The question wasn't whether Bharat could afford a team.
Was whether he could afford not to have one.
He stood outside the private security firm's office—a grimy storefront wedged between a pawn shop and a shuttered restaurant. The sign read "Sentinel Group" but half the letters had burned out, leaving just "Sen el Gro p." Appropriate, given what Peacock had told him.
"They're broke," Peacock had said. "Owner skipped town three months ago. Left fourteen men without pay."
"Fourteen armed, trained men?"
"Fourteen desperate, angry men."
Pause.
"Perfect for you."
Bharat pushed the door open.
Stopped.
Fourteen pairs of eyes locked onto him.
The office was sparse—folding chairs, a single desk with a broken leg propped up on phone books, walls the color of old cigarettes. The men sat in a rough semicircle, some in security uniforms, others in street clothes. All of them looked like they'd been carved from the same hard place—ex-military maybe, or close enough that the difference didn't matter.
One stood.
Tall. Scarred. Late thirties.
The leader.
"You're Bharat Singh," the man said.
Not a question.
"And you're Vikram Malhotra."
Peacock's intel had been thorough. Vikram Malhotra. Former army captain. Dishonorably discharged for "excessive force" during a riot suppression. Spent the last eight years running private security contracts—protecting VIPs, corporate buildings, the occasional celebrity wedding.
Until his boss ran off with six months of payroll.
"Peacock said you had a proposal," Vikram continued.
"I do."
"We're listening."
Bharat looked around the room. Fourteen men. Some slouched. Some coiled tight like springs ready to snap. All of them watching him with the particular intensity of people who needed money but didn't trust anyone offering it.
"I need security. You need work."
"That's not a proposal," Vikram said. "That's stating the obvious."
"I'm getting there."
Bharat pulled out his phone.
Showed them the target.
Imperial Secure Holdings. Vault Level 3.
"We're hitting this."
Silence.
The kind that felt like everyone had stopped breathing at once.
Then one of the men laughed. Short. Sharp.
"You're insane."
"Probably."
"That's a suicide mission."
"Only if we fail."
Vikram leaned against the desk.
Arms crossed.
"You know what that vault holds?"
"Oath-Gold. Consecrated offerings. Worth about three hundred million on the black market."
"You know what happens if you steal consecrated gold?"
"Divine curse. Instant death. I know."
Pause.
"I also know how to bypass it."
"How?"
"System loophole. If the gold is willingly offered to a deity—even a dying one—the consecration transfers."
"You have a deity?"
"I am a deity."
More laughter.
Less sharp this time.
More uncertain.
"You're serious," Vikram said.
"Completely."
Bharat activated the Codex. Just for a second—long enough for golden light to spill across his hand, for divine script to flicker in the air like burning letters.
The laughter stopped.
"Holy shit," someone whispered.
"He's real."
"He's cursed."
"Same thing."
Vikram's expression didn't change.
But his eyes did.
That particular shift from skepticism to calculation.
"What's the pay?"
"Ten percent of the haul. Split fourteen ways."
"That's two million rupees per man."
"If we succeed."
"And if we fail?"
"You die. Or get arrested. Depends on how fast Rajan's people are."
Pause.
"Why should we trust you?"
"Because I'm the only one offering you anything."
Bharat looked around the room. At the broken furniture. The peeling walls. The men who looked like they'd been chewed up and spit out by the same system that was killing him.
"Your boss left you with nothing. The courts won't help. The unions don't care. You're ghosts."
"And you're different?"
"I'm desperate. Which makes me honest."
Vikram studied him.
Long enough that Bharat thought he might say no.
Then:
"I want terms."
"What terms?"
"A contract. Divine covenant. The kind that binds both sides."
Bharat's pulse kicked up.
"You know about divine contracts?"
"My brother was a priest. Died in a covenant gone wrong."
Pause.
"So yes. I know."
"What do you want in the contract?"
"Protection. If this goes sideways—if you die, if the mission fails—we walk. No divine punishment. No curse blowback."
