Type 99 rifles generator
**Location: Mandi, Himachal Pradesh**
**Jatin's Ancestral House and Beyond**
**Date: February 1941**
The morning frost crunched beneath Jatin's boots as he stood atop a ridge overlooking Mandi, the wind tugging at his kurta with a vigor he barely felt. A month had passed since the Super Human Serum coursed through his veins, and the world had shifted beneath him—literally and figuratively. His body was no longer a mere vessel; it was a marvel, a symphony of power he'd spent weeks honing in secret. He flexed his hands, feeling the hum of strength coiled within, and grinned faintly. This wasn't just muscle—it was mastery.
In the courtyard below, he'd tested himself under the cover of dawn. A rusted tractor, abandoned by some long-gone tenant, had become his proving ground. Ten tons, the villagers guessed its weight, and Jatin had lifted it with a casual grunt—steel groaning as he hoisted it overhead, his arms steady as stone. He'd set it down gently, marveling at the precision, the way his muscles sang with control, no strain, no tremble. Later, he'd sprinted the winding paths to Karsog—100 kilometers an hour, the Tech System whispered—and the world had blurred into streaks of green and gold. The air roared past, whipping his hair, tugging at his clothes, but he felt only exhilaration, the ground a fleeting memory beneath his feet.
His senses, too, had sharpened to an uncanny edge. From this ridge, 500 meters from the village square, he could pick out Lila's voice haggling over grain, the faint clink of coins, the flutter of a pigeon's wings on a distant roof. The wind carried the scent of rain brewing miles away, a crisp tang mingling with woodsmoke and the musk of cattle. He closed his eyes, listening—the heartbeat of a deer in the brush, the low rumble of a cart trundling leagues off. Deceit, fear, joy—he could hear them now in the cadence of breath, feel them in the shift of air. Jatin Sharma was no longer human; he was a force, a predator cloaked in purpose.
---
**March 1941**
Back in his study, the kerosene lamp cast its familiar glow as Jatin tapped the Tech System awake. His points—15,000 now, replenished by Himachal's growing reliance on his biogas and water—gleamed with promise. He'd purchased the *Type 99 Rifles Generator* days ago, expecting a sleek machine to materialize as the serum had. But the air remained empty, the screen silent. He frowned, leaning closer. "System, where's my generator? Don't tell me this is a scam."
The interface pulsed, words forming: *"Host, the Type 99 Rifles Generator requires materials to function. Provide them, and the system will assemble the product."*
Jatin's brow furrowed deeper. "What's the point then? I could build one myself if I had the knowledge module—why charge me points just to play middleman?"
*"Host, crafting a generator from scratch demands advanced equipment and rare resources you lack in 1941. The system streamlines production for your benefit, constructing directly with your materials at a point cost."*
He leaned back, rubbing his jaw. "Fair enough. What do you need?"
*"For the generator: iron, wood, leather. System handles specialized components. For bullets: potassium, charcoal, sulfur. Substitute unavailable materials with points if needed."*
Jatin nodded slowly, a plan sparking. "Alright—let's get to work."
---
**April 1941**
Two months blurred into a frenzy of motion. Jatin scoured Mandi's markets, bartering with merchants like Sethi for iron ingots, haggling with Gupta for sturdy wood planks, trading points—500 here, 1,000 there—for leather when local stocks ran thin. Potassium and sulfur proved trickier; he swapped 2,000 points with the system when the alchemist in Kullu shrugged helplessly. Charcoal, at least, was plentiful, piled high from village hearths. By April's end, the materials sat in a shed behind his house, and the system hummed to life, assembling the *Type 99 Rifles Generator*—a squat, metallic box etched with faint runes, its purpose as deadly as it was elegant.
He tested it alone, feeding in the first batch of materials. A low whir filled the shed, and out slid a rifle—Type 99, standard variant, its barrel gleaming, wood stock smooth against his palm. "Beautiful," he murmured, hefting it. The system chimed: *100 rifles per month, 5 points each, 100 rupees per rifle, 10 rupees per 100 bullets.* His mind raced—15,000 points meant 3,000 rifles total, 30 months at full tilt. His companies had swelled his purse to 2 lakhs rupees, more than enough for now, but points were the bottleneck. Himachal's usage trickled in—300 points last month, 400 this one. He needed more—500, 600—to push beyond 100 rifles a month.
That evening, he called his crew to the courtyard. Raju arrived first, squinting at Jatin's new bulk. "Young Master, you're a mountain now—serum still working its magic?" Jatin chuckled, flexing an arm. "More than magic, Uncle—it's power. Watch this." He lifted a cart one-handed, its wheels dangling, and Raju whistled. "Gods preserve us, you're a titan!"
