The Matrix Awakens

**March 4, 2002**

**Sharma University, Rewari**

The principal's office smelled of old wood and faintly of mothballs, a lingering trace of Jatin's grandfather that clung to the heavy desk and the cracked leather chair beneath me.

Sunlight streamed through the single window, dust motes dancing in the golden beam, as I stared at the stack of papers Mohan Das had just handed me.

The ink was still fresh on the deed—*Jatin Sharma, Principal and Owner of Sharma University*—a title that felt both foreign and final.

My fingers tightened around the edges, the paper crinkling softly, when that voice sliced through the silence again.

[*Congratulations, Host. You are now a Principal and own a University. The Bounded Amplification Matrix has been activated. This System will remain with you for your lifetime.*]

I jolted upright, heart thudding against my ribs. Mohan Das, still beaming across the desk, didn't flinch—oblivious, as always, to the mechanical whisper echoing in my skull.

"What the hell," I muttered, rubbing my temples. The headache from last night's flood of Jatin's memories pulsed faintly, but this was sharper, insistent.

The System wasn't just awake—it was permanent. Lifetime. The word sank into me like a stone into still water, rippling through my plans to sell and run.

"Jatin? You alright, beta?" Mohan Das's voice pulled me back, his bushy brows knitting with concern.

"Yeah, Uncle," I said, forcing a smile that felt tight on Jatin's unfamiliar lips. "Just… tired. It's a big day."

He nodded, satisfied, and clapped a hand on my shoulder as he left, the door creaking shut behind him.

Alone now, I leaned back, the chair groaning under my weight, and let the System's words settle. *Bounded Amplification Matrix*. It sounded like something from a sci-fi novel I'd read at MIT, not a dusty office in Rewari. But it was here, real, and I needed to understand it. Closing my eyes, I willed it to speak again, half-expecting nothing.

[*Mind Matrix: Students who study seriously gain 5% weekly enhancement to thinking and comprehension, capped at 150%. Upon graduation with your degree, 175%. Inactivity or dropout cancels all gains. Host gains 5% weekly cognitive feedback if 30% of students qualify, capped at 10,000%.*]

[*Body Matrix: Sports students training seriously gain 5% weekly enhancement to constitution and skills, capped at 150%, 175% post-graduation. Host gains 5% weekly physical feedback if 30% qualify, capped at 1,000x.*]

The voice faded, leaving a hum in my ears. I opened my eyes, blinking at the peeling paint on the ceiling.

Five percent weekly. Caps at 150%, then 175%.

My own boosts—100 times smarter, 1,000 times stronger—if enough students played along.

It was insane, impossible, yet the clarity of it felt like a chalkboard equation snapping into focus. I stood, pacing the small room, boots scuffing the worn floorboards. The System wasn't forcing me to stay—it was baiting me. Sell the university, and this power vanished. Stay, and I could become… what? A genius? A titan?

I stopped at the window, gazing out at the courtyard. Students milled about, their laughter drifting up—a boy in a faded kurta tossing a cricket ball, a girl with a stack of books chatting by the Saraswati statue. They were ordinary, small-town kids with dreams bigger than Rewari could hold.

Could this Matrix turn them into something more? And me along with them? My reflection stared back in the glass—Jatin's sharp jaw, shadowed eyes—and I wondered how much of me was still the Delhi professor, how much was him now.

The next morning, I decided to test it.

I reached for the brass bell on the desk, its cold metal smooth under my fingers, and gave it a sharp ring. The sound cut through the stillness, crisp and clear. Moments later, the door creaked open, and a middle-aged woman stepped in—Kamla Aunty, as Jatin's memories named her, her graying hair pulled into a neat bun, her sari a faded blue that matched the tired lines around her eyes.

"Sir, what do you want?" she asked, her voice soft but formal, hands clasped in front of her.

I smiled, Jatin's easy warmth rising naturally. "Aunty, you don't have to call me 'sir.' Just Jatin, please. Could you invite Dr. Vikas Gupta, the physics teacher, to my office?"

Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile, a flicker of affection in her gaze. "Okay, Jatin, I'll call him," she said, her tone lighter now, and shuffled out, her footsteps a faint patter on the wooden floor.

Twenty minutes later, the door swung open again, and Dr. Vikas Gupta stepped in. He was a wiry man in his late forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose. His kurta was wrinkled, as if he'd slept in it, but his eyes were sharp, sizing me up. "Jatin," he said, settling into the chair across from me with a slight grunt, "what do you want to talk about?"

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk, the wood cool against my skin. "How many students do we have in the physics classes—first, second, and third years?"

Vikas adjusted his glasses, frowning as he recalled the numbers. "We've got 150 students total in the university. Thirty with physics majors, fifty in math, forty in chemistry, and thirty in computer science. For the classes… first year, we've got 45 taking physics, chemistry, and math combined, plus 15 in computers. Second year, 40 in the core sciences, 10 in computers. Third year, 30 in the sciences, 10 in computers." He paused, ticking off staff on his fingers. "Two physics teachers, including me, three for math, two for chemistry, one for computers. Five lab assistants, three sports teachers—cricket, volleyball, badminton. Ten staff for operations, one vice principal, and you. Twenty-eight total."

I sat back, the chair creaking under me, shock rippling through me like a cold wave. "So few?" I muttered, more to myself than him. A hundred fifty students, barely a handful of teachers—it was a skeleton crew, a shadow of what a university should be. Jatin's grandfather had built this place with grit, but it was teetering now, fragile as the peeling paint on the walls.

