His voice followed, warm and reassuring, carrying the same quiet authority as before.
"Sit down, please. I only want to talk—not fight."
The words settled over them like a soft blanket.
Umang's shoulders lowered a fraction.
Mordan's hand moved away from the panic button, though his gaze remained wary.
The other two subordinates exchanged uncertain glances, but none reached for their sidearms.
They were still on guard, but calm enough now to think clearly, to talk logically instead of reaching for weapons.
The air eased, tension thinning just enough for words to matter.
The Heart Clone waited patiently, masked face unreadable, warmth radiating steadily.
Mordan exhaled slowly, gesturing to the chairs opposite his desk.
"Very well. Talk."
He sat straighter, armor shifting silently beneath his suit.
"But know this: whatever nation or power you represent, India does not bow to shadows or threats."
Mordan's voice rang firm in the quiet office, defiance etched into every word.
The Heart Clone spoke again, tone steady and reassuring.
"I am also from this country—not from any other nation. So I am not your enemy."
Mordan listened carefully.
He did not fully believe it yet—trust came slowly in his world—but the claim eased one fear.
He nodded once, slowly.
One of the subordinates—Umang—leaned forward.
"Sir, what's your name? And what is your purpose for coming here?"
The Heart Clone answered without hesitation, voice even.
"You don't need to know my name. You can call me Heart."
He paused, letting it settle.
"As for my purpose… I want help from you, in return for solving your problem."
Mordan and his three subordinates exchanged quick glances.
When they heard the word "help," the last traces of panic drained away.
This was not an attack.
This was a deal.
Business.
Mordan straightened in his chair, curiosity overtaking caution.
"So what help do you need? Let's hear it first."
He folded his hands on the desk.
"And if this is a business deal, why barge in like this? You could have contacted me officially."
The Heart Clone smiled faintly beneath the mask, amused at the predictable question.
"I don't want my identity made public yet. That is why I came this way."
He leaned forward, voice still calm.
"I need you to help me recruit certain individuals across the world—officially, through government channels—so no one can trace the request back to me."
Mordan considered it quickly.
Recruitment through diplomatic or intelligence cover—quiet, clean, untraceable.
India had done similar things before.
He nodded.
"Okay. This can be arranged. But we will not force anyone. That is non-negotiable."
The Heart Clone inclined his head in agreement.
"Of course. You will only need to deliver sealed letters from me to the chosen individuals. Nothing more."
Mordan's eyes narrowed slightly, interest sharpening.
"And in exchange? You said you would solve our problem."
The smile beneath the mask widened—just as he had predicted, Mordan had taken the bait.
The Heart Clone's voice grew quieter, yet carried unmistakable weight.
"In exchange for your service, I will give you a complete breathing technique."
He paused, letting the words land.
"One that is a thousand times superior to Xinxuan's method."
The room went perfectly still.
Mordan's breath caught for a fraction of a second.
Umang's eyes widened.
The other two subordinates leaned forward unconsciously.
A thousand times better.
Not just improvement—dominance.
The Heart Clone stood patient and silent, warmth still radiating gently, letting the offer sink deep.
Mordan finally spoke, voice low and careful.
"Prove it."
The masked figure—Heart—nodded once.
"I will."
He reached into his robes and drew out a single book, named Basic Breathing Technique.
He placed it gently on the desk.
Mordan stared at the book, then back at the masked man.
The deal hung in the air between them—quiet, momentous, and already tilting in one direction.
India's future, balanced on a single breath.
Mordan stared at the normal looking book resting on his desk.
He reached out carefully, as though it might harm him, and read it.
Knowledge flowed in—lines of text, diagrams, essence circulation paths.
He read only the first few passages.
His brow furrowed almost immediately.
Everything looked too perfect, too theoretical—elegant cycles, precise meridian routes, promises of stable essence retention.
But no practical evidence. No testimonials. No measurable results.
It read like the failed frameworks his own teams had discarded months ago.
Mordan lowered the slip, eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"Sir Heart," he said, voice edged with doubt, "is this even real? Or are you making fun of me?"
The Heart Clone remained perfectly calm, warmth still radiating gently.
"Yes. It is real."
Mordan leaned forward.
"If it's real, what proof do you have? We need to verify its authenticity first."
His three subordinates hadn't touched the slip, but they nodded firmly in agreement, faces serious.
Umang spoke up, folding his arms.
"Sir, if it's genuine, you must have practiced it yourself, correct? Then show us your strength. Let us see something we can believe."