Year 1566, June, Murshidabad, Bengal Sultanate
Deep within a dense, sun-draped forest skirting a quiet agrarian village, a clandestine assembly of men huddled under the thick canopy. Tension rippled through the humid air as they spoke in hushed, urgent tones. One of the men, his hands calloused from years of forced labor, looked around the circle and spoke with fierce conviction, "We will be receiving the weapons here today. It will include matchlock muskets, swords, shields, and other melee weapons. We will use them to fight against the atrocities and oppression of the slamic officials of the Bengal Sultanate."
These men were part of a growing Indu rebel faction who had been driven to take up arms. For years, the slamic officials of the Sultanate had systematic oppressed the Indu people, abusing their authority and enforcing cruel, religious dogmas to strip them of their dignity.
As the rebels finalized their plans, the sharp, rhythmic thud of approaching horse hooves sliced through the woodland silence. Snatching their rusted farming tools, they peered into the distance. Through the heavy foliage, multiple heavy wooden carts materialized, lumbering slowly toward their hidden clearing.
The moment the caravans halted, the drivers leaped down and began offloading bundles of wrapped weapons, distributing them eagerly among the waiting rebels. One of the astute rebel fighters unwrapped a sleek, pristine matchlock musket, only for his eyes to widen in utter disbelief. Stamped clearly into the cold metal of the breach was the unmistakable imperial symbol of the Mughal Empire.
Turning sharply to his leader, the rebel whispered in astonishment, "Brother, look at this. Why do these weapons bear the Mughal inscription?"
The leader smiled knowingly, waving off his concerns. "The weapons were purchased by bribing high-ranking Mughal officials along the borders. Do not question our luck; just ready yourselves."
Unbeknownst to them, this identical scene was playing out like clockwork across the entirety of the Bengal Sultanate. Multiple fractured rebel factions were mysteriously receiving large shipments of Mughal-marked weaponry from an untraceable, unknown source, all eagerly preparing for a coordinated, bloody armed rebellion within the Sultanate.
A few days later
Under the heavy veil of twilight, one such weapons delivery caravan traveled along a secluded dirt road, charting a course toward a destined rebel stronghold. Unfortunately, their luck ran out. A heavily armed patrol of Bengal Sultanate officials intercepted the caravan.
"Halt in the name of the Sultan!" the commander thundered.
The rebels fought with ferocious, desperate bravery to defend their precious cargo, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. The overwhelming numbers of the Sultanate soldiers swarmed the road, systematically slaughtering the rebels until the last man collapsed into the dirt.
With the skirmish over, the Bengal officials began tearing open the canvas tarps of the captured carts. When the commander saw the distinct Mughal inscriptions engraved upon the muskets and swords along the with a letter on the rebel, seeing this his face turned pale with dread. Realizing the terrifying geopolitical implications, he immediately dispatched royal runners to ride day and night to report this dangerous development to the Sultan's royal court.
A short distance away, perched high within the thick branches of a sprawling banyan tree, a shadowed figure watched the entire sequence unfold. Hidden perfectly from the eyes of the Bengal soldiers, a subtle, cold smile crept onto his face.
"Mission accomplished," the man murmured to himself as an afterthought, his voice blending with the rustling leaves. "By now, they should have found the letter."
Dropping silently from the tree, the operative vanished into the shadows. He was none other than an elite agent of the Tritiya Netra—the Third Eye organization.
A week later, Gaur Capital City, Bengal Sultanate
Inside the heavily fortified private chambers of the Royal Palace, Sultan Shiraj-ud-Daulah paced back and forth like a caged predator, erupting in a furious discussion with his flustered Wazir. Resting prominently upon the ornate wooden table before him was a blood-stained parchment. It was the exact letter planted by the Third Eye agents within the captured weapons caravan.
The Sultan slammed his fist onto the table, his eyes blazing with absolute wrath. "How did you miss such a traitor among our ranks, Wazir?! To think Duke Mir Jaffer is actively plotting with the Mughals to usurp my throne! What the hell were you doing?!"
The Wazir bowed frantically, beads of cold sweat rolling down his forehead. "Your Majesty... I am extremely sorry that our intelligence missed such a grave threat to the Sultanate! But Duke Mir Jaffer has always been a decorated general. He never did anything to make us suspicious of his loyalty!"
"Should I need to execute you, Wazir, for your sheer incompetence?!" the Sultan roared, leaning aggressively over the table. "Do you know that he is currently massing soldiers in the east of his estate? We would not have even known about his treason if I had not received this intercepted letter and immediately sent my spies to investigate his lands!"
Unable to hide his catastrophic failure any longer, the Wazir could do nothing but bow his head in silent, terrified acquiescence.
As whispers of the shocking betrayal of one of the Sultanate's most celebrated nobles and generals, Duke Mir Jaffer, spread like wildfire through the court, the Sultan acted with brutal finality. He signed a royal decree mobilizing the core Royalist Army, commanding them to march east, put the traitor general in shackles, and bring him to the capital to be hanged for high treason.
Duke Mir Jaffer, realizing his secret ambitions had been prematurely exposed, refused to surrender and mobilized his vast territorial forces in self-defense. Thus, a catastrophic civil war erupted within the Bengal Sultanate, violently fracturing the nation into the Royalist faction and the Duke faction.
