Rebirth in 1970 India

Chapter 3: Gathering Information

Vikram sat quietly in the rear seat of the jeep, the cold mountain wind brushing against his cheek, sharp with the scent of pine, diesel, and damp earth. As they approached the Pakistani military camp—just two kilometers ahead—the rising peaks behind them gave way to a sprawl of layered outposts, antennas, watchtowers, and tarpaulin-topped barracks pressed into a forested valley.

The others laughed and joked beside him, voices loud with lazy bravado and shared boredom. Morning sunlight danced off their rifles, their uniforms faded but their routine intact. Thanks to the memories he'd ripped from Abdul Rashid, Vikram knew who each of them was—their names, habits, gambling debts, and secret vices. He matched Rashid's tone, his habitual way of scratching his earlobe when thinking, the slightly bowed shoulders of a man still adjusting to soldier's life. No one suspected a thing.

They passed through the outer checkpoint where an aging guard at the barrier barely lifted his head before waving them inside.

Twenty minutes after departure, they arrived at the Defense Outpost Camp 72-V.

As the jeep rolled in, Vikram took in every inch—gantry positions, sandbag clusters, surveillance blind spots, soldier formations. The camp bore the usual makeup of a mid-tier military hub: two dozen concrete-and-metal structures, cluttered with crates, covered walkways, and the warm tang of kerosene heat radiating into the chill air.

The soldiers stepped out, unloading vegetables, tins, and burlap sacks from the back of the jeep. Vikram kept pace, slipping into the routine as seamlessly as an old reel slipping into motion.

Abdul Rashid wasn't infantry—just a base cook. That gave Vikram the perfect cover: fewer eyes, greater movement, and access to communal areas.

Over the next few hours, he carried out menial duties with dull precision—chopping onions until tears blurred his vision, peeling potatoes with a rusted blade, scrubbing rice in freezing water that bit into his knuckles. The kitchen was hot, noisy, and smelled of cardamom, sweat, and old oil.

He moved through routines as if half-asleep—stirring daal while listening, watching the rhythm of the camp unfold. Each spoon passed, each stacked crate, each shouted name added to the growing web in his mind.

Once the midday meal was prepped and delivered, he stepped out into the cobbled courtyard, arms stretching in a slow, casual arc.

Now, the real mission could begin.

He wandered through the camp with the languid pace of a man used to being overlooked—offering smiles, bumping elbows, sharing cigarettes. With every passing conversation, with each handshake, shoulder pat, or jostle of crates, he activated [Memory Reading].

The skill thrummed in silence. Every brush of skin sent new data cascading through his mind—faces linked to names, names to passwords, passwords to security loops, hidden caches, troop rumors, romantic flings, sleeping tablets in lockers, and occasionally… deeply kept secrets.

Some minds were louder than expected. A lieutenant who stammered when hiding smuggled gold. A young clerk dreaming of retirement in Multan—with stolen files to sell.

By sunset, Vikram had already built a mental blueprint of the entire base with disturbing accuracy:

- Total force: approximately 500

- Exit routes: 2 – A main checkpoint and a concealed dirt path running through the southeast jungle perimeter

- Guard shifts: Rigid, automated—4 AM, 10 AM, 4 PM, 10 PM cycle

- Captain's Office: Inner sector, ground-level, western-facing—it bordered a cluttered warehouse used for storing dull paperwork... or so people said

> [Spy Skill Increased to Level 3]

A whisper echoed in his head. The moment it hit, something clicked—conversations within a hundred meters suddenly formed soft audio layers in his perception. Filtered, clear—he could hear stress in footsteps, separate laughter by its cadence, and catch the twitchiness in guards who ran through drills two beats too fast.

It was like the world had gone into high definition.

### Nightfall

The base dimmed with dusk, floodlights flickering on one by one as the sun ducked behind the mountains. The warm glow of fire stoves gave a false comfort. After dinner, the collective noise faded into silence.

Midnight.

Only the patrol units remained active, their boots crunching gravel in slow arcs. The air was frosty now, the wind thinner, and Vikram—lying on his cot in the barracks—seemed asleep like the rest.

But his eyes were narrow slits, tracking sound. A boot near the fuel depot. A rifle clinking by the northern gate. Two guards alternating yawns by the jungle trail.

Time to move.

He stood in complete silence.

Engaging [Stealth Mode], Vikram stepped into the darkness like smoke into shadow. His breath quieted. His weight thinned. The wind ignored him.

Moving past tents and rusted fencing, he reached the captain's office: squat, colonial-era construction reinforced with metal beams and bolted hardwood. The door was locked—steel padlock.

