Rebirth and Hitman System

Lahore, Pakistan, 2024. 2:00 AM.

The silence of the pre-dawn hours was shattered by the staccato rhythm of running footsteps. Men in black tactical gear, weapons raised, moved with practiced efficiency through the deserted streets. The lead man, his face obscured by shadow and a balaclava, raised his hand, halting the group in their tracks.

A subtle hand signal, and the team fanned out, surrounding a nondescript two-story house.

Three figures melted into the darkness, flanking the house from the rear, while the remaining five, led by the point man, moved swiftly towards the front entrance. A muffled explosion rocked the quiet street as they breached the door. The sharp, echoing reports of gunfire followed, cutting through the stillness. The operation was swift and brutal. Within minutes, the sounds of conflict subsided, replaced by an eerie silence.

The team regrouped, and then, as quickly as they had arrived, they vanished, melting back into the labyrinthine alleys of the city.

Five kilometers away, an Indian Army helicopter idled, its rotors whispering a promise of extraction.

But as the team raced through the uneven terrain, their escape was violently interrupted. The distinct whump-whump of a Pakistani military helicopter sliced through the air, followed by the crackle of gunfire. The hunters had become the hunted.

One of the men stumbled, his foot catching on a protruding rock. He fell heavily, a groan escaping his lips. The lead man, without hesitation, pulled his fallen comrade towards a large boulder, offering a sliver of cover. As he dragged the injured soldier, a searing pain ripped through his back. Five bullets had found their mark.

The lead man, Captain Vijay Sharma, leader of Operation Doctor Strike, knew his time was short. He looked at the man he had pulled to safety, a young soldier known as A2. "A2," he rasped, his voice strained, "Go! Get out of here. I can't make it."

A2's face was a mask of anguish. "No, sir! I'm not leaving you. I'll carry you. We'll make it!"

Vijay shook his head, a grimace contorting his pain-stricken features. "Don't be a fool, A2. You'll get caught too. Every second counts. Go! That's an order! My life is expendable. Yours isn't. If I die, the Indian government can… can recover my body. They'll know what happened." His voice trailed off, his strength waning.

A2, tears streaming down his face, hesitated, torn between loyalty and duty. He knew Vijay was right. He had to escape, had to carry the information back. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "Goodbye, friend. Jai Hind."

"Jai Hind," Vijay whispered, his eyes closing. He felt a coldness creeping through his body, the darkness closing in. He remembered the mission, the reason they were there. Just three weeks prior, a devastating terrorist attack had ripped through a mosque in Kashmir.

The target: a pre-Independence Day celebration where the Indian national anthem, "Jana Gana Mana," had been sung. The jihadists, enraged by this display of Indian patriotism, had retaliated with brutal force. The mastermind, Muhammad Akbar, had been traced to Lahore, and Operation Doctor Strike was launched. Vijay had led the team, and now…

His eyes flickered open one last time, a wave of dizziness washing over him. Then, everything went black.

But the darkness didn't last. Vijay gasped, his eyes snapping open. He wasn't in the blood-soaked alleyway anymore. He was in a small, sparsely furnished room, the walls made of mud and brick, the furniture rough and simple.

Confusion warred with disorientation. He sat up, his body aching, but the bullet wounds were gone. He looked down at his hands, his modern tactical gear replaced by simple, homespun clothing.

A sharp pain lanced through his head, and fragmented images flooded his mind. He saw dusty streets, bullock carts, men in dhotis and turbans. He saw the imposing architecture of a bygone era, a stark contrast to the world he knew. Slowly, the pieces began to fit together.

"I… I've transmigrated," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "India… 1880… Delhi." He was no longer Vijay Sharma, the hardened commando. He was Vijay Singh, an 18-year-old orphan. His parents, spice merchants, had been robbed and murdered by corrupt British officials when he was just twelve. He had witnessed the brutal act from a distance, a trauma that had shaped his young life. He had survived on his parents' meager savings, but now, a bout of fever had claimed the life of Vijay Singh, and he, Vijay Sharma, had somehow taken his place.

He sat on the edge of the cot, trying to make sense of it all. The British Empire held India in its iron grip. Poverty, oppression, and injustice were rampant. What could he, one man, possibly do?

Suddenly, a blue screen materialized in front of him, glowing softly in the dim light.

Binding Host…

Binding Successful…

Welcome Host…

You Have Acquired the Hitman System…

Vijay stared at the screen, his mind reeling. "A system? Seriously? Like in those… those novels?" He couldn't believe it. He had transmigrated to the 19th century and gotten a system? It was too much to comprehend.

"System," he said cautiously, "Introduce yourself."

Yes, Host. The screen responded, its text crisp and clear.

"What… what does this mean?" Vijay asked, still trying to grasp the reality of the situation. He had gone from a high-stakes military operation in 21st-century Pakistan to 19th-century colonial India, and now he had a system telling him he was a hitman? His head was spinning. He needed answers, and fast. He had a feeling his new life, or rather, his repurposed life, was going to be anything but ordinary. He looked at the blue screen, a mixture of apprehension and a strange sense of excitement bubbling within him. What was the Hitman System? And how could it help him navigate this treacherous new world? He had a feeling he was about to find out.