Reborn In 17th century India with Black Technology

Jayalalithaa proceeded to start the interview with her question. "First of all, Mr. Raftaar, let me congratulate you on your victory in the 500-meter sprint competition. That being said, how do you feel about your victory ?"

Raftaar answered honestly, "Thank you, miss, that’s very kind of you. As for how the victory felt, it was amazing! I’m almost addicted to that feeling. If possible, I’d like to win again."

Jayalalithaa felt pleased with his straightforward answer. "Well, that’s good to hear. We know that you’re from Balochistan and have worked very hard to get where you are. Can you tell me a bit about it?"

"That is true, I am from Balochistan, and I’ve gone through a lot to get to this place. I’m an orphan, you see. I used to work as a laborer at a construction site in my town, so if it weren’t for the event held by the Empire on the command of His Majesty, I’d still be a small laborer working there."

"So I am very grateful to the Empire and the Benevolent Emperor for giving someone like me a chance."

While the interview was going on, Jayamma was feeling nervous because Raftaar hadn’t yet mentioned her pickles.

Zafir was worried about the same thing. He knew that his brother hadn’t mentioned it yet not because he didn’t want to, but simply because he hadn’t had the opportunity. Knowing his brother’s straightforward temperament and his inability to weave words, Zafir began to sweat.

"Your story is inspirational, Mr. Raftaar. I’m sure you’ll be a motivation for many people in the Empire. Now, for the final question: what is the secret or hack you’d suggest to young people who want to run faster like you?"

Raftaar, nervous about not having had a chance to advertise the pickles, bit the bullet and blurted out, "I would suggest everyone try Jayamma’s new pickle. It’s not only delicious but also helps with energy recovery. That’s why I’m currently holding this pickle—to recover quickly for my next race!"

Without thinking further, Raftaar quickly removed the pickle jar lid and drank the pickle juice in a few gulps.

"Jayamma’s Pickles! Everyone should remember this. This is the secret of my strength!" He shouted this at the top of his lungs, drawing the attention of nearby athletes and some in the audience. Raftaar felt relieved, like someone who had been holding it in for the longest time and suddenly opened the floodgates.

But his response left everyone dumbfounded, including Jayamma and Zafir, who knew what he was doing.

Reporter Jayalalithaa didn’t know how to continue the conversation, so she quickly asked her colleague if he had captured all the rough sketches of Raftaar. After confirming, she thanked Raftaar for his interview and left.

"Brother, you..." Zafir was speechless. He rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. He would never have expected that asking his brother to advertise would lead to him actually drinking the product himself in front of the public.

Is this really advertising?

Who on earth does that?

Even though Zafir didn’t know much about advertising, he was certain that this was *not* how it was done. But what was done was done, and time was ticking. He didn’t want to spoil Raftaar’s mood, especially since he was in such high spirits.

Thirty minutes passed in the blink of an eye, and it was time for Raftaar to get back on the track.

"Raftaar! Raftaar! Raftaar!"

The shouts echoed through the stadium. Though most people knew that Raftaar was unlikely to win this race, given the short recovery time, they still cheered him on with enthusiasm. To them, Raftaar felt like a member of their own family.

Raftaar’s excitement grew once again, and strangely, he felt just as full of energy as he had before the 500-meter race. He was momentarily confused, but there was no time to dwell on it as the race was about to start in a few minutes.

As a last-minute preparation, he hopped around and stretched a few times to warm up his body. Standing at the starting line, he closed his eyes, feeling his thumping heartbeat, surging adrenaline, and a clear, focused mind.

"Ready, set, 3, 2, 1..."

Raftaar leaned forward slightly, like a swimmer about to dive into the water. His body tensed to its maximum, and his twitch muscles were primed to unleash their reflexes at a moment’s notice.

*Clap!*

His neurons fired like a binary switch, sending energy surging through his veins. Like a predator, Raftaar blasted out of the starting line, holding nothing back and giving it his all. Enjoy exclusive adventures from empire

Kiran Shastri and Harbhajan Singh, both favourites to win the race, looked stunned as Raftaar, whom they had dismissed as no threat, easily surged past them, gaining ground with every passing millisecond.

The crowd seemed frozen in time as they watched Raftaar’s incredible feat. He was dominating the 100-meter sprint.

"Come on, Raftaar my boy, run!" Simeon Brezhnev, usually calm and collected, had uncharacteristically stood up, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Even the other diplomats who had bet against Raftaar felt no resentment; instead, they were mesmerized by his feat of glory. *It’s beautiful,* they all thought, their hearts captivated.

Vijay had also risen, his eyes wide open, realizing that the speed Raftaar was achieving was nearing the humanly possible limit of this era. In this moment, Raftaar was the epitome of human potential.

"How is this possible?" Vijay couldn’t help but ask himself. He hadn’t had much confidence in Raftaar; it was nearly impossible to restore lost energy in this era without energy drinks containing electrolytes. He had assumed the best Raftaar could manage was second or third place. But watching Raftaar in his bright, vibrant colours, running at the fastest speed humanly possible, Vijay was stupefied. He felt he was witnessing a miracle—until a thought struck him.

"Wait, could it be?" Vijay considered another possibility. Energy drinks weren’t the only way to replenish electrolytes, Since electrolytes are present in many other foods. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, Raftaar’s sponsor was a pickle company—a product rich in electrolytes. Although crude, drinking the pickle juice might replenish energy faster, maybe 10 to 20 percent faster than water alone. Could this have given Raftaar the edge he desperately needed?

The more Vijay thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. His mouth twitched at the sheer coincidence of events. "So this is what they call fate, huh? How else could one explain Raftaar being sponsored by the only company whose product could even remotely act as an energy drink? And that product isn’t even meant for drinking! And how else could one explain it landing in the hands of someone who would actually dare to drink pickle juice directly—it’s a condiment, for God’s sake. How ridiculously coincidental is this?"

Vijay simply shook his head and sat back down.

It all felt like a flash of light for Raftaar as he focused, narrowing his gaze and thrusting forward with all his might. He felt himself accelerating faster than ever, instinctively making micro-adjustments in his posture to improve his running.

At that moment, he felt like the god of running, a feeling he had never experienced before. And before he knew it, he crossed the line. He had won.

Raftaar was the champion—the fastest Bharatiya alive.

"Woahhhhh!"

"Ahhhhh!"

"Graaaaaaaa!"

The crowd went wild, the diplomats went wild—everyone was screaming at the top of their lungs. It wasn’t every day they got a chance to witness a miracle. At that moment, Raftaar—an orphan, a labourer, a poor boy from Balochistan—had achieved his calling. He had reached divine glory. Bathed in the evening glow, he stood there, taking it all in, his eyes wide open as he looked around at the countless people showering him with flowers and vibrant colours. He felt like he was at the peak of the world. Even though he could feel his legs begin to throb and twitch, he didn’t mind; the moment was too addictive and magical.

Zafir had tears in his eyes as he quickly ran forward and hugged Raftaar. "You did it, man, you did it," he said, his voice choked with emotion. This heartfelt moment moved many in the audience, especially those in the front row who could no longer hold back.

They jumped over the fence, ran towards Raftaar, lifted him onto their shoulders, and tossed him into the air. n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Raftaar, Raftaar!"

Continuous shouts rang out as they threw him up and down. Raftaar finally laughed, letting out all his emotions.

"I made it. I actually made it," he thought to himself as his world moved in slow motion. And at last, he slipped into a deep sleep from sheer exhaustion.