The System didn't ask permission.
It just rewarded.
Bharat woke to the sound of bells—not temple bells, not alarm bells. Something else. Something that rang inside his skull like a tuning fork struck against bone.
His phone screen glowed in the dark: 3:33 AM.
Of course.
The System had a sense of theater.
Then the words appeared.
Not on the phone. Not on a wall.
In the air.
Floating script, faint gold light bleeding through the edges like ink soaking through cheap paper:
TASK COMPLETE. REWARD UNLOCKED: CONTRACT VISION.
ABILITY: See what debts bind. See what fears hide. See who is marked.
Bharat sat up slowly, heart hammering against his ribs like something trying to break free.
"Contract Vision."
He said it aloud. Testing the weight of the words.
The room shifted.
Not physically. But the air thickened, became textured—like someone had turned on a second layer of reality he'd never noticed before.
He looked at his hands.
Faint lines glowed beneath his skin. Script. Tiny, intricate, running along his veins like veins themselves—words he couldn't quite read but could feel.
Debt.
Vow.
Binding.
"What the hell—"
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Three sharp raps on the bedroom door.
Ayesha's voice drifted through, clipped and bored as ever.
"Breakfast meeting. Rajan called it. Mandatory attendance."
"Why?"
"Because he wants to watch you squirm."
Bharat pulled on a shirt, still staring at his hands. The script was fading now, sinking back beneath the skin like something retreating underwater.
But it was still there.
He could feel it.
Waiting.
The dining hall was a performance space disguised as a room.
High ceilings. Crystal chandeliers that looked like they'd been imported from some European palace's bankruptcy sale. A table long enough to seat twenty, polished until you could see your own guilt reflected back at you.
Rajan sat at the head.
Dressed in white linen that probably cost more than Bharat's mother's entire medical file. Calm. Composed. The kind of calm that came from knowing you owned the room and everyone in it.
Bharat walked in.
Every head turned.
The uncles. The cousins. The distant relatives who'd shown up like vultures sensing a carcass. All of them watching, assessing, calculating whether he'd survive the next ten minutes.
Mira sat to Rajan's left.
Silent. Still. Her face carved from ice and indifference.
She didn't look at Bharat.
That was the first warning.
Rajan gestured to the chair across from him—the one positioned so Bharat would have to look directly into the morning sun slanting through the windows.
"Sit."
Not a request.
Bharat sat.
The wood was cold beneath him. Expensive. Uncomfortable. Designed to remind you that luxury wasn't the same as kindness.
Rajan smiled.
"Sleep well?"
"Well enough."
"Good. Good."
Rajan picked up a teacup—delicate porcelain, hand-painted, probably worth more than Bharat's entire wardrobe.
"I wanted to discuss your… position here."
"My position as Mira's husband?"
"Your position as a man who walked in with nothing and now sits at my table."
The uncles chuckled. Polite. Rehearsed. Like they'd been trained to laugh on cue.
Bharat felt it then.
The Vision activating.
Not his choice. The System didn't ask. It just… opened.
Rajan's face blurred.
For a heartbeat, Bharat saw something else—lines of light crawling across Rajan's skin, sinking into his throat, wrapping around his wrists like invisible chains.
Words.
Debts.
Contracts written in blood and signed in silence.
And beneath it all—fear.
Not fear of Bharat.
Fear of exposure.
Bharat's vision sharpened.
He saw it clearly now—Rajan's greatest terror wasn't violence. Wasn't even death.
It was the ledger.
The offshore accounts. The black-money trails. The temples that took donations and turned them into power. The names. The numbers. The proof that Rajan's fortune was built on bones.
"You're quiet," Rajan said softly.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
Bharat leaned back in his chair. Casual. Like he was discussing the weather.
"Offshore accounts."
The teacup stopped halfway to Rajan's mouth.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
The room went still. Not silent—still. Like someone had paused a video mid-frame.
Bharat kept his voice light.
"I was just wondering—how does someone manage so many accounts across so many borders? The logistics must be exhausting."
Rajan's smile thinned. Just a fraction. Just enough.
"I don't know what you're implying—"
"I'm not implying anything."
Bharat met Rajan's eyes.
"I'm just curious. Professional interest."
One of the uncles cleared his throat. Nervous. Like he'd just realized the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees.
Rajan set the teacup down.
Slow.
Deliberate.
"You should be careful, Bharat."
"Of what?"
"Making accusations you can't prove."
"Who said anything about accusations?"
Bharat tilted his head, all innocence.
"I just asked a question."
Rajan's jaw tightened. Barely visible. But Bharat saw it—saw the fear crawling beneath the skin, the contracts binding him to secrets he couldn't afford to lose.
"You're playing a dangerous game."
"Am I playing? Or am I just learning the rules?"
CRACK.
Rajan's hand came down on the table—hard enough to rattle the porcelain, hard enough to make the uncles flinch.
"Enough."
His voice was low. Controlled. But the control was fraying at the edges.
"You walk into this house with nothing. You marry my niece under suspicious circumstances. And now you sit here making veiled threats?"
"Not threats."
Bharat stood slowly.
"Just observations."
He turned to leave.
"Bharat."
Rajan's voice stopped him at the door.
"You think you're clever. But cleverness doesn't save you in this family."
Bharat looked back.
"What does?"
Rajan smiled.
"Knowing when to kneel."
Bharat walked out into the hallway.
Heart hammering.
Hands shaking.
He'd just poked a tiger with a stick made of spite and desperation.
But it had worked.
Rajan was scared.
And scared men made mistakes.
That's when the Vision flared again.
Without warning.
Without mercy.
Bharat's reflection in the hallway mirror—changed.
He saw himself.
But not as he was.
He saw the contracts. The script. The bindings written into his flesh by the Temple System.
And there—glowing faintly above his heart—
A mark.
A symbol.
Script he couldn't read but understood in his bones.
祭品級.
Sacrifice Grade.
The words hit him like a fist to the chest.
He was marked.
Not just bound.
Marked for offering.
The System hadn't saved him.
It had tagged him.
Like livestock.
Like meat.
His vision swam.
The hallway tilted.
And somewhere—deep in the temple, deep in the dark—
He heard it.
Laughter.
Soft.
Patient.
Waiting.