The late July 1610 sun cast a golden haze over Surat's bustling port, the Tapti River's sparkle mirroring the triumph in Jai Vora's eyes. The Vora Trading Company complex thrummed with life: the restaurant's butter chicken and spicy biryani filled private rooms with nobles, the medicine shop's Surat's Elixir and Pain's Whisper sold out daily, the clothing store's Vora's Durable Thread outfits flew off shelves, and Kofi's blacksmith shop hammered out tools that vanished into merchants' hands. Vora Heights' foundations deepened on the 18,000-square-foot Tapti plot, its penthouse a promise of the Vora family's dominion. Jai, nine years old but sharp as a courtier's wit, stood in the courtyard, awaiting Maya's shadow unit—Maya, Arjun, Rahil, and Sanjay—their return from Masulipatnam a signal of victory. The Emperor System, his secret AI-spirit guide, buzzed: "If they've turned that factory into a farce, kid, you've struck gold. But the EIC's like a weed—cut one root, and it sprouts another."
Maya's unit rode in at dusk, their horses lathered, faces smudged with Masulipatnam's dust and grins of success. Jai, flanked by Amir and his guards, led them to the basement hideout, its trapdoor hidden near the blacksmith shop's forge. Lanterns cast flickering shadows as Maya unrolled a rough sketch of the EIC's factory—half-built walls, timber stacks, and Indian workers toiling under British whips. "We've halted them, Jai," Maya said, her voice low, her Agility a coiled spring. "The factory's a joke now—their officers are disgraced, their trust shattered."
Jai leaned forward, his Wisdom hungry. "Details. How'd you escalate?" Maya's eyes gleamed with mischief. "We targeted the top five commanders, as you said. Spiked their tea with laxatives—they squirmed through inspections, blaming 'bad water.' Swapped their boots with tight ones—blisters made them hobble like fools." Arjun chuckled, adding, "Loosened saddle straps on their horses—they tumbled during patrols, cursing the 'incompetent natives.'" Rahil grinned. "Forged letters from England—fake scandals, bankrupt families. They're paranoid now, snapping at each other." Sanjay, his voice steady, said, "And the pranks: itching powder in beds, stink bombs in tents, pink-dyed uniforms for humiliation. They can't sleep, can't command without ridicule."
Maya continued, her tone serious. "The workers were ripe for rebellion—whipped for delays, paid scraps, called 'filthy natives' and 'lazy savages.' We spread forged letters claiming the EIC plans to replace them with others, and rumors of Vora's fair wages. The strike hit hard—tools down, chants of defiance. The factory's barely complete, and the British have lost trust from their home country—reports of failures are piling up." Jai's grin was a blade. "Hundreds of nobles and merchants know Vora's name now, thanks to Jahangir's visit. You've done it—turned their foothold into a farce."
The unit nodded, their loyalty iron. Maya added, "They're desperate, Jai—petitioning Jahangir for more guards, importing more sailors. But the locals won't work for them anymore." Amir, his Bladework hand twitching, growled, "They deserve worse." Jai's eyes narrowed. "We keep the pressure. But now, we undercut them—start our spice factory in Surat, package and sell direct. They'll beg for our goods."
The meeting shifted to action. Jai called for a Wings of Freedom gathering, his voice commanding. "We've slowed the EIC in Masulipatnam, but Surat's next. Our spice factory will crush them—buy cheap, package premium, sell high. Maya's unit, you're my eyes—track their moves. The rest, push Vora Heights, the 22 luxury carts, everything. We hire 1,200 more workers—200 trainers for Amir's guards, the rest weeded for talent. Ravi, Manoj, scout the artisans; Sarita, manage the influx."
Sarita nodded, her People Management sharp. "We'll screen them—loyalty first, skills second." Kofi boomed, "The carts are ready—springs, rubber tires, gold lining. Nobles'll flock." Jai grinned. "Good. Test them on Surat's ruts." The system pinged: "Spice factory? You're flipping the EIC's game, kid. Own that trade."
Later, Jai met Anil in the spice stall, the air thick with cardamom. "Papa, we've got permission for the spice factory," he said, his voice steady. "I need you to buy 30,000 square feet on Surat's outskirts—cheap land for now, but it'll grow valuable." Anil's brow furrowed. "A factory? And Vora Heights' done in two months—our penthouse awaits. But 30,000 feet? What for?" Jai's eyes gleamed. "The factory's core, but we build a community around it—homes, shops, necessities for workers. They live there, work there, pay rent. It cuts wages, builds loyalty—they're happy, we're profitable."
Anil's eyes widened, his Wisdom catching Jai's brilliance. "Brilliant, beta! Rent from our own workers? They'll see us as saviors, not masters. I'll find the land—outskirts will be cheap." Jai clasped his shoulder. "Do it fast, Papa. With Jahangir's coins and our profits, we can afford it. This is Vora's future." Anil laughed, pride swelling. "You're a visionary, Jai. Surat's ours, and soon the empire's."
The courtyard buzzed with energy, Maya's unit preparing for more sabotage, Kofi's forge crafting cart models. Jai stood by the Tapti, his empire's foundations solid, the EIC's shadow no match for his rising star.