Jagdish Bhai's "Antique Emporium" in Chandni Chowk was less a shop and more a cave of forgotten, probably-stolen things. Dust motes danced in the single sunbeam cutting through the grimy window, illuminating stacks of mismatched china, rusted swords, and suspiciously shiny "Mughal-era" coins.
Jagdish Bhai himself sat behind a glass counter, a mountain of a man with oiled hair and eyes like a bored crocodile. He was weighing a silver anklet on a tiny scale when Ishmaart walked in, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel.
"Kaun? Kya chahiye?" Jagdish grunted without looking up. Who? What do you want?
"Salaam, Jagdish Bhai," Ishmaart began, slipping into his smoothest galli-negotiation tone. "Ek aisi cheez hai… jo aapne aajtak nahi dekhi hogi. Duniya mein kahi nahi milti."
Something you've never seen. Not found anywhere in this world.
That got a flicker of interest. The crocodile eyes lifted. "Dikhao."
Ishmaart pulled the velvet pouch from his pocket. He didn't just tip it out; he made a show of it, carefully pouring the glowing white-gold gear onto a square of black velvet he'd snatched from a tailor's scrap pile.
The effect was instant. In the dim shop, the gear pulsed with a soft, internal light. The etched machine script glowed faintly blue. It was utterly alien, flawlessly machined, and hummed with a quiet, metallic resonance.
Jagdish Bhai's boredom vanished. He leaned forward, his bulk making the counter creak. He didn't touch it. He just stared. "Yeh… kya metal hai? Yeh roshni?" What metal is this? This light?
"Pata nahi, Bhai," Ishmaart said with a casual shrug, the perfect picture of a man with a mysterious source. "Mere… contact ne diya. Unhone kaha yeh 'Celestial Alloy' hai. Purana. Bohot purana. Light khud se aati hai, kabhi nahi bujhti." My contact gave it. Said it's 'Celestial Alloy.' Ancient. The light is self-powered, never fades.
He saw the greed ignite in Jagdish's eyes. This wasn't just a curio; it was a one-of-a-kind conversation piece for a crooked billionaire or a superstitious politician.
"Kitna?" Jagdish asked, his voice casual but his eyes locked on the gear.
Here was the tricky part. Ishmaart's memory-Shankar knew the rates. In 2007, ₹50,000 was life-changing money for someone like him. A decent used Maruti 800 cost about ₹1 lakh. He decided to aim for the moon.
"Do lakh," Ishmaart stated flatly. Two hundred thousand.
Jagdish laughed, a sound like gravel in a drum. "Pagal hai kya? Chala ja!" Are you mad? Get out!
The haggling began. It was a dance Ishmaart knew well. He cited the "never-fading light," the "unknown metallurgy," the "cosmic craftsmanship." Jagdish cited it being "useless," "too small," and "probably radioactive."
After twenty minutes, spit flying, dramatic walks towards the door, and appeals to divine fairness, they settled.
₹85,000. Cash.
When Ishmaart held the thick stack of 500-rupee notes, the weight felt more surreal than the gear ever had. In 2007, this was a fortune. It was rent for years. It was capital.
[Primary Objective Updated: Financial Stability – ACHIEVED (Tier-1).]
[Wealth Threshold Reached. System Cooldown: Lifted.]
[Next Cross-Universal Transit: Available. Destination: Random.]
[User May Initiate When Ready.]
Ishmaart walked out of the dusty shop, the money burning a hole in his cheap trousers. He didn't go home. He went to a bank, opened an account, deposited most of it. He bought himself a proper meal—butter chicken, naan, a whole bottle of Thums Up. He celebrated alone in a decent-ish restaurant, his mind already on the next move.
The system said the next world would be random. But he had a thought. The Anchor. First Refuge. He focused on the humming tether in his mind, on the feeling of the desolate city ruins and the white-clad warrior.
What if… I don't ask for a new world? What if I just… go back?
He focused all his will on the Anchor, on the desire to return to that specific point. The system chimed, confused.
[User-Defined Destination Requested… Processing…]
[Anchor 'First Refuge' Recognized. Stability: Low.]
[Warning: Re-entry to recently visited world may have unforeseen consequences.]
[Override? Y/N]
Ishmaart grinned. Y.
The familiar, clean-desert smell of the ruins hit him first. He stood in the same spot, under the shattered ceiling. It was daylight. Quiet. No sign of 2B or machines.
His plan was insane. It relied entirely on two things: the android's strict protocol to protect humanity, and his own galli-level gift of gab.
He didn't have to wait long. A flutter of black and white descended from a broken walkway above. 2B landed silently, her sword already half-drawn. Her blindfolded gaze fixed on him.
"You returned." Her voice was flat. "This is inadvisable. The machine lifeform activity in this sector has increased by 17%."
"Arre, exactly why I came back!" Ishmaart said, spreading his hands in a gesture of benevolent concern. "Tum yahan akeli ho, dangerous machines hain… as the only human representative present, my… duty banta hai." It's my duty.
2B's head tilted. "Your duty is survival. Your presence compromises my combat efficiency."