3 months later, Northern Command Headquarter, Khurda Kingdom
Inside the heavily guarded central office of the Northern Command, Crown Prince Vikramaditya Deva sat behind his desk, scanning the latest intelligence dispatches from the east with his flawless photographic memory. Sitting across from him was the spymaster himself, Director-General Suryasen.
Folding the paper, the prince looked up, a predatory brilliance flashing in his dark eyes. "Elder, do you know what is the best lie?"
Suryasen paused, sifting through his decades of espionage experience, before slowly nodding his head in the negative.
The prince allowed a cold, dangerous smile to touch his lips. "The best lie is one where we mix it with truth."
Hearing this, Suryasen's eyes lit up with immediate understanding. He knew exactly what the young sovereign was hinting at. Pinning the traitor's mark on Duke Mir Jaffer was masterfully deceptive because it was inherently rooted in fact; the Duke was already secretly colluding with the Mughals to organize a future coup to usurp the Bengal throne.
Vikramaditya and the Third Eye had simply fast-forwarded the timeline to their absolute advantage. By flooding the Indu rebel groups with forged letters and Mughal-inscribed weapons, and carefully orchestrating that one such consignment fall into the hands of the Sultanate army, they had forced the suspicious Sultan to investigate his own general. The resulting spark had perfectly detonated the ongoing, bloody civil war.
The prince looked back at Suryasen, his tone dropping into a harsh, commanding register. "Instruct our cells to continue deeply infiltrating both the Royalist faction and the Duke faction. Leak critical operational information from each faction to the other. We must ensure this civil war prolongs as long as possible, systematically whittling away the total military strength of the Bengal Sultanate until it becomes an easy prey for us to conquer."
Vikramaditya leaned closer over the map. "Furthermore, utilize the chaos of the rebel factions to place internal agents in key positions. When I start the war in earnest, I want those agents ready to blow up weapon caches and violently disrupt their military supply lines."
"Your command shall be executed to the letter, Your Highness," Suryasen vowed, bowing deeply before melting back into the shadows.
As the spymaster exited, the heavy wooden doors swung open. Major General Virendra, the battle-hardened commander of the Rudradev Khurda Company's private army, and Major General Aadhavan, the commander of the 25,000-strong Northern Command Army, strode into the office, dropping to one knee in a synchronized military salute.
Vikramaditya signaled them to rise, his gaze locking onto General Aadhavan. "General, is the Northern Army fully equipped with our standardized missiles, cannons, muskets, and pikes? Are the men adequately trained to utilize them in fluid line formations?"
General Aadhavan smashed his fist over his heart, answering with absolute confidence, "They are, Your Highness. The men drill daily; their movements are as automatic as machinery."
The prince nodded with icy resolve. "Excellent. Get your forces in order, Generals. Within three months, we launch a full-fledged invasion to crush the Bengal Sultanate."
Few days later
On strict, confidential orders from the prince, Chief Weapon Officer Hariharan had traveled down from the primary manufacturing branch at Badrak to the Northern Command. Entering the office, Hariharan bowed respectfully. Vikramaditya signaled him to sit, waste no time as he slid a dense, newly drafted technical document across the desk.
"Master Hariharan, I want to implement a radical overhaul of our current firearms," the prince explained, pointing to the detailed blueprints. "This document contains the complete design and details of the percussion cap concept."
The prince provided a brief, masterclass overview of the technology: "The primary advantage of the percussion cap is that it functions as a single-use percussion ignition device for muzzle-loading firearm locks, enabling our soldiers to fire reliably in any weather condition, be it torrential rain or heavy humidity. This caplock mechanism uses a small cap struck by the gun's hammer to instantly set off the main gunpowder charge. A firearm utilizing this system is called a percussion gun, and when applied to our long guns, they shall be designated as percussion rifles."
Vikramaditya tapped the drawing of the cap itself. "The percussion cap is a tiny cylinder made of copper or brass with one closed end. Inside that closed end sits a minute amount of a shock-sensitive primary explosive material—specifically, mercuric fulminate."
Hearing the alien chemical term, Hariharan frowned in deep confusion, his lips parting to ask a question.
Detecting his confusion beforehand, the prince smoothly continued, "Mercuric fulminate is a highly volatile primary explosive, exceptionally sensitive to friction, heat, and impact, which will serve as the perfect trigger for the caps. To prepare it, your alchemists must dissolve pure mercury in nitric acid, and then add ethanol to the resulting solution."
Hariharan's frown deepened. While the company's chemical and smelting divisions routinely utilized mercury and nitric acid, the final component was completely foreign. "Forgive my ignorance, Your Highness... but what is this substance you call ethanol?"
The prince answered calmly, "Ethanol is a high-purity spirit made by fermenting the sugars found within the starches of common grains—such as corn, sorghum, and barley—or from the natural sugars of sugar cane and sugar beets."
Vikramaditya stood up, leaning over the table with absolute finality. "Every mathematical calculation, chemical ratio, and mechanical drawing is explicitly detailed within that document. I want you to return to Badrak immediately and begin manufacturing. I expect enough percussion rifles to fully equip the frontline vanguard of our company army within the next three months, ready for the coming war."
A look of profound excitement flushed across Hariharan's face as he realized the paradigm-shifting nature of the weapon. Taking the document with a reverent bow, he excused himself from the prince's presence and immediately set off for the Badrak industrial complex, his mind racing with the fiery rebirth of a continent.