave a small, private nod. The meeting with her father had gone as well as could be expected.
On his way home, buying a bottle of Limca from a street vendor, he saw it. A poster glued to a wall, partially torn. It was for a new film, Mr. India. The poster showed the hero, invisible, facing off against a cartoonish villain. The tagline: "Aam Aadmi ka Hero" (The Common Man's Hero).
A thought, absurd and brilliant, struck him. Pixel-Lord wanted culture. The System's archive was frozen. But what about the future? What about the culture being made right now?
He couldn't sell the past. But he could become a patron of the present.
He went home, his mind racing. He still had the escrow timer: 18 hours remaining. The Glyth coordinates would soon be verified. Vex would be neutralized.
He had the Mad Scientist's contract secured.
He was building a land base for his botanical supplies.
He was negotiating with an industrial giant.
MAKA was secure, purified of guns.
The pieces were aligning. He was building an empire, brick by earthly brick, with the multiverse as his silent, demanding investor.
He sat at his small desk, the sounds of the chawl settling into night around him. He pulled out a fresh notebook, the cover blank. On the first page, he wrote a single title:
Project Utsav (Festival).
Below it, he began to outline a plan. Not for smuggling, not for pressure cookers. For a film. A small, low-budget film. A good one. He would finance it through a new shell. He would use MAKA's connections to get equipment, MANO's growing legitimacy to give it respectability. He would not just sell old movies to the Pixel-Lord.
He would create new ones. And sell those.
He was no longer just a merchant of Earth's existing goods.
He was becoming a creator of its future exports.
The pen moved in the dim light, outlining budgets, story ideas, potential directors. He was so engrossed he almost missed the soft, insistent chime of the System.
The escrow timer hit zero.
[System Escrow Verification: COMPLETE.]
[Result: Coordinates for Fragment-World 'Glyth' are VERIFIED as STABLE and ACCURATE.]
[As per Contract VEX-01 (Amended):]
[1. Coordinates have been transferred to Host 'Vex'.]
[2. Host 'Vex' is now permanently bound by System-enforced NON-INTERFERENCE PACT regarding Earth-Prime. Any hostile action will trigger automatic existence-erasure sanctions.]
A wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed through Rajendra. It was over. The threat was gone. Legally, cosmically gone.
He leaned back, a genuine smile touching his lips for the first time in days. He had won.
The System chimed again. A new message. From Vex.
He opened it, expecting perhaps a snarl of frustration, or cold silence.
The message contained no text. It was a single, high-resolution image.
The image was of a desolate, crystalline landscape under a sickly green sky—Glyth. In the foreground, standing before a towering spire of necrotic crystal, was a figure. It was humanoid but twisted, clad in dark, organic-looking armor. Vex, presumably. One of its armored hands was raised, not in triumph, but pressed against the crystal surface.
And the crystal… where the hand touched, it was reacting. Not glowing. Draining. The vibrant, poisonous green of the crystal was turning grey, brittle, crumbling to dust at the point of contact. Vex wasn't just harvesting the fossilized emotions.
The image suggested he was consuming them. Destroying the very thing he sought.
The message below the image was just three words, filled with a terrifying, hungry satisfaction.
Vex: Thank you.