Rebirth in 1970 India

Chapter 2: Beginning of the Mission

Vikram stepped into the sharp, pine-scented air, boots crunching on loose gravel. Before him, the lush valleys of Pakistan-Occupied Kashmir unfurled in the dawn's gold—a tapestry of rugged slopes, terraced fields, and distant peaks striped with late snow. Frost lingered on the grass, and every breath burned with cold and adrenaline.

His objective hadn't changed: gather intelligence on Pakistani military positions and terrorist camps in POK. But now, with the system humming quietly inside his mind, even the impossible felt close enough to touch.

He lived under the name Nawaz Sharif, a mechanic from Karachi—a shadow with a story, walking the muddy lanes of a border village called Mufti Bazaar, just two kilometers from a key Pakistani military base. The villagers took him for a harmless drifter, a man chasing odd jobs, blending with the seasonal migration of laborers. Exactly as he wanted.

As Vikram moved down the narrow, uneven path, he nodded to hawkers arrayed by battered carts, their hands stained with spices and old oil. He caught snatches of local Kashmiri and Punjabi—a music of barter and banter. Women haggled over onions dusted with earth; the clatter of metal pots fused with the braying of a distant mule. The scent of frying bread and cumin mingled with coal smoke, sharp enough to make his eyes sting. He stopped at a chai stall, fingers wrapping around a chipped cup, relishing the scald and the cardamom on his tongue. For a moment, he was just another face in the crowd.

A battered jeep coughed up a cloud of exhaust as it rolled into the market. Four soldiers in green uniforms spilled out, their laughter raw, slouching with boredom and false bravado. Vikram watched through lowered lashes, heart rate steady, every sense reaching outward.

Then, like a translucent window over reality, the system chimed in his head:

> [Spying Skill Increased to Level 1]

A jolt, warm and electric, tightened at the back of his skull. Suddenly, the market's noise broke into layers—each voice, boot scrape, the rattle of coins, all separate and alive. He picked out a soldier's muttered complaint through the stall's sizzle, heard the impatience in a hawker's sigh, the nervous catch in another's accent. The world sharpened.

One soldier—Abdul Rashid, the youngest—broke off, stretching. "I'm heading to the washroom. You guys get the smokes," he called, his voice trailing into the market's din.

Vikram dropped a few coins for his chai and slid into the flowing crowd, each step measured, every movement vanishing among laborers and beggars.

> [Stealth Skill Increased to Level 1]

Suddenly, moving became effortless—a feeling like sliding into cool water. His body felt lighter, and the shadows seemed to gather around him, muffling even the sound of his breath.

In the alley behind a shuttered shop, Vikram trailed the isolated soldier. Abdul Rashid was little more than a boy—hometown stubble, boots still creaking, eyes sharp with fear he thought he was hiding. Vikram's hands moved before thought, silent and precise. He grabbed Rashid's head and twisted in one practiced motion; the body dropped with a muffled thud into the mud and refuse.

For a split second, Vikram froze. He'd killed before, but never like this. Not in a borrowed face. Not in a stolen time. Guilt flickered, bitter and brief, and then the mission—the necessity—washed it away.

Kneeling, Vikram pressed his hand to Rashid's temple, bracing himself for the system's next trick. Memories surged—disjointed flashes: a mother's anxious smile, passwords muttered under breath, the awkward shiver of his first night in uniform, favorite hiding spots, hopes, stupid superstitions.

He summoned "Face Change"—skin tingled, bones shifting microscopically. A moment later the face in the shop window was Abdul Rashid's, down to the pimple scar and the wary set of the mouth. Vikram whispered a greeting, hearing the new timbre of his voice; a flawless echo.

He glanced at the limp body—time was short. Disposal came before regret.

> [Host can sell this body to the System for Gamer Points (G.P.)]

The system flashed again, its digital offer bright and cold.

He focused. "Sell," he whispered.

Rashid's corpse pixelated into silver motes, then vanished—without a trace.

> [Gained 10 Gamer Points]

Ten points pinged in his mind—a small but hard-earned currency. A new layer of the game.

Brushing off the dust of memory and guilt, Vikram—now Abdul—walked back toward the square. The body's habits surfaced at once: a slight limp, a softer smile. His "comrades" called out.

"Oi, Abdul! Still alive? We saved you some cigarettes," Adil Sheikh grinned, tossing a battered pack.

"Needed a minute to find the place," Vikram replied, Abdul's accent slotting perfectly into the group's rough camaraderie.

The soldiers laughed and loaded up. As the jeep jolted toward the military camp, Vikram gazed out the window—a spy riding in stolen skin, nerves humming with tension and new ability, every word and glint of suspicion a razor's edge.

A world of enemies—yet for the first time, he was truly invisible.

And for a fleeting moment, Vikram almost smiled—for the game, finally, had begun.

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