A Mind Unleashed
**March 19, 2002**
**Sharma University, Rewari**
The morning sun bathed Rewari in a golden haze, and I sat on the porch, the Royal Enfield gleaming beside me, a cigarette smoldering between my fingers. Smoke curled upward, sharp and bitter, but it couldn't dim the grin spreading across my face. Last night's System chime still rang in my ears—40% studying seriously, 36% training hard, my cognition and physicality locked at 105%. Every Sunday, I'd climb higher—smarter, stronger, sharper. The thought thrummed through me, warm and electric, as I flicked the cigarette into the dust, sparks skittering, and stood, the porch creaking under my boots.
I rode to campus, the Enfield's growl a steady pulse, the cool March air tugging at my jacket. My 105% mind sharpened everything—the rust flaking off the gate, the faint chalk dust scent lingering from last week, the rhythm of my breath. Half the university—75 of 150 students—burned with effort, a fire I hadn't lit but now fueled me. I parked by the office, the engine ticking as it cooled, and strode inside, boots thumping on the wooden floor.
The office was a familiar chaos—exam papers stacked high, ink smudging my fingers as I sorted them with a speed that startled me. My hands danced, thoughts slicing through tangles like a knife through cloth. I finished a timetable in twenty minutes, a task that once took an hour, and leaned back, the chair groaning, a laugh bubbling up. This was the System's gift—mine for life.
Across campus, under a neem tree's rustling leaves, Raman Thakur sat, a third-year B.Sc. Math student with a wiry frame and a faded kurta patched at the elbows. His dark eyes burned behind cracked glasses, his notebook splayed open. Born to a poor farmer and weaver in a nearby village, he'd landed at Sharma University—low fees his only shot at a degree. Two weeks of serious study had pushed him to 110% (105% March 12, 110% March 18), and today, he wrestled the Riemann Hypothesis—an unsolved giant since 1859, probing the zeros of the zeta function, ζ(s) = Σ(1/n^s). Were all non-trivial zeros on the critical line, real part ½? No one knew—not Euler, not Gauss, not 2002's brightest.
At noon, Kamla Aunty poked her head in, her mustard sari bright against the dim room, a steel tiffin in hand. "Jatin, you're too fast—eat!" she scolded, sliding parathas across the desk, their buttery scent tempting me. I grinned, her warmth a tether, and took a bite, crumbs dusting my lap as she swept the floor, humming. "That Raman boy—always scribbling. Smart one," she said, broom swishing. I nodded absently, chewing, her words a soft hum I didn't catch.
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**March 20, 2002**
Wednesday brought a gray dawn, clouds heavy overhead. I walked to campus, boots crunching gravel, the air cool against my skin. In the canteen, a first-year dropped his chai, the clay cup shattering, tea splashing his sandals. "Exams!" he groaned, friends tossing him a rag as they laughed, steam still rising from the spill. My 105% mind sidestepped the chaos I'd have stumbled into last month.
Raman, under his tree, scribbled furiously, the pencil's scratch loud against the breeze. His 110% mind raced—zeta functions, complex planes, failed proofs piling up. Then, a spark: what if he used the functional equation, ζ(s) = 2^s π^(s-1) sin(πs/2) Γ(1-s) ζ(1-s), with a new contour integral? His hand sped up, graphite smudging his fingers, pages filling with conjugates and bounds.
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**March 21, 2002**
Thursday, Vikas stopped by my office, glasses fogged from the heat, curiosity in his frown. "Jatin, the first-years are sharper—your doing?" I shrugged, hiding a grin, papers flying under my hands. "Exams, maybe." He nodded, puzzled, and left, his footsteps heavy. Outside, Rahul wrestled calculus by the Saraswati statue, muttering, "If Raman can, I can," his 105% grit pushing him on, unaware of the breakthrough brewing.
Raman's pencil stopped mid-equation, chest heaving. The idea locked—a zero off the line, say s = 0.6 + it, contradicted itself under his integral, forcing all zeros to ½. He'd solved it—the Riemann Hypothesis, cracked in Rewari. He ran to Professor Malhotra's office, dust kicking up, bursting in with, "Sir, I've done it!" Malhotra, balding and stern, took the notebook, his frown deepening as he traced the scrawl, then softening. "This… this might be," he whispered, voice trembling.
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**March 22, 2002**
Friday's sun broke through, warming the campus. I wandered to the sports ground at dusk, hands in my pockets, the air cooling fast. A cricket bat splintered mid-swing, the crack loud, the bowler groaning, "Third this month!" I smirked—105% budgeting already planning repairs. The lanky bowler waved me over. "Sir, bat with us?" I grabbed a bat, the swing instinctive, leather cracking against wood, their cheers lifting me as dust rose.
Malhotra found me later, his face alight. "Jatin, Raman's solved the Riemann Hypothesis—unbelievable!" I froze, papers slipping in my hands, then followed him to Raman, who stood by the neem, notebook clutched tight, eyes wide. "Show me," I said, voice steady despite the shock. His proof unfolded—elegant, impossible—I saw it click with my 105% mind. "We're publishing this," I declared, clapping his shoulder, his kurta rough under my palm.
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**March 23, 2002**
Saturday, a volleyball player tripped on the field, the ball bouncing into dust, teammates jeering as he laughed, brushing off his knees—105% stamina keeping him light. I sat with Raman in my office, drafting a paper for the *Journal of Number Theory*. My 105% speed typed fast, his words tumbling out—nervous, brilliant. "Sir, I can't believe it," he said, glasses slipping. I grinned, "You did it, Raman. Let's make it official."
By the canteen, two third-years debated over tea, sloshing in chipped mugs. "Raman's crazy—math all day!" "He's onto something." Their voices rose, curiosity spreading, steam curling in the air.
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**March 24, 2002**
Sunday morning, a mangy stray dog sniffed a first-year's lunch by the lecture hall. She shooed it, giggling, her 105% focus unbroken as she returned to her notes. I worked with Raman all day, polishing the paper—title: "A Proof of the Riemann Hypothesis via Contour Integration." My 105% mind caught typos, sharpened phrasing; his 110% brilliance shone through every line. We mailed it at dusk, the post office's ink stamp a quiet triumph, his hand trembling as he handed it over.
That night, I sat on the porch, cigarette smoke curling into the breeze rattling neem leaves nearby. The System chimed, weekly verdict clear.
[*Mind Matrix: 75 of 150 students studied seriously. 50% participation. Students at 110%. Host cognition at 110%.*]
[*Body Matrix: 54 of 59 students trained seriously. 36% participation. Students at 110%. Host physicality and skills at 110%.*]
A rush hit—thoughts quicker, the paper's logic replaying effortlessly; body stronger, a hum in my limbs. Ten percent now. I flicked the cigarette away, sparks dancing, and exhaled, the breeze cool against my skin.
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**March 25, 2002**
Monday, I strode to campus, boots crunching, my 110% mind whirring—Raman's proof, exam prep, repairs clicking into place. Half the students burned bright—75 serious, their 110% showing in crisp answers, steady swings. Raman met me by the office, shy but proud. "Sir, thank you," he said, voice soft. I clapped his shoulder, dust rising. "You earned it, Raman. The world's about to know your name."
The campus settled into dusk, a breeze sweeping through, students sighing by the canteen, books closing briefly—their 110% minds needing no rush. I rode home, the Enfield's roar a steady beat, pride warming me. These kids were mine, and Raman's spark had lit something bigger.