**August 1, 2003**
**Agni University, Rewari**
The August sun blazed fierce over Rewari, its relentless heat seeping through the office window at Agni University, casting a molten glow across Jatin's desk—a chaos of degree certificates, a chipped mug of chai steaming faintly, and a stack of research manuscripts bound with twine. He slumped in his chair, its creak a familiar groan under his weight, his fingers—rough with ink stains—flipping through the certificates as the campus thrummed below, alive with the shouts and laughter of third-year students assembling for their graduation ceremony.
These past months had stretched him thin—Bhumi Biobags' factory churning out yellow sacks, Baba Construction's plastic roads snaking through Gurgaon, 30 Agni National Schools buzzing with 15,000 voices—but today, he'd carved out space for this. Thirty-two students, his third-years, were claiming their degrees, their brilliance a mirror to last year's stars—Raman, Rahul, Priya—now shining at Oxford.
Here this batch had birthed three research papers—two in chemistry, one in computer science—each a labor of sweat and late nights, submitted to journals with Jatin's steady hand guiding them, his pride a quiet fire in his chest.
He'd been their shadow in the labs and libraries, his S-level math, A-level physics, and B-level chemistry weaving through their work, refining raw ideas into polished gems. The air smelled of dust and chai, the distant clang of a football against a canteen wall blending with the rustle of a neem tree outside, but his mind lingered on their triumphs—Priya Sharma, Kunal Yadav, Aditya Singh—names etched in his photographic memory, their papers a testament to Agni's blaze.
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Priya Sharma, a wiry girl with sharp eyes and a relentless streak, had spent January to May on *Photocatalytic Degradation of Industrial Dyes Using Parali-Derived TiO2 Nanoparticles*. In the chemistry lab, she'd hunched over beakers, the air thick with the acrid tang of dye solutions—methylene blue, Congo red—testing parali ash as a base for titanium dioxide nanoparticles. Her breakthrough came in March, under a flickering bulb, when UV light triggered her mix to break down dyes into harmless water and CO2, a cheap fix for textile runoff plaguing Haryana's rivers. Jatin had joined her in April, his B-level chemistry sparking adjustments—doping the TiO2 with nitrogen, tweaking calcination temps—his S-level math modeling reaction rates. By May, he'd sat with her, chai cooling, redrafting her 20-page paper, cutting fluff, sharpening data, submitting it to *Environmental Science & Technology* in June, its acceptance a quiet thrill by July. When jatin pitched this to national environment protection office they set the rules to factories to use this method in return Priya got a national reward for protection of environment and from factories total 10 lakhs for using license.
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Kunal Yadav, broad-shouldered and soft-spoken, had forged *Electrochemical Synthesis of Graphene from Paddy Straw Carbon* from February to June. In the lab, he'd ground parali to char, the room heavy with the scent of burnt rice husk, feeding it into an electrolytic cell—graphite electrodes humming, voltage crackling—to peel off graphene sheets, thin as whispers, strong as steel. His March epiphany—adding a copper catalyst—doubled yields, a material for batteries and circuits born from waste. Jatin had rolled up his sleeves in May, his A-level physics dissecting current flows, his math plotting efficiency curves, the lab's hum a backdrop as they tested. June brought late nights—Jatin's pen slashing errors, Kunal's hands typing—submitting to *Journal of Electrochemical Society* by July 15th, its nod a spark for Agni's name. Jatin pitched this to Tata and Mahindra and in last Tata got license in 2 crore.
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Aditya Singh, lanky and fidgety, had coded *Adaptive Load Balancing for Multi-Core Systems in VedaOS* from March to July. In the computer lab, his scavenged PC whirred, screens glowing with VedaOS's infinity logo as he rewrote kernel threads, balancing loads across new dual-core chips—Intel's latest—cutting lag by 25%. His April breakthrough—an algorithm predicting core stress—came after a crashed system, his curses echoing as Jatin watched, amused. In June, Jatin's A-level computer science dove in—optimizing mutex locks, trimming bloat—his chai cold as they debugged till dawn. The 30-page paper, dense with graphs, hit *IEEE Transactions on Computers* by July 20th, accepted days ago, a crown for VedaOS's 35% market surge. Jatin also offer 10 lakhs rupees and bug the license of this.
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Jatin sipped his chai, its warmth a jolt against the heat, and grinned—Priya, Kunal, Aditya, their work a symphony of Agni's fire. He'd been their anchor—lab nights thick with fumes, library hours hunched over drafts, journal forms mailed with his scrawl—his 40 crore from VedaOS and Ananta a distant roar, this moment richer, rawer.
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In the courtyard, Vice Principal Mohan Das paced, his kurta crisp, barking orders at staff—chairs aligned, a stage draped in marigolds, the swastika banner fluttering. "Jatin's kids—32 degrees, three papers," he muttered, pride lacing his gruff tone, his clipboard trembling as students milled, caps askew, certificates clutched like treasures.
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Across campus, Neha stormed the admin block, her sandals slapping tiles, phone pressed to her ear. "Baba's got two new contracts—Delhi bypass, 5 crore," she snapped, juggling Bhumi's latest—bags at 1.5 rupees, 10,000 daily. "Tell Jatin—money's flowing," she told a clerk, her dupatta fluttering, unaware he basked in graduation's glow.
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In the chemistry lab, Radhika Verma lingered, her yellow parali cloth folded nearby, eyeing Priya's dye setup. "Biofuel next?" she mused, scribbling notes, her own Bhumi Biobags empire humming in Gurgaon, a quiet spark Jatin had fanned, now catching her peers' fire.
