At the Danger Analytical Force (DAF)
Inside the Danger Analytical Force section, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Rows of analysts worked in grim silence, eyes locked onto cascading data streams, holographic projections, and the massive wall display showing the A+ rank Interstellar advancing toward the western coastline of the Indravana Dominion.
Every movement.
Every fluctuation.
Every attack pattern.
All of it was being dissected with surgical precision.
And the price for this verification—
Was the lives of outcasts.
Disposable.
Replaceable.
Useful only as data points.
The C.O.S.M.O.S. didn't hesitate. Not for a second.
Their arrogance.
Their inhumanity.
It made something inside Michael boil.
He was born an outcast. Lived as one. Bled as one.
Yet he didn't move.
Didn't shout.
Didn't protest.
Because none of those deaths—no matter how grotesque—burned deeper than his mother's murder. A death orchestrated, justified, and erased by the very same C.O.S.M.O.S for the Order of the hammer.now calling this analysis.
The world pretended there were many divisions—jobs, organizations, affiliations.
But in truth, there were only two.
The Order of the Hammer.
And the Outcasts.
Michael sat alone in the corner of the DAF section, head lowered, jaw tight, fists clenched just enough to hurt.
Vikram Vellory's voice cut through the silence.
"You still haven't crawled out of those asshole people," he sneered. "You're a disgrace to the Vellory family."
Michael didn't respond.
Didn't even look up.
He refused to watch the seashore feed. Refused to witness any more deaths he couldn't stop.
Silence was the only thing keeping him intact.
Nearby, Mr. Vayanshi and Strike Zone Director Dru Kitta both noticed him.
They said nothing.
What mattered more—at least to them—was the monster approaching landfall.
At the center platform, the Chief Analyst stepped forward, voice steady but tense.
"Zone Director," he said, "we've concluded the primary power exhibited by the A+ Interstellar based on the Vaanjet engagement and the… outcast consumption."
Dru Kitta straightened instantly.
"Good," he replied. "What ability does it possess?"
The analyst gestured, projecting a rotating model of the serpentine beast.
"It appears to be a kinetic-feeding entity," he explained. "The Interstellar absorbs kinetic energy from its surroundings—movement, impacts, weapon discharge—and converts it into biological mass."
The room went silent.
Mr. Vayanshi stiffened.
Vikram frowned.
Neha's eyes narrowed.
Ranveer leaned forward.
Nagul's smirk faded.
Even Varsha showed the slightest flicker of surprise.
C-rank soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.
Dru Kitta's voice cut sharply through the tension.
"That's a bold claim," he said. "On what basis did you reach this conclusion? Explain."
The analyst nodded.
"When the Vaanjets fired at long range, the Interstellar showed no reaction," he said. "But once the firing intensity and proximity increased, its mass expanded rapidly."
The analyst expanded the projection, lines of data flaring brighter.
"Furthermore," he continued, voice tight, "the creature possesses a defensive kinetic layer. Any attack that strikes this layer doesn't damage it—instead, the kinetic force is converted directly into the energy required for its growth."
The room stiffened.
Laser fire.
Explosions.
Even resistance itself—
All of it fed the beast.
Dru Kitta slammed his palm onto the console.
"Then what the hell are we supposed to do?" he snapped.
The Chief Analyst hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.
"Only the Supremes," he said quietly. "They may be able to overwhelm it with absolute force—power beyond conversion."
He swallowed.
"But even that is an assumption. If they fail…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
It would be the doom of the Indravana Dominion.
Shock rippled through the room.
The implication settled like poison.
The harder they fought—
The stronger it became.
And somewhere in the corner of the DAF section, unseen and unheard—
Michael's silence deepened.
Because now, even survival itself had become fuel for a monster.
BOOM.
A massive explosion tore through the speakers.
Everyone jerked toward the main screen.
No one had authorized further attacks.
No one was supposed to move.
So who the hell—
The feed stabilized.
And there he was.
Chief Rithvik.
Standing atop a Vaanjet hurtling through the sky at insane speed, wind tearing at his coat, a bottle of rum clutched in one hand like a trophy.
He tilted his head back, draining it in one savage gulp.
Then he roared—
"DRUNKARD'S FLAME!"
From his free hand, an inferno erupted—an overwhelming torrent of fire crashing into the Interstellar's body.
For a heartbeat—
Nothing.
Then the beast grew.
Its mass expanded grotesquely, scales thickening, body swelling as if pleased.
Rithvik clicked his tongue.
"Fuck," he muttered. "Then all I gotta do is increase the fire."
He pulled out another bottle.
Drank.
Laughed.
"DRUNKARD'S FLAME!"
This time the fire was monstrous—several times stronger, drowning the horizon in burning light.
Still—
No damage.
Only growth.
The Interstellar loomed larger, closer to the shore, its presence suffocating the sky itself.
Inside the DAF—
Dru Kitta's face twisted with fury.
"What the hell is wrong with this drunkard?" he snarled.
He activated the transmitter.
"Restrain yourself, Chief of the DEF!"
Rithvik's laughter crackled through the channel.
"Shut up," he said casually. "Don't tell me what to do."
Dru Kitta's voice hardened.
"Behave yourself, Rithvik, or you will face the consequences—"
The transmission cut off.
