The soft thrum of the plane echoed through the night sky as it sliced through the clouds over the Atlantic. Arslan sat quietly beside the window, staring at nothing. Riyaz slept two seats behind him, his military coat draped over his chest, the silver strands in his beard catching the cabin lights.
The last six months had been a series of movements stitched together by willpower and wealth. Fifteen countries in four continents. Pakistan had never imagined such reach—but Arslan had never once asked permission. He'd only ever whispered dreams into reality and built roads to reach them.
The aircraft was no ordinary charter. It was fitted with communication panels, data systems, and encrypted satellite phone lines, all powered by backup systems built in Al-Riyaz facilities. The pilot and crew were PIA veterans, paid handsomely for their silence and precision. The interior, modest by luxury standards, bore no logos. The exterior remained unmarked. Anonymous. Functional.
Every landing was secured with pre-approved paperwork from Pakistan's foreign office. Every customs check was passed with generous diplomatic "gestures" and quiet endorsements from Pakistani government figures who had all received refrigerators, cars, and washing machines from Al-Riyaz at one point or another.
This was the first phase of the true game.
---
In the first half of 2006, Arslan was no longer the quiet shadow of his grandfather. He was the man in the meetings, the voice in the dinners, the closer in the backroom deals. Riyaz had become the specter of legitimacy, the known name in old files, the handshake of formality. Arslan was the one moving the needle. He played calm in Saudi Arabia. He played strict in Turkey. He played generous in Egypt. He played western in Germany and stoic in South Africa.
He studied each country the way a hunter studies terrain.
In Dubai, he secured the export of Al-Riyaz branded halal frozen snacks. In Malaysia, his offer of children's books, toys, and "Islamic educational starter kits" for urban Muslim homes was received with curiosity, then interest. In Nigeria, he started conversations around setting up a textile mill. In Turkey, Arslan brought spice samples and quietly offered to buy out a crumbling soap factory in Bursa.
Indonesia. Egypt. Lebanon. Kenya. Jordan. Morocco. Germany. France. UK. UAE. Malaysia. Bahrain. Kuwait. Qatar.
Eight countries signed initial MoUs—nothing big, just a foothold. Warehousing, some shipping agreements, local partner explorations. Seven others were tangled in bureaucracy or stalling, but Arslan was patient. He'd done this before. The first branches of Al-Riyaz in Bahawalpur weren't miracles. They were bricks and bricklayers. This was no different.
---
In each country, he met the Pakistani diaspora—white-collar, well-spoken, English-comfortable men and women. No loud politics. No obsession with the homeland. No cult-like religiosity. He wanted sane people, stable people, people who knew when to shut up and when to show up.
Some lied to him. Some failed. Some were removed quietly.
He always began with respect.
And ended with replacements.
In London, he hired three former council workers. In Berlin, two Pakistani-Germans running a halal bakery were hired as distributors. In Johannesburg, he made a deal with a Pakistani family that had owned a fabric shop since 1973.
He paid in USD. He gave flexible contracts. He sent crates of Al-Riyaz products: paper, toys, soap, salt, and snacks. Free giveaways in mosques. Card collections for kids. A whisper campaign in Urdu-language newspapers.
No giant flags. No boasts. Just seeds.
Exactly as he had done in Uch Sharif fifteen years ago.
---
By June 2006, the map had started to change.
Not visibly. Not to the world.
But to Arslan—who tracked every transaction, every product sold, every family brought into the web—it was clear.
A second root system was forming.
The new strategy was simple: Pakistani people abroad had money but little infrastructure. They missed their childhood, but didn't trust their homeland. They lived in London but remembered Rahim Yar Khan. They wanted nostalgia—but convenience. Faith—but not fanaticism.
Al-Riyaz would give them both. An empire of familiarity and order. Quality, decency, safety. No threats. No politics. Just branding.
He wouldn't fight the West.
He'd infect it.
---
Riyaz woke sometime past midnight. The hum of the aircraft remained steady. He leaned over and looked at his grandson, who now sat across a fold-out desk, eyes fixed on papers, data sheets, photographs.
He looked different.
Not in the face, not in the body.
But in presence.
The softness was gone. The cautious mascot had disappeared. What Riyaz saw now was a ruler—wordless, tireless, calculating. His voice would still be soft in public. His eyes would still sparkle for reporters. But in that moment, under that dim golden cabin light, Riyaz understood:
Arslan no longer needed anyone.
He had built Pakistan into a machine.
And now he was building a ghost.
A silent system that would wrap around the globe.
And no one—not a single nation, not a single general, not a single president—would ever know where the real power began or ended.
Because it wouldn't have a name.
Just a scent.
A taste.
A school.
A soap.
A storybook in a child's hand in Birmingham.
A card collection in a bag of candy in Beirut.
A discount stall of Al-Riyaz fruit in a Cape Town marketplace.
Invisible threads, woven across time and space.
Riyaz said nothing. Just nodded. Quietly proud.
This was no longer a legacy.
This was destiny.
The frost clung to the aircraft windows like white moss, painting abstract swirls of death and discipline. Moscow's skyline was grey, drowned in a haunting stillness that could choke the lungs of any outsider not born of cold and cruelty. Inside the parked Al-Riyaz jet, the heat was a blessing but not nearly enough. Arslan sat wrapped in three layers of wool and still felt like his soul had been buried in ice. His nose burned, fingertips tingled, and even his thoughts moved slower—as if frozen mid-sentence.
He hadn't come here for theatrics. Russia was the final country on his 2006 expansion tour, a box to tick, a door to crack open. But nothing had prepared him for this hell masquerading as a country.