"That's not how covenants work."
"Then make it work."
Bharat looked at the system notification appearing in his vision.
New option. New possibility.
COVENANT TYPE: MERCENARY COMPACT
Terms:
Duration: Single mission (vault heist)Payment: 10% total haul (split 14 ways)Loyalty clause: Active only while host is aliveEscape clause: If host dies, contract voids (no penalties)
Cost to host:
2 days lifespan (creation fee)Divine authority: -5% (temporary)
WARNING: This contract prioritizes self-preservation over loyalty
Accept terms? Y/N
Two days.
He had eighteen left.
Minus two = sixteen.
Sixteen days to find the Unmade City. Break the curse. Save himself.
But without this team, he wouldn't make it to the vault.
Wouldn't get the Oath-Gold.
Wouldn't restore his lifespan.
Classic catch-22.
Die slow without help.
Or die faster with it.
"I can do it," Bharat said.
"Can? Or will?"
"Will."
He pressed YES.
The air shifted.
Not violently.
Subtly.
Like the room had taken a breath and held it. Golden script appeared—visible to everyone this time, floating in the space between Bharat and Vikram like contracts written in fire.
Terms materialized.
Line by line.
Binding both sides.
Vikram read them.
Nodded.
"One more thing."
"What?"
"If you fall—if you collapse, if your curse kills you mid-mission—we leave. Immediately."
"You'd abandon me?"
"We'd survive. That's the point."
Pause.
"You're asking me to trust you with my life, knowing you won't do the same."
"I'm asking you to be realistic."
Vikram's voice was flat. Factual. No apology.
"You're dying, Bharat. Eighteen days, minus whatever this contract just cost you. You're a ticking clock. And when that clock stops, we need to be far away."
Bharat looked at the fourteen men.
At their hard faces and harder eyes.
At the truth they were all thinking but only Vikram said out loud.
They didn't care about him.
They cared about survival.
And money.
In that order.
"Fine," Bharat said.
"Fine?"
"You walk if I fall. But while I'm standing, you follow orders."
"Agreed."
The contract flared.
Golden light pouring through the room like liquid fire.
Each man felt it—the weight of divine binding settling over them like invisible armor.
Or chains.
Depending on how you looked at it.
COVENANT EXECUTED
Mercenary Compact: ACTIVE
Bound agents: 14
Duration: Until mission completion or host death
Lifespan cost: 2 days
New countdown: 16 days, 1 hour
Bharat's legs wobbled.
The cold rushing back in—deeper this time, like winter had found new places to hide in his bones.
Two more days gone.
Just like that.
"You okay?" Vikram asked.
"Functional."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's the answer you're getting."
Bharat straightened.
Forced his body to cooperate.
"We move in three days. Peacock will send you the details."
"Three days isn't much time."
"It's all we have."
Pause.
"Get your gear. Get your heads right. And get ready to do something illegal."
One of the younger men spoke.
Early twenties. Nervous.
"What if we get caught?"
"Then you go to prison."
"For how long?"
"Twenty years. Maybe more."
Pause.
"But you won't get caught."
"How do you know?"
Bharat looked at him.
Really looked.
Saw the fear there. The doubt.
"Because I'm not planning to fail."
"Plans don't always work."
"No. But I do."
He walked to the door.
Stopped.
"Vikram?"
"What?"
"Why did you say yes?"
Pause.
"Because you're the first person in three months who looked at us like we were worth something."
"I'm using you."
"We know."
"And you're okay with that?"
"We're using you too. Fair trade."
Bharat almost smiled.
Almost.
"See you in three days."
Outside, the sun was setting.
Mumbai sky turning that particular shade of orange that looked like the city was on fire.
Mira was waiting in the car.
"How'd it go?"
"We have a team."
"Can we trust them?"
"No."
"Are we working with them anyway?"
"Yes."
She sighed.
"This is becoming a pattern."
"Welcome to my life."
"Your life is a disaster."
