As the A+ Interstellar beast began to slither toward the seashore, terror rippled outward like a second tsunami.
Its colossal form dwarfed the coastline—each movement of its serpentine body crushing debris, dragging the ocean itself along with it.
The ground trembled in protest. Buildings that had survived the waves now crumbled beneath sheer pressure.
People on the shore—vacationers, locals, survivors—froze.
Some screamed.
Some ran.
Some simply stood there, minds refusing to accept the scale of what approached them.
Across the Dominion, millions watched the live broadcast.
Screens shook.
Commentators fell silent.
Analysts in studios paled as their models collapsed into useless numbers.
Inside the Danger Analytical Force, fear seeped through even the most disciplined ranks.
This wasn't just an A+ Interstellar.
This was something wrong.
Analysts whispered to each other in broken voices.
"Is it really A+…?"
"Can Executioners even slow that thing?"
"What if the Supremes don't respond in time…?"
No one said the last thought out loud—but everyone felt it.
If the Supremes don't come… this coast dies.
Michael stood among them, hands in his pockets, face calm.
Too calm.
To everyone else, this was an impending catastrophe.
To him—
It felt familiar.
Not the destruction.
Not the fear.
But the sensation crawling up his spine.
The pressure.
The silence between heartbeats.
The way the world seemed to hold its breath.
It reminded him of something buried deep inside himself.
Not a memory.
A door.
And something behind it was listening.
At the battle site, reinforcements arrived.
The air split as armored carriers descended, kicking up sand and seawater.
Leading them—
War General Rudra Shakthiraya.
A man forged by countless meteor strikes, his presence alone steadying the battlefield. His aura pressed outward—firm, unyielding—like a wall against chaos. Soldiers straightened unconsciously when he stepped forward, gripping his weapon as if it were an extension of his will.
Beside him stood another figure.
Casual. Relaxed. With rum on his hand.
Smiling.
Rithvik Rajmiran.
Chief of the Danger Eradication Force.
The same man who laughed while slums burned.
The same man who turned lives into expendable data.
The same man—
Who had reduced an entire family in the outcast district of Michael's to ash.
Michael's gaze locked onto him.
For a brief moment, the world narrowed.
He remembered screams.
Fire.
A boy's defiance.
A mother's desperation.
His jaw tightened.
Rage stirred—but it didn't explode.
Not yet.
It coiled.
Compressed.
Patient.
Rithvik stretched lazily, eyes glittering with interest as he watched the massive Interstellar approach.
"Well, well," he said, voice carrying easily.
"Looks like we've got ourselves a real spectacle."
Both War General Rudra Shakthiraya and Danger Eradication Force Chief Rithvik stood at the forefront of their respective forces, facing the colossal A+ Interstellar that loomed near the shoreline.
Panic was visible—especially in the soldiers' eyes.
For Rudra, it wasn't fear that clouded his expression, but confusion and crushing responsibility. His gaze swept across the battlefield, across the trembling ranks under his command. These weren't cowards—they were men staring at something far beyond human scale.
The fate of the country weighed heavily on him.
Slowly, deliberately, Rudra stepped forward.
An unseen pressure radiated outward from his body—dense, immovable, like iron embedded into the earth itself.
Iron Edict.
The moment his aura engulfed his soldiers, something fundamental changed.
Fear drained away. Hesitation vanished.
Doubt ceased to exist.
The trembling stopped.
One by one, soldiers straightened their backs, their breathing steadying, eyes burning with resolve. They suddenly understood what had happened—not through explanation, but through instinct.
"This… this calm…"
"The fear… it's gone…"
Realization struck them all at once.
It was him.
War General Rudra Shakthiraya.
A thunderous roar erupted from the ranks.
"HURRAY!"
"HURRAY!"
"HURRAY!"
Under Iron Edict, every soldier beneath his command felt an overwhelming willingness to fight—to bleed—to die if needed. Not because they were forced, but because their general stood unshaken before annihilation.
Rudra remained silent.
That was his way.
In stark contrast, Rithvik stood behind his own battalions, a twisted smile curling at the edge of his lips.
His eyes gleamed—not with concern, but with excitement.
Adrenaline surged through him like poison-laced fire. This was the chaos he lived for.
But his soldiers were different.
They weren't frontline Executioners. They were trained primarily for Interstellar farming, evacuation support, and contingency response.
They had seen danger—but not this.
Their morale shattered.
Some stepped back.
Then more.
Then entire squads began retreating.
Rithvik's smile vanished.
"HEY!"
His voice cracked like a whip across the battlefield.
"You miserable suckers—who gave you permission to back off?!"
The soldiers froze.
Not because of loyalty.
Because of fear.
