Chapter 3: The Calm Before the Storm

I flew to a certain 'superpower country'—everyone knew it was the US—and bought up every weapon they’d sell. The warehouse echoed with the clang of metal and the low hum of engines, like a Diwali mela for doomsday preppers.

Because my payments were endless, I even acquired two nuclear bombs through shadowy channels. The deal was straight out of a crime thriller—papers signed in a smoky back room, me humming a Sholay tune: “Jo darr gaya, samjho marr gaya.”

I hid a nuclear submarine and a plane in a secret bay, with a tunnel from my fortress leading right to them. The sub gleamed beneath the waves—my private escape route, only accessible by fingerprint scanner and a Bollywood-worthy secret code.

Two instructors drilled me daily in piloting both submarine and aircraft. They were tough but fair, barking orders like South Indian action heroes. Every early morning lesson, I grumbled—but deep down, I loved it.

To keep superpowered players away, I built artificial reefs in distant waters. Any big ship would run aground and sink. Each reef was named for a notorious river—Ganges, Brahmaputra, Yamuna. The workers joked about the "desi Bermuda Triangle."

Closer to shore, I set up an electrified net circling the island. It glowed blue at night, warning lights blinking. I tested it myself, heart pounding at every zap.

Along the coast, bombs and radar systems waited, ready to blow up or shoot down anything that got close. The radar screens flickered, green lines sweeping the horizon. No one would catch me off guard.

Overhead, I strung a massive electric net to keep virus-carrying birds away. The wires shimmered in the sun, almost invisible, but deadly. Even the seagulls learned to steer clear.

Within a year, every defence system was ready. I stood on the tallest hill, wind in my hair, watching the sunset. For a moment, I felt like the hero at the end of a masala blockbuster—invincible, but utterly alone.

To mislead the enemy, I launched fake tourism projects around the world. Press releases, Insta posts, even staged influencer trips—#NavbharatLuxury trended for days. The real action, though, was hidden far from the limelight.

I built backup shelters in the Swiss Alps, Arunachal forests, Rajasthan deserts. Each stocked, each ready. I plotted every escape route, never leaving anything to chance.

When the last batch of NPCs left, I was alone on Navbharat Island. I wandered through empty halls, footsteps echoing. Sometimes, I’d pause at a window, watching rain lash the glass, feeling powerful and desperately lonely at the same time.

I spent billions to buy a space tech company—acquiring 6,122 satellites. The sky above twinkled with my own private network. Internet faster than Jio, every camera and sensor reporting to me alone.

This year, I bought every airline and shipping company in the world. News headlines went wild—memes of me as a desi Thanos filled WhatsApp. “Itna paisa aaya toh dimag kharab ho gaya lagta hai!”

In the final week, I destroyed every plane and ship. Ports and airports became graveyards. People protested, but I was untouchable. Only the players understood: the world’s richest person was also their deadliest rival.

A chat window popped up—Rohan, of course. “Neha, is that global tycoon you?”

I let the message sit, unread. In this game, silence was stronger than any weapon. He was the only one who’d seen me pick infinite wealth, but I left him guessing.

A week later, the apocalypse arrived. The sky turned black, winds howled, screens everywhere counting down. I walked the empty halls, the rain a steady drum outside, and a strange calm settled over me.

The world chat filled with threats and boasts as players prepared for war. I watched it all from my command centre, a mandir lamp flickering at my side. As the first lightning bolt split the sky above Navbharat Island, I realised—out here, money could buy everything except trust.