The dawn of June 1610 crept over Ahmedabad, a faint glow brushing the horizon as Jai Vora and his advance team—Amir, Dhruv, and the 15-year-old girl leader—slipped toward Arjun Mala's estate, their black-clad forms melding with the shadows. The estate's sandstone walls loomed, spiked iron gates glinting like fangs under torchlight. From the faraway rooftop, Ravi, Manoj, Sarita, and Sameer signaled with match fires, their binoculars catching glints of patrolling guards—20 to 30 stalking the grounds and walls. Kofi, bomb in hand, waited at the far wall, ready to ignite chaos. The Emperor System, Jai's secret AI-spirit guide, thrummed: "You're in the viper's nest now, Jai. Move like a ghost, or you're done."
Guided by the rooftop team's flickering signals, Jai's group maneuvered the estate's perimeter with ease, dodging torchlit patrols. They reached the gnarled banyan tree, its roots concealing the trapdoor to the basement warren. The girl, her daggers gleaming with her Agility, nodded to Jai and descended into the darkness, tasked with retrieving her sister. Jai, Amir, and Dhruv turned upward, slinging climbing ropes of abaca—strong as steel, light as silk—over the second-floor balcony. Hooks bit into stone, and they scaled the wall swiftly, their Stealth silencing their ascent.
The second-floor hallway, lit by flickering brass lamps, stretched toward Mala's residence. The girl's intel guided them past carved doors and silk tapestries, their steps soundless on marble. At the chamber's entrance, two elite guards—hulking figures in full armor, swords at their hips—stood sentinel, their strength formidable. Jai signaled Amir and Dhruv, who knocked smoke arrows onto makeshift compound bows—small as toys, forged with steel blades and abaca cords for deadly precision. Aimed not at the guards' armored bodies but at the wall near their heads, the arrows flew, steel tips sparking as they struck stone. Clouds of soot and sulfur erupted, choking the air. The guards coughed, disoriented, their visors fogging with confusion.
Amir and Dhruv leaped, blades flashing. In a heartbeat, the guards were dispatched—silenced without a cry, their armored forms eased to the floor. Jai pushed open the door, revealing Mala's opulent chamber: a massive bed draped in silk, gold-inlaid furniture, and a faint glow from a dying lamp. Mala slept, unaware, his chest rising under velvet covers. Amir moved like a shadow, stuffing a cloth into Mala's mouth and binding his hands behind his back. The noble's eyes snapped open, confusion morphing to fear as he struggled, voiceless and immobile.
Jai lowered his hood, his nine-year-old face cold as iron. "I'm Jai Vora," he whispered, voice a blade. "You sent assassins to loot my family, kill my men. This is revenge." Mala's eyes widened, pleading, but Jai offered no mercy. He seized a guard's sword, its edge glinting, and drove it into Mala's chest. "For my soldiers, my family," he said, resolute. Blood bloomed, and Mala stilled, his empire shattered in a single thrust.
Amir pointed to a wall panel, its edges betraying a hidden safe. Jai spotted a key on a chain around Mala's neck, a locket gleaming with rubies. He yanked it free, unlocked the safe, and revealed a trove: scrolls of documents, glittering jewelry, and stacks of gold coins. They stuffed it all into leather satchels—evidence of Mala's schemes and wealth to fuel Vora's rise. With a final glance at the fallen noble, they slipped out, retracing their silent path to the banyan tree trapdoor.
Below, in the basement warren's labyrinth of tunnels and cells, the girl moved like a wraith, her Stealth cloaking her steps. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. She navigated training rooms and armories, her heart pounding for her sister, locked among the eight child trainees. But a shadow stirred—an assassin, training late, his blade drawn as he spotted her. His eyes narrowed, and he leaped, steel flashing toward her.