Dev lumbered in, eyeing the cart. "What's next, Sharma-ji? Tossing houses?" Lila followed, her toddler tugging her sari, her gaze sharp. "You've changed again—stronger. What's the plan now?" Arjun bounded over, grinning. "Sir, you could wrestle a bear! Teach me that!" Prem, Vikram, and Meena trailed in, their murmurs a mix of awe and unease.
Jatin set the cart down, dusting his hands. "Gather round—I've got rifles now. Type 99s, a hundred a month. We're not just building anymore—we're fighting. The Raj won't give us freedom; we'll take it." He pulled the rifle from a sack, its metal catching the sun, and the group stilled.
Dev scratched his beard, voice low. "War's a big leap, Jatin. You sure about this?"
"Not war yet," Jatin said, meeting his eyes. "An army—quiet, growing. Five hundred men to start, trained in secret. I've got the strength, the guns—now I need you."
Lila frowned, shifting her child. "Blood's not what I signed up for, beta. You've given us light, water—why this?"
Jatin knelt, voice soft. "Because light and water won't free us, Lila. The Raj'll snatch it back unless we stand tall. This is for your girl—for all of them. Trust me."
Arjun's eyes gleamed. "I'll shoot with you, sir! Show me how!" Prem nodded slowly. "My cousin died in their jails—I'm in." Meena clutched her shawl, whispering, "For my brother, yes."
Raju stepped closer, his voice steady. "You've led us right so far, Young Master. I'll help—old bones and all."
Jatin rose, resolve firm. "Good. We start tomorrow—finding men, training them. Dev, you'll smelt extra iron. Lila, scout quietly—only the loyal. Arjun, you're my shadow. Let's move."
---
**May 1941**
The mountains cradled Jatin's secret. A secluded valley, ringed by jagged peaks, became his training ground—500 men, hand-picked from Himachal's wounded. Prem brought his cousin's friend, Ravi, whose father vanished in a British raid. "He beat us bloody," Ravi spat, gripping a rifle. Meena found a widower, Kishan, his wife dead from famine taxes. "They starved her," he growled, eyes hard. Each man carried a scar, a story, a fire Jatin stoked.
He'd tracked down Captain James Harrow, a retired British soldier living in Shimla, grizzled and bitter after decades of service. Over chai in a cramped tea stall, Jatin laid out his pitch. "I need a trainer—someone who knows their tactics, their weaknesses. You've seen it all."
Harrow sipped, eyeing Jatin's bulk. "You're no ordinary lad—serum, eh? Why me? I served the Crown."
"You know their game," Jatin said, leaning in. "And I hear you hate them now—pension stingy, wife gone, left to rot. Help me, and you'll stick it to them proper."
Harrow's laugh was dry. "Cheeky bastard. Alright—ten rupees a day, and I'll make your boys killers." They shook on it, and Harrow arrived the next week, barking orders in the valley's chill.
"Move, you louts!" Harrow roared, pacing as the men drilled. "Bayonet up—thrust, not tickle!" Jatin watched, running laps—100 km/h, a blur—then joining them, lifting boulders to show what they'd become. Ravi gaped, panting. "You're a god, Sharma-ji—teach us that!" Jatin grinned. "Earn it first—run faster."
Kishan sidled up during a break, wiping sweat. "Harrow's a bastard, but he knows his stuff. We'll gut them yet." Jatin clapped his shoulder. "That's the spirit—quiet now, deadly later."
The valley hid them—rugged trails toughened their legs, peaks shielded their shots. Rifles stacked in caves, 100 more each month, bullets piling beside them. In Mandi, Lila whispered to a seamstress, "Join us—silent, strong." The woman nodded, eyes fierce. Dev smelted iron late into the night, muttering, "For you, Jatin—hope it's worth it."
---
**June 1941**
The British slept, smug in their brick offices. Hargreaves scoffed over gin, "Sharma's a dreamer—rifles? Pah, native nonsense." His clerk nodded, oblivious to the valley's hum—500 men, growing lean and lethal, Jatin a titan among them. Points trickled in—450 this month, biogas and water spreading—but Jatin's eyes were on the horizon. "Five hundred's a start," he told Raju, hefting a rifle. "We'll be thousands soon—then they'll see."
Raju smiled faintly. "You're a storm, Young Master. Just don't blow us all away." Jatin laughed, fierce and free. "Not us, Uncle—them."