Vikas raised an eyebrow, waiting. I met his gaze, resolve hardening. "I'm taking charge of the first-year physics class for a week," I said.

His mouth opened, then closed, surprise flashing across his face. He didn't argue, just nodded slowly, as if unsure what to make of me. "Alright, Jatin," he said finally, standing. "Your call."

---

**March 5, 2002**

The next morning, the Royal Enfield's engine roared beneath me as I rode to campus, the cool March breeze tugging at my jacket, sharp against my cheeks. I'd spent the night restless, sifting through Jatin's memories—his grandfather's stern lectures, the buzz of Oxford seminars—melding them with my own 2025 knowledge of physics and teaching. If the System worked, I'd see it in the students first, feel it in their eyes, their voices. I parked near the lecture hall, the bike's engine ticking as it cooled, and strode inside, boots echoing on the concrete.

The room was half-full—50 students sprawled across the benches, their chatter a low hum that faded as I stepped to the chalkboard. First-years, mostly, their faces a mix of curiosity and boredom, textbooks dog-eared and pencils worn. I'd chosen physics—Jatin's strength, and mine too, back when I'd stood at Delhi University's front, chalk in hand. "Today," I said, my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my chest, "we're tackling momentum. Not just equations—why it matters."

I grabbed a piece of chalk, its dusty grit coating my fingers, and sketched a truck and a bicycle colliding, lines jagged but clear. "Imagine this," I said, turning to them. "I'm on my bike—Jatin's bike—years ago, riding too fast down a Rewari road. A truck swerves in. I feel the air shift, the jolt of what could've been. That's momentum—force meeting mass." Their eyes followed me, some widening, others narrowing, but I had them. I wrote the equation—*p = mv*—and pushed: "Why does the truck win? Tell me."

A boy in the front, wiry with a mop of dark hair, hesitated, then said, "It's heavier?" I nodded, pressing him to explain, then tossed questions to others—velocity, conservation, real-world crashes. Chalk dust floated in the air, settling on my jeans as I wiped my hands after an hour. "Think on it," I said, dismissing them. Their footsteps shuffled out, and the System chimed, cold and clear.

[*Mind Matrix: 3 of 45 students studied seriously. 7% participation. No feedback granted. Students at 105%.*]

I smirked, leaning against the desk, the wood warm under my palms. Three out of 45—pathetic, nowhere near the 30% I needed. But those three— the wiry boy, a quiet girl with braids, a lanky kid in the back—had sharpened, their answers snapping faster by the end. Five percent. It was real. My pulse quickened; I needed more.

That afternoon, I wandered to the sports ground, dust rising in soft clouds as a dozen boys played cricket, their shouts bouncing off the lab building's chipped walls. The coach, a stocky man with a whistle, froze when I approached. "I'm guiding the cricket students for a week," I said, clapping his shoulder. His jaw tightened, but he stepped aside, muttering something about "principal's orders."

I grabbed a bat from the pile, Jatin's muscle memory curling my fingers around the worn grip, and stepped to the crease. "Show me what you've got," I called, grinning as a lanky bowler with a gap-toothed smile wound up. The ball came fast—I swung, the crack of wood on leather sharp in the still air, and it soared past the boundary. The boys cheered, crowding me, their sweaty faces alight. I coached them through drills—stance, swing, focus—sweat beading on my brow, the sun dipping low.

The university had 30 cricket students, 10 badminton, 19 volleyball. I stuck to cricket—I knew it, Jatin's hands did too. But if they trained hard, the System promised I'd gain their skills in time. At dusk, I wiped my face with my sleeve, the fabric damp, and the System spoke.

[*Body Matrix: 4 of 30 students trained seriously. 13% participation. No feedback granted. Students at 105%.*]

Four. Not enough. But their throws were crisper, their stamina holding as shadows stretched across the field. I felt a flicker—pride, maybe—watching them jog off, bats slung over shoulders. These kids weren't just numbers. They were the key.

---

**March 6–11, 2002**

The week blurred into a rhythm. Mornings, I stood at the chalkboard, voice hoarse by noon, chalk dust clinging to my jacket as I drilled the first-years on momentum, then energy, then friction. I wove Jatin's stories—bike rides, Oxford storms—with my own 2025 tricks: real-world hooks, questions that stung. The room grew quieter each day, eyes brighter, hands shooting up. By Friday, 10 students lingered after class, peppering me with what-ifs about falling objects, their voices eager, alive.

Afternoons, I traded chalk for a bat, the sports ground my second classroom. Dust coated my boots as I batted with the cricket boys, their laughter mixing with the thwack of balls. I corrected grips, shouted pointers, took bowlers' heat myself—Jatin's body tireless, mine reveling in the burn. By Saturday, eight of them stayed late, practicing under the floodlights, their swings smoother, breaths steadier.

Sunday night, I sat in the office, the bell silent, a cup of cold tea in hand. The System chimed, final for the week.

[*Mind Matrix: 10 of 45 students studied seriously. 22% participation. No feedback granted. Students at 125%.*]

[*Body Matrix: 8 of 30 students trained seriously. 27% participation. No feedback granted. Students at 125%.*]

I leaned back, the chair groaning, a tired grin tugging at my lips. Ten and eight—close, but not 30%. Still, those kids were sharper, stronger—25% above their start. I felt it too, not in boosts but in their faces, their trust. The System dangled its prize, and I wanted it—needed it. Tomorrow, I'd push harder. These weren't just Jatin's students anymore. They were mine.

I need power stone. 🙏🙏🙏🙏