Nagul Senapati was twenty years old—the spoiled heir of the Senapathi Stronghold, son of its reigning patriarch, and an attention-seeker to the core. If arrogance could be measured, Nagul would eclipse even Vikram Vellory, the Hammer Saint's legitimate son.
And that alone said enough.
Now, he stood on the same training ground, facing Michael—known to the world as Adhitya Vellory. To everyone watching, this was a clash between two heirs. To Nagul, it was something far more personal.
Revenge.
He still remembered the day Michael had smacked him down in the arena—the day Michael proved his identity as Adhitya Vellory. The humiliation still burned hotter than his pride allowed him to admit.
Nagul rolled his shoulders, electricity crackling across his knuckles as a smug grin stretched across his face.
"Yo," he sneered, voice loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Hammer Saint's son—get ready to take a beating. Maybe you'll walk out alive… if you're lucky."
Michael looked at him, unimpressed.
His reply came instantly—flat, savage, effortless.
"Yeah," he said, tilting his head slightly,
"just like you did when we first met in the arena, right?"
The words hit harder than any punch.
Nagul's expression twisted. The smirk cracked. Irritation flared in his eyes, lightning snapping louder around his hands.
Mr. Vayanshi stepped forward, raising his hand.
"Enough," he said calmly.
"Prepare yourselves."
The augmented combat ground hummed to life.
"Three…"
"Two…"
"One—"
WEEEEEEEE—!
A deafening alarm ripped through the training grounds.
Every movement froze.
Michael halted mid-shift. Nagul's electricity sputtered. Conversations died instantly. Heads snapped upward in confusion.
Nagul scowled.
"What the hell now?" he snapped. "When I'm just getting warmed up?"
Michael didn't speak.
Instead, his mind sharpened.
An alarm. Not scheduled. Not simulated.
So what's the variable?
The unease wasn't limited to them. Across the training grounds, soldiers stiffened. Stronghold heirs exchanged wary glances. Fear crept into places arrogance usually occupied.
What's going on?
Mr. Vayanshi's voice cut through the murmurs—steady, grounded, and unmistakably serious.
"That," he said, "is a meteor strike alarm."
Silence fell like a blade.
"A-rank or above."
The words settled heavily.
Confusion turned into shock.
Michael, however, remained calm—almost curious. A faint glimmer of amusement crossed his eyes.
What a great timing!! Let's see how C.O.S.M.O.S handles the real deal, he thought.
Mr. Vayanshi straightened.
"This is unexpected," he continued, "but we'll use it. You'll learn what a real meteor strike looks like—and why teamwork matters."
He turned sharply.
"Everyone, move. Danger Analytical Force Section. Now."
No one argued.
Within minutes, the entire group—including Michael—was escorted into the Danger Analytical Force wing.
They stopped before a massive display wall—nearly thirty feet wide—flooded with live data, satellite imagery, chakra signatures, and threat projections. The room buzzed with activity. Analysts moved with urgency, calling out readings and updates.
Even amidst the chaos, many stood frozen—stunned by the scale of the operation, the sheer power of the organization.
But Michael?
He merely observed.
Calm. Assessing. Slightly impressed.
So this, he thought quietly,
is what a truly wealthy organization looks like.
Mr. Vayanshi's gaze locked onto a familiar figure.
At the center of the command floor stood Dru Kitta, the Strike Zone Director—the authority responsible for analyzing meteor strikes within a single operational zone. Within the Danger Analytical Force, he ranked third in power, a position earned not by blood, but by sheer competence.
A non-branch family member, unaffiliated with any of the Five Strongholds.
And yet—elite.
Respected. And warm hearted being.
More importantly, he was Mr. Vayanshi's old friend.
That alone made the tension in his posture alarming.
Dru Kitta's eyes were glued to the massive display wall, fingers clenched, jaw tight. Data streams flashed relentlessly across the screen—trajectory curves, anomaly markers blinking in warning red.
He looked… shaken.
And that made Mr. Vayanshi uneasy.
If Dru is this tense, he thought, then this situation is far from normal.
Behind them, the soldiers and stronghold heirs reacted differently.
Some whispered.
Some stared in awe.
But Vikram Vellory—couldn't stand still.
Vikram crossed his arms impatiently, irritation plain on his face. Finally, he stepped forward, voice sharp and entitled like he was the Vyaan Sahay jr.
"Strike Zone Director," he barked,
"what the hell is happening here?"
A few heads turned.
Dru Kitta with tension that he was turned back.
His eyes narrowed—not in fear, but in annoyance.
He recognized that tone.
That Vellory tone.
He exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across his face but he tried to conceal his annoyance and irritation as not because of fear but not to make him feel bad in front of others.
"If you'd give me a moment," Dru said patiently,
"you'd understand that this isn't some routine alarm. The meteor—"
Mr. Vayanshi lifted a hand, stepping forward.
He knew Dru. He knew about his soft hearted and his character that he don't want to hurt anyone even it's unintentional.
"Dru," he began, intending to bail his friend from the situation without further disgrace to him by Vikram Vellory.
So he pointed on Vikram Vellory and said,
"enou—"
Before the word could leave his mouth—
A calm, cutting voice sliced through the room.
"You're questioning him," Michael said evenly,
"while your elder brother is standing right here."
Silence.
Every head snapped toward him.
Vikram stiffened.
The words hit harder than any reprimand.
