Energy

**Location: Mandi, Himachal Pradesh**

**Jatin's Ancestral House**

**Date: August 28, 1940**

Jatin trudged back to his ancestral home, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the dusty path. His sandals kicked up small clouds of earth with each step, the rhythmic crunch a faint echo of the thoughts swirling in his mind. The lake lingered in his memory—the stagnant water, its oily sheen glinting like a taunt, and the villagers' faces, lined with a quiet resignation that cut deeper than any words. He could still see the woman in the red sari, her hands chapped and raw as she scrubbed clothes against the stone, and the old fisherman, his net hanging limp like a shroud over a lost past. Their weary acceptance gnawed at him, a weight that settled into his chest and refused to lift. He couldn't wait—not a day, not an hour. Time was a luxury these people didn't have.

The wooden door creaked as he pushed it open, the familiar scent of aged timber and lingering incense greeting him like an old friend. He crossed the threshold into the small study, a room that had once been his grandfather's sanctuary. The air was thick with the musty smell of old books, their leather spines cracked and faded along the sagging shelves that lined the walls. A large wooden desk stood at the center, its surface pocked with scars—nicks from a lifetime of use, ink stains that told stories of late-night musings. Jatin sank into the worn leather chair behind it, the cushion sagging beneath him, and lit the kerosene lamp on the desk. The flame flickered to life, casting a warm, wavering glow across the room, dancing shadows over the yellowed pages of an open journal his grandfather had left behind.

Before he could settle into his thoughts, Raju slipped into the room, his slight frame moving with the quiet grace of someone who'd spent a lifetime serving without fanfare. His kurta was slightly rumpled, the faint dust of the market clinging to its hem, and his face carried a mix of concern and steadfast loyalty. "Young Master," he said, his voice steady but soft, "I've placed the orders for all the materials. The merchants say they'll arrive in about a month—maybe a bit more if the roads are bad."

Jatin looked up, meeting Raju's eyes, and nodded slowly. "Thank you, Uncle," he murmured, the familial term slipping out again, a tether to the man who'd become his anchor in this strange new world. Raju dipped his head in a small bow, the gesture as natural as breathing, and retreated with the same silent efficiency, leaving Jatin alone with the flickering lamp and the hum of his own restless mind.

He leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and stared at the flame as it danced in its glass prison. The lake was just the start—a single thread in a tapestry he longed to weave. He could see it so clearly: Mandi transformed, its people thriving, the scars of neglect and exploitation fading into a distant memory. Beyond Mandi, he pictured an India unshackled—free from the choking grip of poverty, its rivers clean, its fields abundant, its children educated and strong. But the path to that future was a jagged one, littered with the debris of a past he couldn't ignore.

His thoughts drifted to the British Raj, the shadow that loomed over every corner of this land. The lake's ruin wasn't an accident—it was a wound inflicted by colonial greed, a factory's poison seeping into the earth long after its masters had abandoned it. Jatin's fingers tightened around the armrests, his knuckles whitening as a slow, smoldering anger flared within him. "They looted our wealth," he muttered, his voice low and taut, the words spilling out like a confession to the empty room. "Destroyed our industries, poisoned our water, and left us to pick up the pieces. They'll pay for what they've done."

He could hear his grandfather's voice now, rough as the mountain wind, recounting tales of the Raj's brutality over cups of chai in their Shimla kitchen. The famines engineered by indifference, the taxes that bled villages dry, the weavers whose hands were broken to protect British mills. "One hundred million," Jatin whispered, the number a ghost that haunted his studies—a staggering toll of lives lost to starvation, disease, and despair under colonial rule. His jaw clenched, the lamp's light catching the hard edge in his eyes. He wanted justice, a reckoning for the generations crushed beneath that weight.

But as the flame steadied, so did his breathing. He exhaled slowly, forcing the fury down, tucking it into a corner of his heart where it could fuel him without consuming him. "I can't be hostile now," he reasoned aloud, his voice softening as he talked himself through it. "Not yet. I need to be smart—plan carefully, build power step by step. Revenge won't fix this. Progress will."