"I know."
Pause.
"But it's my disaster."
His phone buzzed.
Peacock.
[PEACOCK]: Saw the covenant execution. You just lost two days.
[BHARAT]: I know.
[PEACOCK]: You're down to sixteen.
[BHARAT]: I can count.
[PEACOCK]: Can you? Because it looks like you're throwing time away.
[BHARAT]: I needed the team.
[PEACOCK]: You needed loyalty. You got mercenaries.
[BHARAT]: It's better than nothing.
[PEACOCK]: Is it?
Bharat closed the phone.
Looked at his countdown.
16 days, 1 hour.
Ticking.
Always ticking.
"What did Peacock say?" Mira asked.
"That I'm an idiot."
"He's not wrong."
"I know."
Pause.
"But I'm an idiot with fourteen armed men."
She looked at him.
That look.
The one that said I'm worried and I believe in you and please don't die all at once.
"Sixteen days, Bharat."
"I know."
"That's not enough time."
"It has to be."
System notification:
QUEST UPDATE: THE OATH-GOLD HEIST
Objective: Acquire 3kg Oath-Gold from Rajan's vault
Team assembled: 14 mercenaries (loyalty: CONDITIONAL)
Time remaining: 2 days, 18 hours
Current progress: 15%
WARNING: Team loyalty will collapse if host vitality falls below 10%
"Two days until the heist," Mira said.
"I know."
"And if your curse kills you mid-mission?"
"Then Vikram and his men walk away."
"Leaving you to die."
"Leaving me to die."
She was quiet.
Long enough that Bharat thought she might cry.
But she didn't.
Just looked at the sunset.
At the city burning in shades of gold and red.
"You know what the worst part is?"
"What?"
"I understand why they'd leave."
Pause.
"If I were them, I'd do the same thing."
Bharat reached over.
Took her hand.
"You wouldn't."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're here. And you could've left a long time ago."
She squeezed his fingers.
Tight.
Like she was holding onto something that might disappear.
"Don't die, Bharat."
"I'll try."
"That's not good enough."
"It's all I have."
They drove.
Mumbai traffic swallowing them whole.
Horns blaring. Lights flashing. The city moving like it always did—chaotic and uncaring, indifferent to the small dramas playing out inside each car.
Bharat's phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
Text message:
"You made a covenant with mercenaries."
"Rajan knows."
"He's moving the timeline up."
"The vault closes in 48 hours."
"After that, you'll never get in."
"Who is this?" Bharat typed.
No response.
Just three dots.
Then:
"Someone who wants you to succeed."
"Or someone who wants to watch you fail spectacularly."
"Haven't decided yet."
The number went dead.
"What is it?" Mira asked.
"Timeline change. We have forty-eight hours."
"That's not enough time to plan—"
"I know."
"Bharat—"
"I know."
He called Vikram.
"We're moving up the schedule. Heist happens tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow? That's insane."
"It's necessary."
"My men need time—"
"Your men need money. I'm offering it. Tomorrow night or never."
Pause.
Vikram's breathing on the other end.
Calculating.
Weighing risks against rewards.
"Fine. But if this goes wrong—"
"You walk. I know."
"Good."
Pause.
"See you tomorrow, Bharat."
"See you tomorrow."
The line went dead.
Mira looked at him.
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
"That's—"
"Suicide. I know."
Pause.
"But it's all we have."
System notification:
QUEST TIMELINE ACCELERATED
Time until vault closure: 38 hours
Recommended preparation time: 72 hours
Current team readiness: 34%
WARNING: Proceeding with mission at current readiness level increases failure probability to 78%
Proceed anyway? Y/N
Bharat pressed YES.
Of course he did.
What choice did he have?
"The question isn't whether we're ready," he said quietly.
"It's whether we'll ever be."
Mira didn't answer.
Just held his hand tighter.
And they drove into the burning city.
Toward tomorrow.
Toward the vault.
Toward whatever ending was waiting.