"Nahi, nahi! I have a solution! A… human protocol." He pulled out what he'd purchased in Delhi with some of his cash: a simple, finely woven saffron-colored thread, and a small, clear quartz crystal he'd bought from a street-side "gem" seller for ₹50. He'd tied the crystal to the thread. It looked cheap and vaguely spiritual.
"Dekho, in my culture, when a… a guardian is assigned to protect something very precious," he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, solemn tone. "There is a ritual. A bond is made. It ensures coordination. Good fortune. Badh nazar se bachata hai." Protects from the evil eye.
He held up the thread. "This is the Raksha Sutra. The bond-thread. If you permit me to place it… it formally establishes our partnership under human cultural law. My safety becomes your officially sanctioned priority. Your protection becomes my… blessed responsibility."
He was laying it on thicker than the syrup on his fatal jalebis. He invoked "ancient human codes," "spiritual sync," and "tactical harmony."
2B was silent for a long time. Her processors were likely overheating. Her core directives: 1. Follow the orders of humanity. 2. Protect humanity. Here was a human, presenting a "human cultural-legal protocol" that optimized Directive 2. It was illogical. It was emotional. It was… very human.
"This ritual. It is required for optimal operational coordination?" she finally asked.
"Bilkul! Without it, we are just two entities. With it… we are a team. Officially. Human government-approved." Ishmaart nodded with grave certainty.
Another pause. Then, a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Proceed."
Trying not to let his triumphant shake show, Ishmaart stepped forward. He carefully looped the saffron thread around her neck, tying the cheap quartz crystal so it rested at the base of her throat, against her black collar. His fingers brushed the cool, synthetic skin of her neck. She didn't flinch.
"Ho gaya!" he announced, stepping back. "Ab, officially, hum partners hain." Now, officially, we are partners.
2B touched the crystal lightly. "[Data: 'Partners' – Definition loaded. Includes: Allies, Companions, Spouses in certain human cultural contexts.]"
Ishmaart's heart jumped. Spouses. He hadn't dared say that part.
2B looked at him, her head tilting again. "The term 'partners' in your context. It signifies a binding, permanent alliance for mutual benefit and protection. Correct?"
"Uh… haan. Bilkul. Permanent. Binding. Mutual benefit. Very sacred." He wiped imaginary sweat from his brow.
"Acknowledged," 2B said, her voice regaining its flat efficiency, but now with a new undertone. "Partnership protocol accepted. Your safety is now my primary mission parameter under human cultural law. I will accompany you to ensure it."
Ishmaart blinked. It had worked. He had somehow, through sheer audacious bullshit, gotten a combat android to adopt him.
"Accha… toh ab… ghar chalen?" he ventured. So… shall we go home?
He focused on the Anchor, but this time, he poured his intention into it, imagining not just himself, but the white-clad figure standing beside him, linked by the stupid saffron thread. He willed the transfer to include his "partner."
The system went haywire.
[ALERT! Attempting Biological/Android Transfer via Anchor…]
[Anchor Stability Critical!]
[Living Entity Transfer Protocol… FORCED.]
[Transferring!]
The world dissolved in a storm of blue light and static. It felt rougher, louder than before. He heard a short, sharp intake of breath—2B's—and then…
They landed in a heap on the floor of his Karol Bagh barsaati. The heat and smell hit like a wall. 2B was on top of him, having instinctively rolled to take the impact. She immediately sprang to her feet in a combat crouch, her sword materializing in her hand with a flash of light, her blindfolded face scanning the tiny, filthy, alien room.
"Location altered dramatically. Atmosphere: Polluted. Technology level: Primitive. Threat assessment: Unclear." Her voice was sharp, alert.
Ishmaart got up, groaning. "*Relax, relax! Yehi mera ghar hai! Welcome to Earth-199999. Delhi, 2007.*"
2B straightened slowly, but didn't dematerialize her sword. She looked at the peeling posters, the single bulb, the tiny window showing a concrete wall. Her perfect nose wrinkled slightly at the smell. "This is your designated safe location? It is… sub-optimal."
"Gareebi mein aish," Ishmaart said with a grin, the reality of what he'd done dawning on him. He had a wife. A terrifyingly powerful, beautiful, utterly literal-minded android wife who could probably dismantle the local goondas with her pinky. Protection? Check. Company? Check.
Then, a wild, hilarious thought struck him. He looked at 2B, then at the calendar with various gods on it.
"Yaar," he muttered to himself, a grin spreading ear to ear. "Agar main Islam accept kar loon… toh four wives allowed hain. System se aur do world ki ladkiyan le aao… ek full team ban jayegi. YoRHa squad se zyada dangerous." If I convert to Islam… I can have four wives. Get two more from different worlds via the system… I'd have a full squad. More dangerous than a YoRHa squad.
He looked at 2B, who was now scientifically investigating a cockroach scuttling along the wall with an expression of detached curiosity.
"Pehle isse sambhalna seekhna padega," he sighed, the weight of his chaotic genius settling in. First, I have to learn how to handle this one.
He had capital. He had an otherworldly bodyguard-partner. He had a universe full of trouble brewing.
Ustaad Ishmaart Shankar's Multiversal Dukaan was officially open for business. And business, it seemed, was about to get very, very complicated.