**September 20, 2003**
**Agni University, Rewari**
The September sun dipped low over Rewari, its amber rays seeping through the office window at Agni University, bathing Jatin's desk in a warm haze—tech journals piled high, a chipped mug of chai steaming, and a blueprint of a sprawling facility sketched in his precise hand. He leaned back in his chair, its creak a steady pulse, his fingers tracing the blueprint's lines as the campus murmured below, students drifting homeward in the dusk.
The past months had been a chessboard—negotiations with the USA, Europe, and China over Ananta's servers grinding to an end. Anand had stretched talks thin, as Jatin ordered, and yesterday's call sealed it: data centers would rise in their lands, but control stayed Vedic's, a line he'd never cross. "They blinked," Jatin muttered, sipping chai, his grin raw—80% market, 10 crore monthly, Ananta's sweetness too potent to resist.
---
In Washington, a wood-paneled room buzzed last week, U.S. officials hunched over coffee-stained briefs. "Servers here, or we block it," Carter snapped, his tie loose, glaring at Vedic's Priya. She sat cool, dupatta crisp, and countered, "Servers, yes—control, no. Our encryption's iron; data stays ours." Carter growled, "Security risk," but Priya smiled, "Six months to finalize—users won't wait." He relented, grumbling, Anand's delay a quiet win.
---
In Brussels, Klaus stormed a glass-walled office, fists clenched. "Europe hosts, or Ananta's out—data can't leak east," he barked at Vikram, Vedic's envoy. Vikram leaned back, sipping water, calm. "Servers, fine—access, ours. Let's draft terms, take a year." Klaus sputtered, "Now!" but Vikram shrugged, "Users love it—your call." The bluff held, Europe caving to the inevitable.
---
In Beijing, Li stared down Vedic's Chen across a stark table, his voice cold. "Servers here, monitored—or we ban it." Chen sipped tea, unruffled. "Servers, yes—control, no. We'll build, discuss—stretch it out." Li's eyes narrowed, "Unacceptable," but Chen smiled, "They're hooked—think twice." The standoff broke, China nodding, grudgingly.
---
Jatin had known they'd bend—his S+ potential saw the game clear. Now, it burned too bright to rest—S+ math, S physics, A+ body—a furnace craving tech's frontier. Semiconductors gleamed—chips drove VedaOS, Ananta, the world—and India begged for its own. He'd researched weeks, journals strewn, his mind dissecting silicon's dance, but 2003's tech lagged, advanced methods a decade off.
Two years, he calculated—his S-level physics and math could birth a chip plant, but foreign giants like Intel loomed large. Collaboration tempted—AMD or TSMC could share tech, yet their billions would drain his 40 crore, chaining him. "No," he muttered, boots scuffing, chai cooling—his path was his own, step by step.
He'd start with silicon wafers—the root of chips—his potential forging a method: purer crystals, 15% cheaper, refining the Czochralski pull with tighter heat gradients, waste slashed by his equations. Vedanta Private Limited, under Vedic Foundation, was born last week—its name a vow, its factory breaking ground in Gurgaon, 50 acres beside Bhumi's hum, steel rising, set for March 2004.
---
In Gurgaon, Neha stormed the site yesterday, her sandals kicking dust, shouting at foremen—"Faster, March deadline!" A clerk trailed, clutching permits, muttering, "Wafers first—big firms will buy." She nodded, phone buzzing—Baba's roads, Bhumi's bags—Jatin's empire a web she wove, unaware his mind now danced at S+.
---
Jatin grinned, chai warm against his lips—Ananta secured, Agni FC kicking, schools thriving, Vedanta's seed sown. He stood, boots thudding, window wide—Rewari's dusk glowed, Gurgaon's steel gleamed—his fire spreading, step by steady, blazing step.
The September sun scorched Gurgaon, its heat rippling over the Agni Sports Academy's vast fields, dust swirling as 120 footballers drilled on the pristine turf, their shouts echoing off the steel stands. Jatin stood at the sidelines, his boots crunching gravel, a chipped mug of chai steaming in his hand, the academy's swastika banner fluttering above. He'd driven from Rewari today—Vedanta's silicon dreams buzzing in his S+ mind—to watch his players, their sweat and grit a raw symphony under the blaze.
Ricardo Silva, the Portuguese head coach, strode over, his whistle dangling, sweat streaking his weathered face, his UEFA B license a quiet badge of grit. Jatin sipped his chai, its warmth cutting the dry air, and asked, "Ricardo, how's their training going? What's their level?" His A+ body potential hummed, senses sharp, tracking a winger's darting run with predator's ease.