Mr. Vayanshi froze mid-step, eyes widening slightly—not in anger, but surprise.
Dru Kitta turned, fully facing Michael but for them he was Aditya Vellory.
For the first time since the alarm had sounded, his tense expression shifted.
Interest flickered in his eyes.
Michael stood relaxed, hands at his sides, expression unreadable. No arrogance. No fear.
Just presence.
"You don't interrupt an authority mid-analysis," Michael continued, voice calm but firm.
"Especially when you're not the one being addressed."
Vikram's jaw clenched.
"Watch your mouth—" he snapped.
Dru raised a hand.
"That's enough," he said warmly because he didn't want this issue escalated into further tension as he already got hands full.
His eyes stayed on Michael. The eyes with a sense of admiration that an well mannered words from an boy who belonged to one of the arrogant top stronghold that ruling over the Indravana dominion.
"Well said," Dru added slowly.
"Not many your age understand hierarchy… or timing."
Mr. Vayanshi exhaled quietly.
"This kid", he thought, "keeps surprising me".
Dru turned back toward the massive screen, shoulders squaring.
"Now listen carefully, to all the people here," he said, voice sharpening.
"This meteor strike isn't just some C-rank or B-rank."
A pause.
The room leaned in.
"It's showing irregular energy resonance," Dru continued.
"Its an A+ rank meteor,but it's something we've never catalogued before."
Everyone in the room Mr.Vayanshi,Vikram Vellory,Varsha Aarin,Neha khuraar,Ranveer Rathore,and Nagul Senapati all were just shocked.
Because the tension that they were sensed from its words. Michael's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Unknown variable", he thought.
Just as I suspected.
Mr. Vayanshi's expression hardened.
"If it's an A+ rank meteor," he said slowly, each word heavy,
"then—"
Dru Kitta didn't let him finish.
"Yes," Dru replied, voice tight.
"Only S-Rank Supremes would be capable of hunting whatever Interstellar resides inside that meteor."
The room fell into a deeper silence.
Dru wasn't done.
"And that," he continued, eyes darkening,
"is exactly the problem."
He turned fully toward the gathered soldiers and heirs.
"There isn't a single Supreme present in this region. We have no confirmation of their current locations. No response channels active." His jaw clenched. "Until we establish contact, we run this operation with A and B-rank Executioners."
The words settled like a death sentence.
Everyone in the room felt it.
Some swallowed hard.
Some clenched their fists.
Some masked their fear behind arrogance.
Michael noticed it all.
Tension, he thought.
Fear pretending to be confidence.
Before anyone could speak—
A sharp shout rang out from one of Dru Kitta's subordinates.
"Strike Zone Director!"
The alarms intensified, their pitch rising into something almost painful.
"The meteor has crashed!" the subordinate yelled.
"West coastal sector—Indravana shoreline!"
Another voice cut in, frantic.
"The impact triggered a tsunami! Entire coastal settlements—destroyed! Casualties are still climbing!"
The massive screen shifted.
And hell unfolded before their eyes.
Walls of water swallowing homes.
Ships tossed like toys.
People running—screaming—vanishing beneath the waves.
The command center went silent except for the alarms.
Neha scoffed softly, disgust etched across her face.
"Pathetic," she muttered, looking away.
Vikram and Ranveer stared, their expressions conflicted—something close to concern flickering briefly before being smothered by self-interest. To them, those lives felt distant. Disposable. Like puppies crushed under an accident—unfortunate, but forgettable.
Varsha remained still.
As usual, no reaction.
Her face was a flawless mask.
Michael watched the screen longer than anyone else.
He felt it—the grief, the terror, the helplessness.
And yet… beneath it all—
He didn't care enough to act.
Sympathy without attachment, he realized.
That's what I've become.
The feed shifted again.
Now—the crash site.
The meteor lay embedded in the ruined shoreline, a colossal mass of fractured black stone steaming against the broken earth.
For a moment—
Nothing happened.
No movement.
No sound.
Just silence.
Then—
CRACK.
The sky itself seemed to split.
A jagged tore open above the impact zone, black lightning crawling through the fracture like veins. The air warped, reality bending inward as the crack widened.
People near the shore froze.
Across the world, millions watching the live broadcast screamed.
Inside the Danger Analytical Force—
No one breathed. The meteor burst open.
Not exploded—hatched.
From within emerged a serpentine body, stretching for kilometers. Its form was grotesque, unnatural—pitch-black scales absorbing light, dozens of malformed eyes sliding open across its flesh, each one blinking independently.
The thing rose slowly, deliberately.
As if savoring the fear. Then it roared.
The sound wasn't just noise—it was terror given voice.
Executioners on-site collapsed to their knees.
Civilians screamed, clutching their heads.
People watching the broadcast fainted or fled in panic.
Even within the DAF command center, seasoned soldiers staggered, pressure crushing their chests.
The roar echoed through minds, not ears.
Dru Kitta's hands trembled.
"This…" he whispered, voice barely holding together.
"This is beyond prediction."
Michael stared at the screen. His pupils contracted.
Not in fear. In recognition.
Something deep inside him stirred—something old, hungry, familiar behind the door that was there inside him.
His lips curved almost imperceptibly.
So, he thought,
you finally came out.
And somewhere far away—
The Interstellar's many eyes slowly shifted.
Locking onto something unseen.Locking onto him.