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Jatin stood, boots thudding, and pushed the window wide, the courtyard a sea of black caps, laughter rising like smoke. Priya's dye-busting nanoparticles, Kunal's graphene sheets, Aditya's core dance—three papers, three stars—his help a bridge from sweat to ink, submitted across six months of grind.
He'd sat with Priya in April, her lab a haze of dye and UV, his tweaks cutting her costs; with Kunal in May, voltage sparking as graphene flaked free, his math doubling output; with Aditya in June, code crashing then soaring, his logic tightening the weave. Journals—*Environmental Science*, *Electrochemical Society*, *IEEE*—now bore Agni's mark, his 40 crore a shadow to this harvest.
The ceremony loomed—Mohan Das's voice boomed, "Line up!"—students shuffling, parents in faded saris beaming from the back. Jatin grabbed the certificates, their edges crisp, and stepped out, the chai mug cold, his grin raw and wide—32 degrees, three breakthroughs, Agni's legacy blooming, step by steady, blazing step.
The August sun scorched Rewari, its heat a relentless pulse through the office window at Agni University, painting Jatin's desk in a fiery glow—degree certificates stacked high, a chipped mug of chai steaming faintly, and research drafts tied with twine. He sat hunched over the last certificate, his pen scratching his signature across the parchment, the chair creaking under him as the campus roared below, third-year students cheering at their graduation.
As his pen lifted from the final signature—Aditya Singh's name in bold ink—a voice cut through the air, cool and sharp, resonating in his mind. [*Congratulations, Host, for one more successful batch passing. For reward, the System will grant one level boost in your overall potential.*] The office stilled, the hum of the fan fading, his breath catching as the words sank in.
A surge erupted within him—electric, alive—starting at his spine, racing through his veins, his mind sharpening to a razor's edge, his body lightening as if gravity had loosened its grip. The System chimed again, detailing his new heights: [*S+ level in math, S level in physics and computer science, A level in chemistry, S+ level in arts and painting, A level in cricket, S level in volleyball and badminton, A+ level in body potential—beyond professional athletes, nearing superhuman.*]
Jatin's jaw dropped, the certificate trembling in his grip, chai forgotten as the flood hit—S+ in math, equations unfolding like cosmic maps; S in physics, forces bending to his will; A+ body potential, his muscles taut, senses piercing. He'd been S, A, B—now this, a leap past human bounds, the System's gift for his 32 stars.
He stood, boots thudding, the chair groaning as he crossed to the window, pushing it wide. The courtyard blazed—students in black caps, laughter soaring, Mohan Das barking orders under marigolds. Priya, Kunal, Aditya—three papers, his touch—now this power, his mind a supernova, his body a coiled spring.
Neha's voice drifted from the admin block, sharp over a phone—Baba's contracts, Bhumi's bags—but Jatin barely heard, the surge still humming, his grin raw and wide. The System had spoken—S+, A+, S—Agni's fire not just in schools, but in him, step by steady, blazing step. He have not Einstein level intelligence and Captain America like body no this is Captain India.
The August sun blazed over Rewari, its heat a fierce shroud through the office window at Agni University, casting a molten glow across Jatin's desk—degree certificates freshly signed, a chipped mug of chai steaming, and a stack of sports rosters crisp with ink. He leaned back in his chair, its creak a steady hum, his fingers still tingling from the System's surge—S+ math, A+ body potential—his mind sharp, body electric, as the campus pulsed below with graduation cheers.
Beyond this, Gurgaon's 100 acres had transformed—the Agni Sports Academy and Football Club, a dream of steel and turf, completed this month after months of grind. Dust had settled, stands risen, and 200 students now filled its roster—20 badminton players, 30 volleyball players, 30 wrestlers (कुश्ती), and 120 footballers—recruited from Haryana's villages and slums, their grit handpicked by Jatin's scouts.
He'd officially registered Agni FC, his football club, with the Indian Football Federation, its swastika crest bold on jerseys, a new ember in his empire. The ink dried last week, his S-level vision plotting its ascent—matches, leagues, a pipeline from academy to glory. The academy's fields gleamed—turf green, nets taut—its session kicking off today, sweat already staining the air.
Jatin had snagged a head coach for Agni FC—Ricardo Silva, Portuguese, 50 lakhs a year, a steal for his fire. Ricardo, 42, broad and weathered, had played in Portugal's Second Division, his knees scarred from tackles, before coaching youth at a mid-sized club—Sporting Covilhã—his UEFA B license a badge of grit. Passion burned in him—team ethic, discipline—seeking a stage beyond Portugal, and Jatin's call in June, fueled by 40 crore profits, had lured him to Gurgaon's dust.
Ricardo stood now on the pitch, whistle sharp, barking drills in accented English—"Move, press, together!"—120 footballers scrambling, their boots thudding turf. Jatin had met him yesterday, his handshake firm, A+ body potential humming as they'd walked the field, Ricardo's plan crisp: "Build from the back, unity first."
For the academy's other sports, Jatin tapped retired Indian legends—cheaper, rooted, under 10 lakhs each annually. Vijay Rana, 55, a badminton veteran, his smashes once feared, now coached 20 shuttle hopefuls, his voice gravelly—"Wrist up, strike!" Anita Kaur, 48, volleyball bronze at '82 Asiad, drilled 30 spikers, her spikes a memory, her shouts fierce—"Block it!" Ram Pal, 60, a कुश्ती akhara titan, knees creaking, shaped 30 wrestlers, his grip iron—"Pin him!"
Jatin sipped his chai, its warmth a jolt, and grinned—academy alive, Agni FC born, 200 futures forged. He stood, boots thudding, window wide—the courtyard sang with graduates, Gurgaon's fields with sweat—Ricardo's whistle, Vijay's growl—his empire swelling, step by steady, blazing step.