Ricardo wiped his brow, grinning wide, accent thick. "Training's smooth, Jatin—better than I hoped. So much talent here—raw, untapped. They've never had chances, but give them drills, matches, and they'll fly." He paused, awe creeping in. "Out of 120, I'd say 70-80 could hit First Division in Europe—Premier League even. I'm shocked—this batch is unreal."
Jatin's lips twitched, a secret glinting in his eyes—Ricardo didn't know the System's hand. On admission, each player gained a one-level boost—C-level strikers turned B, defenders hardened, keepers stretched—graduation promising another leap, B to A, A to S. He pictured Ricardo laughing if he'd spilled it, but kept silent, his S+ math already plotting their rise.
"I've arranged a friendly with TFA (Tata football Academy ) in Jamshedpur, one week out," Jatin said, voice steady, chai mug warm. "Pick your best—let's see them shine." Ricardo nodded, clapping his hands, eyes alight, as Jatin lingered—talking tactics, nutrition, team spirit—before leaving, boots thudding to his jeep, the field's roar fading into dusk.
---
In the academy's gym, Vijay Rana, the grizzled badminton coach, barked at his 20 players, his voice gravelly—"Wrist up, smash it!" A shuttlecock zipped, a girl—Neha Malik, 16—lunging, her B-level reflexes a blur. Vijay grinned, muttering, "She's got it—boost or not," unaware of the System's nudge, only jatin can know there potential level, his 8-lakh salary a steal for his '80s glory.
---
Across the field, Anita Kaur drilled her 30 volleyballers, her bronze-medal growl sharp—"Spike it, now!" Rajesh Tanwar, 17, leaped, his B-level power spiking the ball, sand flying. Anita nodded, her 9-lakh deal tight, whispering to an aide, "Jatin's found diamonds," the System's lift a mystery she'd never guess.
---
In the wrestling pit, Ram Pal gripped a 16-year-old, Rohit Dahiya, his A-level strength—post-boost—straining the old titan's grip. "Pin him!" Ram roared, his 7-lakh frame creaking, dust rising as Rohit twisted free, grinning. "They're monsters," Ram muttered, Jatin's vision alive in their sinew.
---
Next day, September 21st, Jatin returned, the sun gentler, the turf alive with Ricardo's drills—cones weaving, balls thumping. The coach met him at the gate, a crumpled list in hand, his whistle swinging. "Here's your squad," he said, passing it, pride thick. "Best of the best—ready for TFA."
Jatin unfolded it, ink smudged but bold—15 names, positions sharp:
- *Amit Rana* (Striker, 17) – Lightning pace, B-level shot power, a village kid with fire.
- *Vikram Singh* (Striker, 18) – Clinical finisher, B-level poise, eyes like a hawk.
- *Rahul Yadav* (Midfielder, 17) – Visionary playmaker, B-level passing, threads needles.
- *Suresh Patel* (Midfielder, 18) – Tireless engine, B-level stamina, runs till he drops.
- *Karan Mehra* (Midfielder, 16) – Dribbling wizard, B-level flair, dances past foes.
- *Deepak Sharma* (Winger, 17) – Blazing speed, B-level crosses, a storm on the flank.
- *Ravi Gill* (Winger, 18) – Tricky feet, B-level agility, twists defenders dizzy.
- *Arjun Tomar* (Defender, 17) – Rock-solid tackler, B-level strength, a wall unbroken.
- *Manoj Kumar* (Defender, 18) – Aerial king, B-level headers, owns the sky.
- *Pankaj Bisht* (Defender, 17) – Calm reader, B-level positioning, sees plays unfold.
- *Sanjay Rawat* (Defender, 16) – Fierce marker, B-level grit, sticks like glue.
- *Nitin Jain* (Goalkeeper, 18) – Reflexes sharp, B-level saves, hands like steel.
- *Vishal Thakur* (Goalkeeper, 17) – Commanding presence, B-level reach, owns the box.
- *Rakesh Dalal* (Winger, 17) – Explosive runs, B-level hustle, relentless spark.
- *Sumit Hooda* (Midfielder, 18) – Box-to-box beast, B-level work rate, heart of the fight.
---
In the stands, Neha watched, her dupatta fluttering, jotting notes for Jatin—Baba's 5-crore bypass deal, Bhumi's bags stacking. "Football too?" she muttered, awed, Ricardo's picks a blur below, the System's boost a silent thread she'd never trace.
---
Jatin grinned, raw and wide, folding the list—Ricardo's 15, System-forged, Agni FC's dawn breaking. He clapped Ricardo's shoulder, chai cold, and left, the turf's pulse a promise—Jamshedpur next, his empire rising, step by blazing step.