The Dawn of a New Era
**Location: Mandi, Himachal Pradesh**
**Jatin's Ancestral House and Beyond**
**Date: February 1941**
The frost glittered under the pale February sun as Jatin stood in the courtyard of his ancestral home, the air sharp against his newly radiant skin. A month had passed since the Super Human Serum reshaped him, five hours of unconscious transformation forging a man who defied the limits of flesh. He wasn't just Jatin Sharma anymore—he was a titan, a living banner of what India could become. His breath steamed in the chill, but he felt no cold, only the steady thrum of power pulsing through every fiber.
He'd spent the month testing himself, a solitary regimen in the predawn shadows. In the shed, he'd gripped a steel beam—two tons, Dev had guessed—and lifted it with a flick of his wrists, the metal groaning as he held it aloft, steady as a reed. Later, he'd sprinted the mountain trails, 100 km/h blurring the pines into a green streak, the wind a howling companion that barely slowed him. His vision stretched 500 meters, picking out a hawk's feathers mid-flight, a villager's frown in Karsog's square. Sounds layered over each other—Raju's broom whispering across the stone, a goat bleating miles off—while scents wove a tapestry: woodsmoke, damp earth, a hint of cumin from Lila's kitchen. He was no longer bound by human frailty; he was a weapon, honed and waiting.
---
**March 1941**
Jatin gathered his inner circle in the courtyard, the sun climbing higher. Raju leaned on his broom, eyeing Jatin's bulk. "Young Master, you're a wall now—what's next?" Dev lounged against a cart, smirking. "Lifting mountains, Sharma-ji?" Lila arrived, her toddler tugging her sari, her gaze sharp. "You're more than strong—you're *different*. What's the play?" Arjun bounced in, grinning. "Sir, you're a storm! What're we building now?"
Jatin raised a hand, voice steady. "Not building—fighting. I'm recruiting—4000 men now, not just 500. Men who've bled under the Raj, who'll die for freedom. I'll train them myself—strength like this—" he hefted the cart one-handed, wheels dangling—"and rifles to match." He set it down, dust swirling.
Dev whistled low. "Four thousand? That's an army, Jatin—not a whisper anymore." Lila frowned, shifting her child. "I've seen you heal us—water, light. Why blood now?" Jatin knelt, meeting her eyes. "Because healing's not enough, Lila. They'll crush it unless we stand. This is for her—" he nodded at the toddler—"for all of them."
Arjun's eyes gleamed. "I'll fight, sir! Teach me!" Prem nodded slowly. "My brother's grave says yes." Meena murmured, "For my son—count me in." Raju grinned faintly. "Old bones'll march for you, beta."
Jatin stood, resolve firm. "Good. Spread word—quietly. I want the broken, the angry, the loyal. We meet in the valley tomorrow."
That afternoon, he interviewed recruits in a shadowed barn. Ravi, a wiry youth from Sundernagar, sat first, fists clenched. "They burned my village—tax defiance. Father's gone. I'm yours, Sharma-ji." Jatin studied him, hearing the steady thud of his heart—no deceit. "You're in. Discipline's key—can you hold it?" Ravi nodded fiercely. "For this? Anything."
Next came Kishan, a broad farmer from Kullu, eyes hollow. "Wife starved—famine they caused. I'll kill them all." Jatin leaned forward, voice calm. "Not kill yet—train. We strike smart, not wild. You with me?" Kishan's jaw tightened, then eased. "Aye, smart's better. I'm with you."
By week's end, 4,000 stood ready—grief-forged, fire-eyed.
---
**March 1941: Arming the Resistance**
In a hidden workshop carved into the mountains, the *Type 99 Rifles Generator* hummed. Jatin had expanded to five units, iron and wood hauled by Dev's carts, leather bartered from Gupta, points swapped—1,500 total—for scarce bits. Five hundred rifles a month now, sleek and deadly, stacked in crates. He hefted one, testing its balance, then turned to Dev. "Quality's perfect—your iron's gold." Dev grinned, wiping sweat. "For you, Sharma-ji, I'd smelt the moon."
Lila oversaw bullet production, her hands steady as she mixed potassium and sulfur—2,000 points traded when stocks ran low. "Smells like hell," she muttered, pouring charcoal. Jatin chuckled, lifting a crate effortlessly. "Hell for them, not us. Keep it coming."
He met Baluch scouts in a ravine, their leader, Zaman, a scarred man with a hawk's gaze. "Rifles, eh?" Zaman said, testing one. "Good steel—better than their scraps. We're with you." Jatin clasped his arm. "Intel too—troop moves, weak spots. Safe trails?" Zaman nodded. "Yours, brother. They'll rue crossing us."
