Agni University 卐

**July 15, 2002**

**Sharma University, Rewari**

The morning sun hung low over Rewari, its rays slipping through the office window, painting the wooden desk in a soft, honeyed glow. Jatin sat behind it, his chair creaking faintly as he shifted, the air thick with the scent of dust and the lingering sweetness of chai from a chipped mug cooling at his elbow.

His fingers, rough with ink stains and the faint calluses of tireless work, tapped idly on a stack of papers—construction updates, VedaOS sales reports, a ledger brimming with possibility. His mind buzzed with restless energy, thoughts weaving through the university's future like threads in a loom. The campus outside thrummed with the distant clang of hammers and the shouts of workers, the new buildings rising steadily under the summer sky.

He reached for the phone—a heavy black thing, its cord coiled like a snake—and dialed, the click of each number a small, deliberate sound in the quiet.

"Neha," he said when his assistant picked up, voice low and steady, "get Uncle Mohan Das here. Now." She murmured assent, and Jatin hung up, leaning back, the chair groaning under him, a faint grin tugging at his lips.

Mohan Das—vice principal, family friend, a graying pillar of Sharma University—wouldn't see this coming. The idea had sparked in Delhi yesterday, flickering in the back of his mind as he'd signed the Gateway deal, and now it burned bright, undeniable.

The door creaked open minutes later, and Mohan Das stepped in, his sandals scuffing the tiled floor, a faint whiff of sandalwood trailing him from the puja he'd likely done that morning. His kurta was crisp, white with faint blue threads, and his silver hair caught the light as he adjusted his glasses, peering at Jatin with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

"You called, Jatin?" he said, voice deep and warm, settling into the chair across the desk, its wood worn smooth by years of visitors. His hands rested on his knees, fingers drumming lightly, the faintest tremor of age in them.

Jatin leaned forward, elbows on the desk, the papers rustling under his weight, and met Mohan's eyes—dark, steady, a little tired.

"Uncle," he began, voice firm but laced with warmth, "we're going to do a big change." The words hung in the air, heavy with intent, and he watched Mohan's brow furrow, the lines deepening on his weathered face.

"What big change?" Mohan asked, tilting his head, his glasses slipping slightly as he leaned in, the chair creaking under him. His tone was cautious, a note of unease threading through, the kind of voice that had steadied this place through decades of storms.

Jatin's grin widened, his mind locking onto the vision. "We're changing Sharma University's name to Agni University," he said, letting the name roll off his tongue—Agni, fire, a blaze of new beginnings. The room stilled, the distant clang of construction fading as Mohan's jaw dropped, shock rippling across his face like a stone tossed into a pond.

"Jatin, you can't do this," Mohan said, voice rising, his hands gripping the armrests, knuckles whitening.

"This name—it's your grandfather's legacy, the old principal's dream. Sharma University is who we are." His eyes flashed, a mix of disbelief and hurt, the sandalwood scent sharpening as he shifted, the chair groaning in protest.

Jatin held his gaze, unshaken, his boots scuffing the floor as he leaned closer, the desk warm under his palms.

"Uncle, changes are needed," he said, voice steady, a quiet fire burning beneath. "We have to move with time—Sharma University was the past, Agni University is the future. A name that lights the way, not just holds us back." His mind replayed it—VedaOS's rise, the new buildings, the Potential Amplification Matrix—proof that clinging to old roots wouldn't carry them forward.

Mohan sighed, a long, heavy sound that stirred the air, his shoulders slumping as he rubbed his temple, glasses glinting in the light.

"Okay, Jatin," he said at last, voice softer, resigned but not defeated. "It's your university—the name's tied to your family, your blood. I just hope you don't regret this down the line. I'll support you, help you, like always." His eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips, the kind that had guided Jatin through boyhood scrapes and teenage dreams.

Jatin's chest warmed, gratitude swelling as he clapped his hands together, dust motes swirling in the sunlight. "Thank you, Uncle," he said, voice rough with relief, "and you'll see—a great future's coming.

