The forge beneath the Vora factory never slept.
At three in the morning, when Surat's streets lay silent under a thin monsoon drizzle, the underground smithy roared like a dragon. Orange light licked the stone walls, sparks cascaded like golden rain, and the air tasted of hot iron and gun-oil.
Kofi stood shirtless at the anvil, sweat carving rivers down his ebony chest, Power=85 muscles gleaming. In his hands lay the latest prototype: a two-cubit-long rifle of blued steel and polished walnut, heavier than any matchlock in India, longer than any jezail the Mughals had ever seen.
Jai leaned over the workbench, eyes bloodshot but burning.
"Barrel number thirty-seven," he muttered. "Rifling twist one turn in forty-eight inches, eight grooves, lands point-zero-zero-nine deep. Let's see if this one finally behaves."
Kofi racked the strange bolt handle Jai had sketched from half-remembered dreams of a life four centuries away. The breech locked with a satisfying clack.
"Still too much windage on the bullet," Kofi grunted. "Last shot at four hundred paces dropped eight handspans and drifted left like a drunk camel."
Jai rubbed the stubble on his jaw. "We're close. The principle is sound: spin the projectile, seal the gases, silence the report. We just need the perfect marriage of steel and lead."
He pointed to a row of thirty-six earlier barrels hanging on the wall like failed prayers.
"Every failure teaches. Today we find the one that doesn't lie."
They worked until dawn—filing, lapping, polishing. Jai's past-life memories gave him the concept: a bolt-action, magazine-fed, suppressed sniper rifle firing a 7.62×51 equivalent. But 1616 metallurgy fought him at every turn. The steel wanted to warp, the blackpowder fouled everything, and the lead miniballs refused to obey the rifling perfectly.
By the tenth test shot on the underground range—four hundred paces of wet sand—barrel thirty-seven finally spoke with a muted cough instead of a roar. The heavy suppressor Jai had forged from nested steel tubes and leather washers swallowed the crack. The bullet punched a neat hole dead centre of the iron plate.
Kofi stared, then let out a low whistle. "By the gods… you've caught lightning."
Jai allowed himself half a smile. "One lightning bolt. We need a storm."
He turned to the second bench: three identical rifles, but their barrels were smooth-bore and packed with a hollow charge that produced the exact same sharp CRACK as the real sniper—yet fired nothing lethal.
"When the real shot takes a life," Jai said, voice cold, "these three will scream from different rooftops. They'll never know which shadow held death."
Kofi's eyes narrowed. "For Alok Chaudhary?"
"For whoever the British send next," Jai replied. "Make twenty of each. Ten silent killers, ten thunder-makers. I want them ready in eight days."
Kofi hefted the working rifle, feeling its perfect balance. "Eight days. Done."
The next night, Jai led his wolves into the darkness.
The war-room was lit by a single oil lamp. Maya, Nishil, Arjun, Rahil, Sanjay, and Dhruv knelt in a half-circle, black kurtas blending with the shadows. Only their eyes caught the light.
Jai unrolled a map of Surat and the surrounding villages. A red lotus marked Alok Chaudhary's newly purchased riverside haveli.
"Twelve days until the next new-moon meeting with the English factors," Jai said. "We don't wait for them to tighten the noose. We cut their strings tonight."
Maya's voice was silk over steel. "Objective?"
"Information first. Pain second. Example third."
Nishil cracked his knuckles. "And if the guards resist?"
Jai's smile held no warmth. "Then the new rifles get their baptism."
He looked at each of them—his shadows, his blades, his family.
"Alok Chaudhary believes silver and English promises can buy my city. Tonight he learns what it costs to reach for a tiger's throat."
Maya rose, already fading into the gloom. "We'll be ghosts, Jai-sahib. He'll wake up bleeding and never know which direction the wind came from."
Jai placed the first working prototype into her hands.
"Master this. Range testit in the deep forest."
She weighed the rifle, feeling its lethal promise, then bowed—forehead to the barrel in the old assassin's salute.
Outside, thunder rolled over the Tapti. The monsoon had finally broken.
Inside, the forge fires were banked, but a new fire had been lit—one that would burn colder, longer, and far deadlier.