They were not British.
They were worse.
They wore kurtas, spoke in Hindi, prayed in temples — and still fed the British like cattle fattening the butcher's knife.
They sold Bharat for rupees and British smiles.
And now, they would be erased.
Vikramaditya had tolerated many enemies: foreign soldiers, crooked officers, mindless propagandists. But what enraged him were those born of Bharat, who profited while their brothers starved.
The British called them "native intermediaries."
But Vikram knew the real name:
traitors.
Magicnet had been tracking merchant trails for over two years. Every account ledger touched by informants. Every tea-house meeting recorded. Every dockside shipment logged.
By 1914, the list had grown to 132 names:
38 in Calcutta
21 in Bombay
17 in Madras
The rest scattered across railway towns and port cities
They dealt in textiles, opium, weapon parts, and salt — all under British contracts. They helped set price controls. They ratted out competitors. They paid bribes to suppress local manufacturing.
They weren't just delaying the revolution.
They were feeding the leash.
The decision was made in Kotla Base.
Vikram summoned the Chakra Sabha.
"How many warnings do we give to a man who poisons his own well?"
None argued.
Each name was categorized:
Category A – Immediate execution
Category B – Memory erasure and reeducation
Category C – Asset stripping and public ruin
Vikram created new skill bundles for his operatives:
Silent Entry Tactics (from an old cat burglar in Allahabad)
Arterial Strike Precision (from a tribal hunter in the Northeast)
Mimicry and Voice Duplication (from a theater actor in Varanasi)
And the first wave began.
Calcutta.
A merchant named Harish Bakshi — who exported gunpowder in sacks marked as grain.
At 3:12 a.m., he was found dead in his study. No wounds. No theft. A glass of water still full.
But his mind?
Wiped.
Magicnet had triggered a silent overload — erasing all operational memories and reducing him to a blank-eyed husk.
To outsiders, it was a stroke.
To the network, it was justice.
Bombay.
In the warehouse district, a group of four traders had formed a cartel to block native salt from reaching local markets.
One evening, as they celebrated a new shipment, a man entered dressed as a spice supplier.
He poured drinks.
All four collapsed before finishing their toasts.
Snake venom.
Extracted from a serpent raised in a tribal village — whose healer Vikram had linked months ago.
The deaths were ruled accidental — bad fish, said the coroner.
The coroner? A Magicnet user.
Madras.
A textile baron's memory was rewritten. He now believed himself to be a British sympathizer turned rebel.
He began funding local resistance groups.
By the time he realized something was wrong, he'd donated half his wealth and confessed to multiple crimes — all fabricated.
His arrest was quick.
But his ruin was permanent.
This wasn't chaos.
This was surgical pruning.
Each death, each fall, was calculated to create maximum ripple effect. Fear among the greedy. Hesitation among the hesitant. Space for new patriots to rise.
Vikram ensured no innocent was touched. Each target was triple-verified through Magicnet scans, intercepted messages, and witness memories.
And always, he left behind a symbol.
A coin — pressed into the hand, or slipped under the tongue.
Engraved with a single word: "Raktadaan."
Blood offering.
Not all were killed.
Some were stripped of assets. Their money rerouted to fund education centers. Their homes turned into local supply depots. Their children offered scholarships — but only if they changed their surnames.
The message was clear:
"Betray Bharat, and your name will die with you."
A side effect began to emerge.
Merchants started confessing.
Not to the British.
To the network.
They left coded letters at temples. They mailed blank envelopes with a single flower petal. They began donating to underground causes. Some asked for reconditioning.
Vikram accepted them.
He was not hunting revenge.
He was farming repentance.
But his rule was strict:
No second chances.
The British grew suspicious.
Their informants were vanishing.
Black-market channels were drying.
Prices were fluctuating oddly.
They brought in new overseers. Launched audits.
But every document was clean. Every shipment traceable.
Because Vikram's people had written the lies themselves.
One officer in Delhi noted:
"The natives are cooperating less. It's as if a shadow has fallen across the bazaar."
He was right.
It was not a rebellion.
It was a reset.
At Kotla, Vikram stood before a wall of faces — sketched from memory, captured through touch, copied from ledgers.
Many had already been marked with red dots.
A few remained.
He pointed to one — a spice trader in Lahore.
"He sponsors the printing of colonial schoolbooks. Burn his press. Wipe his accounts. Give his youngest daughter a school seat under a new name."
Red dot.
Then another.
A shipping magnate in Karachi.
"Too powerful to kill. Ruin him through debt. Leak his bribery records. His sons will beg to join us."
Red dot.
This wasn't assassination.
This was rebalancing.
The poison planted over decades was now being drawn out — drop by drop.
And Bharat's bloodstream was clearing.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
One trader at a time.