Agni University's symbol will be the swastika—卐—life, strength, fire. Uncle, I need you to handle the procedures—name change, signage, paperwork—before classes start in August."

Mohan nodded, adjusting his glasses, the faint creak of the chair punctuating his movement.

"Okay, I'll get it done," he said, voice steadying, a practical edge returning. "But it'll take two weeks—registrations, approvals, the lot." His fingers tapped the armrest, already mapping the task, decades of administration flickering in his eyes.

Jatin grinned, leaning back, the chai mug warm under his fingers as he lifted it. "That's fine, Uncle," he said, sipping the cooling sweetness, its taste cutting through the dust in his throat.

"And how's the recruitment going for the new biology and zoology teachers?" Agni University would expand—B.Sc degrees in biology and zoology now, a leap beyond physics and math, fueled by VedaOS's millions.

Mohan straightened, a spark of pride in his voice. "All set," he said, hands gesturing faintly, as if laying out the pieces.

"Teachers hired—Dr. Meena Gupta for biology, Professor Anil Yadav for zoology—staff's in place, equipment's ready. The new building's construction will finish before classes start—labs, classrooms, all of it." His smile widened, a rare gleam breaking through his earlier shock.

"Okay, Uncle," Jatin said, setting the mug down with a soft clink, satisfaction settling in his chest like a warm coal. Mohan stood, sandals scuffing as he moved to the door, his kurta rustling faintly, the sandalwood scent trailing him out.

The door clicked shut, and Jatin was alone, the office quiet save for the hum of the ceiling fan and the distant clang of hammers.

He reached for the newspaper on his desk—a creased copy of *The Times of India*—and flipped to the sports section, the rustle of pages sharp in the stillness.

His eyes skimmed the headlines, landing on a small box:

*India National Football Team to Play Friendly Matches with Jamaica in August.*

The dates stared back— In his past life August 29, Jamaica 3-0 India at Vicarage Road, Watford; September 1, Jamaica 0-0 India at Molineux Stadium, Wolverhampton.

His mind, laced with 2025 foresight, knew the outcome—India would lose, a thudding defeat, then a draw. A pang of sadness tightened his throat, the ink smudging his fingers as he traced the words. Football lagged in India, dwarfed by cricket's shadow—cricket itself shaky now, but destined to dominate in years ahead.

He leaned back, the chair creaking, and rubbed his neck, the faint ache of tension lingering. "Why not football?" he murmured, voice rough, the chai's sweetness fading on his tongue. He love football and know that due to corruption and self interest and lack of government interest football don't get its deserved place in India.

Players don't have good training from start and no financial support.

An idea flickered—bright, wild—a football club, his own, grooming players to rival the world. Could the System help? His mind latched onto it, potential pulsing.

"System," he asked aloud, voice echoing faintly, "can you help me if I own a football club?"

The reply came swift, cool, and clipped.

[*No, Host, because a football club has no principal—there are owners and directors.*]

Jatin sighed, a long, slow breath that stirred the newspaper, disappointment settling like dust. His boots scuffed the floor, the swastika idea still burning in his mind—Agni, fire, transformation. Then, a spark flared, his mind pivoting.

"System," he asked again, voice sharper, "if I open a sports academy, can you help me then?"

[*Yes, Host.*]

He laughed—a rough, rolling sound that filled the room, bouncing off the walls, the sadness lifting like smoke. A sports academy—Agni's fire spreading beyond books, into fields, courts, lives. His senses caught it all—the chai's faint steam, the ink on his fingers, the distant clang of construction weaving with the hum of possibility. He stood, boots thudding, and strode to the window, pushing it wider. The campus sprawled below—new buildings rising, dust swirling, the neem tree rustling in the breeze.

Agni University would blaze—swastika high, biology and zoology blooming, a sports academy looming. He lit a cigarette, smoke curling into the sunlight, its sting sharp in his eyes, and grinned—raw, real, relentless. The newspaper lay open, football's losses a footnote to his fire. India would rise—step by steady step.