No issue.

From a pouch sewn into his inner belt, he pulled a slim, flattened lock pick and set to work. His fingers moved with practiced certainty.

Fifteen seconds later:

Click.

He entered.

Inside, the scent of stale paper and old tobacco lingered. Files were stacked everywhere—walls lined with dull brown folders, typewritten labels, and a creaky metal cabinet painted army green.

He switched on a red-filtered flashlight.

Silence.

Quickly, his fingers ran through labels until one thick folder caught his eye: Deployment Data – Active Sectors. He flipped it open.

Punjab, Kashmir, Balochistan… major troop movements, passive intel placement, and more—information that belonged nowhere near a forward camp like this.

Then he saw the envelope, half-hidden:

> "To be delivered to GHQ Rawalpindi – URGENT"

He opened it cautiously.

Inside were documents documenting direct aid—logistical support, weapons transfers, encrypted bank account codes—linked to three international terrorist groups.

Vikram's jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. So someone didn't trust the chain of command enough to forward this unless in person. Dangerous leverage. Dangerous egos.

He activated his Gamer Mind, every line, number, and symbol seared into the vault of his memory.

No photo. No paper trail. Flawless retrieval.

In under thirty minutes, he relocked the door behind him, vanished into the outer air, and slid back beneath the veils of dark.

### The Next Move

Standard protocol would have him vanish into the wilderness. Mission complete. Targets assessed. Files secured.

But Vikram wasn't here to observe history.

He was here to change it.

Earlier, he had noted critical infrastructure points:

- Ammo storage: Southwest

- Fuel depot: Adjacent to motor pool

- Sleeping quarters: Clustered in east barracks

- Kitchen: Easily accessible via firewood alley

He would become the hammer.

He reached the ammunition depot first. Two guards at the front—barely chatting, fatigue thick in their gait. Routine, not expectation.

Moving along the outer wall, Vikram reached the rear corner cloaked in shadow. With a well-angled step, he closed the gap in a heartbeat.

One arm wrapped, one slash across the throat. A muted gurgle. Lifeless.

The second turned.

Thunk. A dagger flew through the chill air with lethal grace, burying itself in the man's throat.

Both bodies slumped into the earth.

> [Combat Skill Leveled Up: 2 → 3]

> [Cold Weapon Mastery Leveled Up: 2 → 3]

> [New Kill Techniques Acquired]

His thoughts flooded with visual overlays—better knife holds, bone weak-points, pressure clusters, and alternate throw arcs.

He reached down, brushing their cooling skin. "Sell."

> [+20 GP]

He moved inside.

Metal containers line the depot—well-marked. He chose four crates—military-grade C4, nestled between sealing foam. Attached timers: 1 hour 30 minutes.

Boom, boom, boom.

Then he moved on.

Every step cold, efficient, choreographed.

Fuel depot. Kitchen storage. Lower sleeping barracks.

He repeated the work—planting explosives with split-second certainty. Each final click another nail in the structure's heart.

### Cleanup and Collection

He still had time—and one last chore.

He made the most of it.

Lockers were easy prey. Officers' desks even easier. He stripped useful intel, ammo, gear. No file was safe. No drawer left unopened.

> - Sidearms

> - Extra ammo belts

> - Silenced SMG

> - Cash: ₹37,500

> - Jewelry, pendants (gold, silver)

> - Confidential letters

> - Outpost schematics for Karakoram Tunnel Project

All vanished into his [System Inventory]—a perfect pocket dimension, weightless and trace-free.

### The Strike

By the time he crossed the perimeter, dawn had barely begun to grey the eastern horizon.

Vikram climbed a low ridge overlooking the base nestled below, the slanted roofs like children's toys contained in a silent box.

He sat on a rock. Wind curled around him.

The timer on his vision blinked.

3… 2… 1…

**BOOM.**

A thunderclap shattered the stillness, then another. Then six more.

Each explosion bloomed like a flower of fire. The night lit up with orange incandescence. Shockwaves rippled through stone and steel alike. Fuel tanks ruptured, barracks crumbled, towers jerked and collapsed as metal twisted under flame.

The fire rose like a dragon breathing vengeance. Screams carried across the valley.

Nothing moved but the wind and the fire dancing skyward.

He stood.

> [Gamer Points Earned: 2,015]

He earned 2015 G.P. after selling everything he stored in the system space

> [Cash Secured: ₹37,500 Pakistani Rupees]

A slow grin tugged at his lips.

"Military boys are living well," he muttered.

Drawing his hood low, he vanished into the dark underbrush.

The next target already drawn in his mind—just waiting for the knife to fall.

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