Seven nights passed in perfect silence.
The moon refused to rise.
Then, at the exact stroke of the third watch, the world cracked open.
From the glass-walled penthouse balcony, Jai stood motionless, Singh-I binoculars to his eyes, pocket chronometer ticking in his left hand.
Shadow lay beside him, ears forward, watching the distant torch-glow of Alok Chaudhary's riverside haveli three miles east.
The first strike came as a single, perfectly synchronised heartbeat.
A muffled cough from Maya's rifle in Indrapuri.
At the exact same instant, five sharp CRACKS erupted from five different hills around the ancestral palace (north, south, east, west, and one from the old watchtower).
Six shots, one real and five false, all sounding at the same split second.
Impossible to tell which thunder was death.
The same heartbeat echoed across India.
In Masulipatnam, Amir's suppressed rifle spoke once while five thunder-makers on masted on godowns and palm groves roared together.
In Surat, Nishil's sniper took the first sentry on the haveli roof while five thunder shots blossomed from rooftops across the city.
No delay.
No chance for even the sharpest ear to separate the true shot from the lie.
Fifteen times that night the pattern repeated (every twelve minutes on the dot, governed by the synchronised pocket watches Jai had built in the secret forge).
Six shots as one.
Move.
New nest.
Six shots as one again.
Guards spun in circles, muskets pointing at empty air.
Officers screamed conflicting orders.
Men died without ever knowing from which darkness the bullet came.
By the end of the third hour, forty-five trained killers lay dead under the same starless sky:
- Fifteen elite guards at Chaudhary's ancestral palace in Indrapuri
- Fifteen British officers and Indian sepoys commanding the night watch in Masulipatnam
- Fifteen of Chaudhary's best blades in the Surat riverside haveli
Not one civilian.
Not one member of Chaudhary's blood family.
Only the armed men who had accepted English silver to destroy the Vora name.
In the fourth hour the final messages were delivered:
In Indrapuri and Surat, the surviving guards woke to find their comrades arranged in perfect rows, a single blunt dagger driven into the ground before each formation bearing the same etched words:
My hatred is reserved for those who are disloyal,
and duplicity is the most shameful act of all.
In Masulipatnam burned quietly; Amir's team had vanished long before the powder magazine roared to life, painting the night sky crimson.
From the penthouse balcony, Jai lowered the binoculars.
The chronometer read 04:00 sharp.
He exhaled once, slowly.
"Phase one complete."
Dawn found Alok Chaudhary in Surat on his knees among his dead guards, eyes bloodshot, voice raw from screaming into the gag Nishil had left.
Pigeons flooded the city in frantic grey arrows carrying the same impossible truth:
Forty-five professional soldiers dead in three different cities.
Same hour.
Same method.
Same untouchable hand.
No banners raised.
No bodies of assassins found.
Only thunder that lied, and silence that spoke louder than any army.
Far below, the Tapti carried the faint scent of gunpowder out to sea, as though the river itself was washing the blood away before the sun could see it.
The Vora name had spoken.
And India, from Malwa to the Coromandel coast, heard it clearly.