He wasn't a soldier or a politician; he was a scientist, a thinker. True strength lay in what he could create—technologies to lift his people up, systems to heal the land and break the chains of dependence. The Tech System was his weapon, not a sword or a gun, but a tool to forge a future where India stood tall again. He imagined solar panels glinting atop mud-brick homes, wind turbines humming in the hills, schools buzzing with children learning to read and dream. He saw fields green with crops nurtured by science, hospitals where no one died for lack of care. It was a long road—decades, maybe—but he'd walk it, one deliberate step at a time.

Mandi would be his proving ground, a seed from which everything else could grow. The water filtration system was the first spark—a small, tangible victory to show what was possible. He'd share it with the villages around him, teach them to build their own, watch the ripple spread. He'd find allies—farmers, merchants, maybe even a few open-minded officials—people who'd see the vision and carry it forward. Patience would be his armor, persistence his blade.

His gaze drifted to the desk, where a faint hum stirred the air. He tapped the edge of the wood, and the Tech System's blue screen shimmered into existence, its glow casting an otherworldly light across the study. The familiar interface unfolded before him, a menu of possibilities that made his pulse quicken. Energy, he thought—energy was the heartbeat of progress. Without it, his dreams were just whispers in the wind.

He navigated to the *Energy and Power* section, his fingers trembling slightly as he scrolled through the options. The list was a marvel, a catalog of wonders that dwarfed anything he'd studied in 2025:

- *Advanced Fusion Reactors*: Miniature suns in metal shells, promising limitless power through fusion's alchemy.

- *Zero-Point Energy Generators*: Machines tapping the universe's hidden pulse, a dream of physics made real.

- *Quantum Energy Storage*: Batteries denser than black holes, holding energy in impossible quantities.

- *Smart Grid Technologies*: Webs of efficiency, threading power through a nation with surgical precision.

- *Advanced Solar Energy Collection*: Panels that drank sunlight even under clouds, relentless and bright.

The costs glared back at him—millions, billions, trillions of points. He laughed under his breath, a dry, rueful sound. These were tools for a world centuries ahead, not a man in 1940 with a crumbling house and 950 points to his name. He'd spent 50 on the water filtration system, a choice he didn't regret, but it left him precious little to play with.

Undaunted, he scrolled lower, hunting for something within reach. His eyes landed on *Basic Biofuel Energy*—500 points. He leaned closer, the description unfolding like a gift: a system that turned organic waste and cow dung into usable energy. Simple, yet ingenious. He compared it to the rudimentary biogas setups he'd seen in textbooks—crude pits that sputtered methane for cooking fires. This was different, refined:

- *Advanced Bio-digesters*: Vessels that chewed through anything—peels, straw, dung—with ruthless efficiency.

- *Refined Methane Capture Systems*: Pipes and tanks that squeezed every drop of energy from the gas.

- *Automated Waste Processing*: Gears and belts to ease the labor, making it scalable, practical.

Jatin's mind raced. Cow dung was everywhere in Mandi—piles of it dotted the fields, a resource villagers barely tapped beyond fertilizer. This system could light their homes, power the filtration pumps, maybe even spark small workshops. And the byproduct—rich, dark compost—could feed the soil, coaxing life from the tired earth. It was a cycle, a harmony of waste and renewal, and it fit this world like a glove.

He pictured the village at night, no longer cloaked in kerosene's smoky haze. Lanterns glowing soft and clean, children reading by their light, women cooking without choking on woodsmoke. The air would clear, the lake would heal, and Mandi would hum with a quiet, steady pulse of its own making. It wasn't fusion or quantum magic, but it was real—something he could build now, something that could grow.

He tapped the screen, confirming the purchase. The points dropped to 450, and a new schematic flickered into view—pipes, chambers, a blueprint he could hand to Raju and the blacksmiths in town. Jatin leaned back, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The lake first, then this. Step by step, he'd light the way—not with anger, but with hope, not with vengeance, but with the slow, sure burn of progress. This was his fight, his India, and he was just getting started.