"Never again," he murmured under his breath, watching fog form from his lips.
Not because he disrespected the Russians. Quite the opposite. He now understood why empires broke their teeth on this land. Napoleon. Hitler. Winter.
---
Meetings were conducted inside the heated confines of the Al-Riyaz aircraft, not out of arrogance, but survival. The Russian partners—stoic men in thick wool coats, and one sharp-faced woman from an old industrial family—stepped aboard like stepping into another world. Soft carpets. Aromatic tea. Dates. Electric heaters hidden in paneled floors. They sat down with curiosity, slightly amused but not disrespectful.
Arslan didn't talk much.
Riyaz did most of the explaining, with translators smoothing the language gaps. The conversation was as cold as the city. But behind that frost, both sides saw something they liked: mutual benefit, not emotion. Russia didn't care about image. Arslan didn't care about comfort. They both respected the quiet ruthlessness.
And so the documents were signed.
---
The contract wasn't flashy—just an agreement to provide printed books, Islamic educational kits for Muslim communities in Kazan and Dagestan, along with exploratory discussions about halal food packaging and spice distribution. Arslan didn't expect much movement for another five years, but he didn't mind. Roots grow underground first.
He left with the 18th contract of his global expansion, slipped between thick manila folders, and secured in a locked steel case under the care of his legal assistant—who had wept earlier in the trip after slipping on frozen tarmac and nearly breaking his leg. Arslan had offered him a two-month paid vacation in Dubai as compensation.
---
On their final night in Moscow, Arslan stood in the doorway of the jet's exit stair, just enough to feel the air again. The city slept like a bear, slow and dangerous. Lights flickered faintly in apartment buildings. A train screamed somewhere in the distance. His face went numb in less than a minute.
That was enough.
He turned and closed the hatch.
Russia was a good ally to have.
But he would never come back.
Let his descendants deal with Siberia. He had already frozen one life into oblivion before. This life was meant to be warm.
---
As the jet lifted into the sky, leaving behind a city carved from marble and frost, Arslan leaned back, pulled the blanket tighter around him, and smiled.
Eighteen countries.
Eighteen systems.
Eighteen fingerprints of Al-Riyaz on the globe.
And not one drop of his own sweat had fallen on foreign soil—just money, planning, and willpower.
Pakistan was his fortress.
The world was his playground.
And he was just getting started.
He had learned a long time ago that planting seeds wasn't about reward—it was about rhythm. Quiet, tireless rhythm. You water the same dirt for ten years. You stand in storms, you face ridicule. And then one spring, the trees rise.
The contracts Arslan signed in Indonesia, Malaysia, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Oman, and Qatar were ceremonial more than strategic. Import-export access, religious materials, halal food certifications, and educational booklets—each deal worth less than a single Al Riyaz fruit stall back home. The UK, Estonia, Latvia, and a handful of small island nations barely knew who he was. And Africa had smiled, shook hands, and taken the gifts, only to deliver silence later. He didn't care. That was the cost of forward time. The cost of prophecy.
He paid with cricket and lottery. The Devine Dreams continued—visions of lucky numbers whispered on a prayer mat, "revelations" about Pakistan's World Cup fate, and the ever-convenient appearance of generous benefactors claiming to have seen Arslan's image in their sleep.
It was all nonsense. Every bit of it fabricated.
But Malik Riyaz believed it. And that was enough.
---
In Saudi Arabia, they allowed a small book warehouse to be established near Jeddah. In Qatar, a formal partnership was made with a local spice distribution company. Oman allowed Friday sermon translations printed and quietly distributed—Arslan's carefully written Islamic digests, ghostwritten under a hundred names, reaching mosques in three different provinces. They didn't know they were buying into an empire. They thought they were helping a young Pakistani foundation.
In Malaysia and Indonesia, two massive religious networks agreed to test Al Riyaz educational kits—full-color books, stickers, cassette lessons for children learning Qur'an, wrapped with free soap samples and little toys. In Iran, a heavily monitored shipment of printing equipment was authorized, and in Iraq, an old politician was paid enough to smile and say yes. The bribes cost more than the contracts were worth.
Arslan didn't flinch.
He only needed legal footing. Presence. A trace.
Because one day—ten, fifteen years down the line—those islands would become strategic trade points. Those poor African countries would house mineral wealth. Those Baltic states would become data havens. And when the world noticed, Al Riyaz would already be there.
---
Every time they returned to Pakistan, Malik Riyaz would be welcomed like a victorious general. Handshakes. TV specials. Government awards. Arslan was just the quiet grandson, sitting to the side, looking politely down, rosary in hand, blinking slowly like a boy with too much shyness and too little opinion. He didn't need the spotlight. He only needed time.
The lottery wins were still whispered from pulpit to pulpit—men who won cows and goats, or had their daughters' weddings paid for after a "blessing." In the cricket-crazed nation, Arslan's dreams on match outcomes had taken on a life of their own. And the tickets sold with chips, candy, soaps, toothpaste—all wrapped in quiet gamble and quiet prayer—funded everything. Billions in silent revenue. Cash never taxed. Prayers never questioned.
---
By the end of 2006, Al Riyaz's web of global "small contracts" included over 31 countries. The gifts were enormous: Rolex watches, BMW cars, wedding dowries, scholarships, and surgical operations for dying politicians' nieces. It had cost hundreds of millions.
But the books were balanced by fiction, not math.
Because the profits didn't matter.
Not when you were building forever.
Not when you had 19 years of future knowledge still left.
And not when the next phase had finally begun.