A suffocating presence erupted from Rithvik, slamming directly into their minds.
Ashen Authority.
Chaos bloomed within their consciousness—conflicting impulses, dread, obedience, pain. Their thoughts tangled, shattered, and reassembled around a single command:
Obey.
Their eyes went dull.
Faces blank.
Movements mechanical.
Like puppets with severed strings reattached incorrectly.
Without protest, they turned back toward the Interstellar and began marching—legs shaking, minds broken, terror buried under forced compliance.
Rudra watched the scene unfold.
Disgust flickered briefly across his hardened face.
He despised this method.
Despised this man.
Yet he said nothing.
Because his orders came from one authority alone.
The Hammer Saint.
And for Rudra Shakthiraya, absolute obedience to the Hammer Saint outweighed every personal belief, every moral instinct, every shred of revulsion.
Emotion had no place here.
Only duty.
Ahead of them, the A+ Interstellar shifted—its grotesque eye narrowing as it sensed the amassed forces.
The voice of Strike Zone Director Dru Kitta crackled through the transmitter, directed straight to Chief Rithvik Rajmiran.
"Chief Rithvik," Dru said tensely, eyes locked on the live feed, "we don't know its attack pattern or confirmed abilities yet. Until we gather data, we can't notify any available Supremes with accuracy—so—"
Rithvik cut him off mid-sentence.
"Ahhh," he drawled lazily, irritation laced with amusement. "I get it. I know exactly what I should do now."
War general Rudra Shakthiraya,"Make it fast,we don't have all day,"
With irritation and rum in his hands,"Don't order me ,war general"
At the Danger Analytical Force, everyone leaned forward instinctively.
Varsha watched without expression.
Nagul's lips curled in anticipation.
Ranveer's eyes gleamed with curiosity.
Vikram stood impatient, arms crossed.
Neha stared coldly, almost bored.
Only Michael felt something deeply wrong.
A knot twisted in his chest.
He turned sharply toward Dru Kitta.
"What… is he going to do?"
Dru opened his mouth to answer—
But before a word could escape, Rithvik's voice exploded through every speaker.
"DISPATCH THE VAANJETS."
The shout silenced the entire room.
Every conversation died instantly as the massive wall screen zoomed in on the battlefield.
Three sleek Vaanjets roared into view, tearing through the sky toward the A+ Interstellar.
They spread wide, circling it from a safe distance, engines screaming as they tightened their formation.
Then—
Firing sequence engaged.
Brilliant laser beams lanced out, striking the Interstellar dead center and also with the missiles.
All the beams passed straight through it. And all the missiles bursts as before reaching its body most likely get deflected. And then the energy released from the burst gets absorbed by the interstellar.
No resistance.
No reaction.
Nothing.
At the seashore.
At the DAF.
Across the live broadcast.
Everyone froze.
"Reduce the distance," Rithvik ordered casually. "Shoot it down properly. No half-assed meat hands."
The Vaanjets obeyed, closing in and firing concentrated beams at close range.
That's when it happened.
The Interstellar stopped moving.
Its massive serpentine body shuddered—then expanded.
Gasps rippled through every observer.
Suddenly, grotesque extensions burst from its body—long, blade-like appendages slicing through the air.
In a single horrifying motion—
Slash.
All three Vaanjets were halted midair.
Their upper hulls were cleanly sliced open.
The screen zoomed in.
Inside the exposed cockpits—
Outcasts.
Trembling.
Screaming.
Begging for life.
Michael's breath hitched.
"What the fuck—" he whispered, rage flooding his voice. "Why are there people inside them?!"
Before Dru could respond—
Vikram scoffed.
"People?" he said dismissively. "They're scrapegoats. Used to analyze attack patterns of unknown Interstellars."
Michael didn't speak.
His jaw tightened.
Ranveer chuckled. "What? Still emotionally attached to outcasts?"
Neha sneered. "Pathetic. Imagine caring about those damn pricks."
Varsha said nothing.
The screen showed the Interstellar move again.
Its appendages pierced the trapped outcasts—bodies shriveling instantly, flesh collapsing inward, eyes sinking, forms reduced to blackened cinders before vanishing entirely.
Data streams exploded across the analysts' panels.
Energy absorption. Biological annihilation.
Unknown conversion process.
Everyone began analyzing.
Everyone—except Michael.
Mr. Vayanshi spoke quietly, firmly.
"Aditya," he said, "maybe you spent some time among outcasts. But remember—you are now under the Hammer's order. A Vellory. Keep that in mind."
Michael didn't answer.
His eyes burned.
His fists clenched.
"Because of this," he thought, venom seeping into every word,
"I want to burn this whole fucking system to the ground"
He remembered everyone's face so that he could crush them to his heart content.