Back in Mandi, Jatin sketched arms caches—caves, cellars, hidden groves. "Fifty rifles here," he told Prem, pointing at a map. "Twenty there. Ready when we rise." Prem traced the lines, solemn. "Smart—spread thin, hit hard."
---
**April 1941: Building the Force**
The valley camp buzzed with 6,000 now—4,000 hardened, 2,000 new. Jatin had hired Amit Mishra and Gangadhar, retired soldiers with gray hair and steel spines, to drill them. Mishra barked, "Move, you slugs! Flank, not flail!" as Gangadhar taught rifle aim, his voice a growl. "Steady—squeeze, don't jerk!"
Jatin joined them, a blur of motion—leaping cliffs, snapping trees with bare hands. "This is us," he roared, lifting a boulder overhead. "Stronger every day!" Ravi panted, grinning. "Gods, Sharma-ji—show me that!" Kishan nodded, sweat-soaked. "I'll match it—or die trying."
Lila brought water, watching Jatin spar. "You're a storm, beta," she said, handing him a cup. "They worship you now." Jatin drank, smiling faintly. "Not worship—trust. That's enough."
---
**May 1941: Seeds of Change**
In Sundernagar, Jatin met farmers—Ramesh among them—over tea, a sack of tech-exchanged seeds on the table. "New ways," he said, spilling grains. "Faster growth, stronger plants. Try it—if it fails, I'll pay." Ramesh frowned, poking the seeds. "Old ways fed us fine—why this?" Jatin grinned. "Old ways bend to floods—this stands tall. Trust me."
Weeks later, Ramesh burst into the courtyard, eyes wide. "Sharma-ji, the wheat—it's twice the height, green as emeralds! You're a wizard!" Jatin laughed, clapping his back. "No wizard—just knowledge. Spread it."
Biogas units sprouted too—Punjab's plains, Uttarakhand's hills—names Jatin gave early. "Future's coming," he told Dev, watching a unit flare to life. Dev nodded, hammering a pipe. "You're dragging it here fast."
---
**June-December 1941: The Network Grows**
Jatin's voice thundered at rallies, his aura magnetic. In Shimla, his new base, he spoke to thousands, fists raised. "We're not their dogs—we're Bharat's lions! Free, proud, strong!" A woman, Priya, shouted, "Lead us, Jatin-ji!" He smiled, fierce. "I will—together."
Congress envoys came, smooth-talking. "Join us, Sharma—BVM's a spark, we're the fire," one said. Jatin shook his head, firm. "Your fire's muddled—mine's clear. I'll walk my path."
In his Shimla study, the Tech System glowed as Raju knocked. "Young Master, a visitor." Jatin stepped out, freezing—Subhash Chandra Bose stood there, turban crisp, eyes piercing. "Namaste, Sharma-ji," Bose said, bowing slightly. Jatin returned it, stunned. "Namaste, Bose-ji. Why here?"
They sat, tea steaming, hours blurring. "I want an army—Bharat free by force," Bose said, voice steel. Jatin leaned in, sharing—6,000 soldiers, rifles flowing. Bose's eyes lit. "Impressive, lad. A titan and a general." Jatin grinned. "Join me—lead them. I'll arm us, you fight." Bose paused, then nodded. "Deal."
---
**January 1942: The Stage Sets**
Bose swelled the ranks—10,000 now—his charisma pulling soldiers from British ranks. In a Lahore safehouse, he met a captain, Arjun Singh, disillusioned. "They treat us like dirt," Singh spat. "I'll bring fifty men—more if you arm them." Bose clasped his hand. "Done."
Jatin, in Shimla, mapped caches—500 rifles in Punjab, 200 in Baluch lands. Zaman reported, "British shifting east—war's stretching them." Jatin nodded. "Good—Pearl Harbor's their mess, our chance."
Underground papers flew—*Azadi Ki Awaaz*—and radio crackled, Bose's voice cutting through static: "Rise, Bharat!" British spies hunted Jatin, but his agents—Prem whispering in Lahore, Lila in Delhi—foiled them. "Jail's not my fate," Jatin told Raju, dodging another trap.
In a mountain cave, Jatin and Bose pored over maps. "Installations here," Jatin pointed, "troops there. Japanese might help—talking to them." Bose grinned, fierce. "We strike soon—Bharat's ours."
Ten thousand stood ready, rifles gleaming, alliances tight—Baluch, soldiers, masses. The Raj teetered, blind to the storm. Jatin flexed his hands, power surging. "Time's up," he whispered, the dawn of 1942 a blade poised to cut.