Location: The Subterranean Vault beneath Solapur
Time: April 1639, The Third Watch of the Night
Just beyond the rusted, heavy iron grate lay five hundred thousand pounds of highly volatile Bijapuri gunpowder. The air within the subterranean tunnel was so saturated with the sharp, acidic, nose-burning stench of raw sulfur and saltpeter that drawing a full breath was physically agonizing.
On this side of the iron grate, plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness, stood my elite Strike Force—the Jamadar stealth unit. I had strictly ordered all shielded torches to be fully extinguished. A single stray spark, the accidental scraping of flint, or the clashing of steel against stone would vaporize every living soul in this tunnel and bring the massive fortress of Solapur crashing down upon our ashes.
I stepped forward in the pitch darkness, my velvet-gloved hands gripping the cold iron bars of the grate. I turned my head slightly, sensing Francis Day standing rigidly to my right.
"Mr. Day," I whispered, my voice barely a faint vibration in the damp air. "Let us entertain a geopolitical hypothetical for a moment. Imagine you are standing in a subterranean vault in London. Across the English Channel, France and Spain have allied, amassing an identical stockpile of half a million pounds of explosive powder to annihilate the British Isles. If you were standing right here, beneath their arsenal... what would you do? Would you risk the lives of your men attempting a silent capture, or would you simply strike a flint, sacrificing yourself to blow the stockpile to the heavens?"
Francis Day's sharp, mercantile mind processed the tactical scenario instantly, despite the terrifying darkness.
"I would strike the flint and blow it to ashes, Your Highness," Francis answered without a second of hesitation, his tone strictly pragmatic. "It would undoubtedly result in my death and the loss of my men, but it would permanently cripple the military capabilities of France and Spain. The Crown and England would remain secure. A true patriot neutralizes the threat, no matter the personal cost."
I smiled, though he could not see it in the dark.
"And that, Mr. Day, is the precise difference between the mindset of a struggling merchant and the vision of an Emperor," I replied, my voice dripping with cold, unyielding ambition. "You view destruction as a victory because your ultimate goal is mere survival. I do not wish to burn this powder. I intend to capture it entirely. I will take their greatest strength and use it to forge my own empire. Defenders study history, Mr. Day... conquerors write it."
Tirumala Nayaka, standing close by, let out a slow, shaky breath. He realized that this young Prince was not driven by arrogance; he was driven by absolute, terrifying conviction.
I turned back to the iron grate and signaled to my youngest, most lethal Jamadar—a nineteen-year-old farmer's son named Kesha. What he lacked in noble lineage, he made up for with the nocturnal vision and lethal reflexes of a hunting leopard.
"Kesha," I whispered softly. "Oil the hinges of the grate. Absolute silence. If you scrape the metal and produce a spark, we all die right here."
"By your command, Prince," Kesha replied without a single tremor of fear in his voice. He unhooked a small leather flask from his belt and meticulously began applying thick animal fat to the rusted iron hinges. Every single drop, every millimeter the iron moved, was a high-stakes gamble with death.
The Main Hall of Solapur: A Banquet of Paranoia
Exactly one hundred feet above our heads, in the opulent main hall of the Solapur fortress, Subedar Rustam Baig sat upon his cushioned throne. The hall was a sensory overload of celebration—musicians played frantic melodies, dancers spun in the center of the room, and heavy golden goblets of wine were being passed around continuously.
However, any seasoned observer would immediately realize that this was not a banquet of victory. It was a frantic, desperate theatrical performance designed to mask sheer terror.
Subedar Rustam Baig's eyes were bloodshot, and his hands trembled slightly every time he raised his goblet. He had panicked. He had sent his elite ten-thousand-man garrison away to Naldurg, leaving his massive fortress guarded by a mere five hundred men. The 'celebration' was his desperate coping mechanism—a way to force his remaining soldiers to believe everything was under control, preventing mass desertion in the middle of the night.
"Drink! Rejoice!" Rustam Baig shouted over the music, forcing a manic smile, though his voice cracked with strain. "General Mustafa Khan lives! By dawn, Sriranga's wretched army will be crushed against the walls of Naldurg! Solapur is completely secure!"
A loyal lieutenant stepped forward, bowing nervously. "But Subedar... what if it is a ruse? What if the Demon Prince of Vijayanagara is not at Naldurg... what if he is marching here?"
Driven by sheer panic, Rustam Baig hurled his heavy golden goblet directly at the lieutenant's face, shattering his nose. "Silence! He cannot cross the plains without our scouts seeing him! He does not have wings!" The Subedar panted heavily, gripping the arms of his chair. He knew that if he showed even a sliver of fear, his remaining men would abandon the fort immediately.
Silent Death in the Armory
Down in the suffocating darkness of the armory, Kesha had successfully eased the heavy iron grate open without a single sound.
Inside the massive vault, fifteen elite Bijapuri guards were stationed to protect the powder. They held no torches, relying on the faint moonlight filtering through narrow ventilation shafts. They were whispering anxiously among themselves.
"The Subedar is a fool for sending the army away. If the enemy breaches the walls, we are defenseless," one guard muttered.
"We are not the enemy. We are your reckoning," a voice whispered from the absolute darkness right behind him.
Before the guard could even turn his head, the silent slaughter commenced. The Jamadars did not draw their swords, nor did they aim their muskets. They used only garrotes (choke wires) and blackened daggers.
Kesha moved like a phantom. He clamped a calloused hand over the mouth of a Bijapuri guard, simultaneously driving his blackened blade deep into the man's cervical spine, severing the cord instantly. Warm blood sprayed silently over the sacks of gunpowder, but the victim couldn't even draw a breath to scream.
In less than thirty seconds, all fifteen elite guards lay dead on the stone floor. A nineteen-year-old peasant boy, fighting for his new state, had silently neutralized three heavily armed veterans by himself. This was the terrifying new discipline of Sriranga's army. Every soldier, from the lowest infantryman to the Prince, operated with absolute, lethal efficiency.
With the vault secured, I stepped silently into the massive armory, followed by the trembling Tirumala Nayaka and an awestruck Francis Day. Surrounding us were hundreds of heavy wooden barrels and stacked hemp sacks—five hundred thousand pounds of pure explosive power.
Francis Day reached out, pinching a small amount of the black powder between his fingers, testing its texture. His eyes widened in the dark.
"Your Highness... this is incredibly pure, highly refined saltpeter," Francis whispered, his voice trembling with sheer disbelief. "This is an unprecedented stockpile. With this much firepower, you could entirely redraw the map of the Deccan."
"Not just the Deccan, Mr. Day," I replied, a chilling smile crossing my face. "The entire continent."
I turned to Commander Yachama, who had just stepped through the grate. "Yachama, secure this entire vault. Nobody enters, nobody leaves. Absolutely no sparks."
I adjusted my heavy velvet cloak, looking up toward the ceiling. "Now... it is time we join the Subedar's banquet. I believe he has had enough wine for one evening. We are going up."