On screen, Rithvik ripped the transmitter from his ear—
—and burned it to ash in his palm.
Dru Kitta froze.
Veins bulged at his temple.
The man who rarely lost his composure was seething.
Before he could explode—
The Chief Analyst spoke, fast and controlled.
"Zone Director," he said, "calm down. I… have an idea."
Chief Rithvik didn't stop.
Even knowing the truth—
Even after watching the beast grow with every strike—
He ordered the Vaanjets forward.
"Fire," he barked.
The pilots hesitated for barely a second before obeying.
Laser beams carved through the air again.
The Interstellar reacted instantly.
Its massive body twisted, scales rippling—and one of its elongated appendages snapped forward like a guillotine.
A Vaanjet was caught mid-beam.
Crushed.
Split open.
Inside, the two pilots screamed—briefly.
Their bodies withered in seconds, flesh turning brittle, then ash, siphoned clean as the creature fed.
Rithvik grinned.
"Feed as much as you want," he growled. "Before I end you."
He leapt.
Jumped straight off the Vaanjet, flames igniting around his arm as he flew toward the Interstellar like a meteor of his own—
BAM!
A violent impact struck him from the side.
Rithvik was launched away, tumbling through the air.
He twisted mid-flight, barely managing to grab onto a passing Vaanjet. His fingers glowed red-hot as he melted the metal beneath his grip, anchoring himself in place.
The jet screamed under the strain but held.
Rithvik straightened, fury blazing.
"Who the fuck—"
Across from him, standing calmly atop another Vaanjet—
War General Rudra Shakthiraya.
Rithvik's eyes narrowed.
"What's your fucking problem?" he snarled.
Rudra's voice was cold. Measured.
"If you're dumb enough to make the situation worse," he said, "do it in some other execution. Not here."
Rithvik's aura flared.
"I'll kill you."
Rudra didn't flinch.
"Careful, dog from Rajmiran," he replied. "C.O.S.M.O.S is the only thing keeping you alive right now."
His gaze sharpened.
"And don't forget—outside this uniform, you belong to the Order of Hammer too."
Rithvik felt it.
That name.
That weight.
Rudra leaned forward slightly.
"Say one word out of line," he continued, "and your stronghold—your family—will be buried under the ground."
For the first time, Rithvik hesitated.
Inside his mind, rage twisted.
"Fuck you and your bloodline", he thought.
"We're equals now—Executioners. But once I become a Supreme… then we'll see who rots".
Before another word could be exchanged—
The Interstellar struck.
A massive body slam sent Rudra flying—
Straight into the sea.
Water exploded upward like a detonated bomb.
Rithvik burst out laughing.
"Well," he said mockingly, "looks like today isn't your day."
But his laughter died quickly.
The Interstellar began to move.
Fast.
Too fast.
It surged toward the shore.
Panic erupted.
On the beaches—children screamed.
Mothers clutched their families.
Men froze, paralyzed by the sheer scale of death marching toward them.
Across the Dominion, people watching the live broadcast felt their blood run cold.
Inside the DAF—
Mr. Vayanshi clenched his fists.
Dru Kitta's voice cracked. "What… what happens now?"
The Chief Analyst had no answer.
Ranveer Rathore scoffed nervously.
"Hey, Vellory," he muttered, "this is the power of your branch families?"
Neha laughed, sharp and mocking.
Their voices rose—arguments igniting, egos clashing—
But Michael didn't even look at them.
Didn't hear them.
Didn't care.
At sea, the Interstellar surged forward with terrifying speed.
It was no longer wandering.
It had found its source.
Behind the shoreline—beyond the screaming civilians, beyond the crumbling streets—lay the city. A nest of kinetic chaos.
Fear. Movement. Energy.Food.
People on the beach understood it at once.
There was nowhere left to run.
Some dropped to their knees.
Others clutched their children, waiting for the end.
Then—
The ocean erupted.
A massive structure rose from beneath the waves, stone and alloy interlocking in impossible symmetry. Walls curved upward from all sides, forming a colossal dome around the Interstellar.
The beast slammed into it.
And stopped.
Shock rippled across the world.
On the shore, frozen terror gave way to disbelief.
Across the Dominion, broadcasts cut to silence as viewers leaned closer to their screens.
Inside the DAF, every voice died at once.
"What… is that?" someone whispered.
Dru Kitta's eyes narrowed.
"Zoom in," he ordered.
The image sharpened.
At the base of the structure stood a single figure—
Feet planted deep into the seabed, body unmoving despite the pressure, aura blazing like molten iron.
Rudra Shakthiraya.
"Unbroken Fortress," the Chief Analyst breathed.
The skill manifested as a complete containment field—an impregnable construct anchored directly to Rudra himself. The Interstellar thrashed, scales grinding against the walls, but its momentum was gone.
Its advance halted completely.
The sea calmed.
For the first time since the meteor fell—
Hope returned.
Cheers erupted on the beach.
People collapsed in relief, crying, laughing, praying.
Across the broadcast, anchors shouted over one another as the Dominion exhaled in unison.
Inside the DAF, tension loosened—just slightly.
Dru Kitta didn't celebrate.
"Chief Analyst," he asked quietly, "is it over?"
The analyst shook his head.
"No. The Interstellar hasn't been destroyed," he said. "Only contained."
Dru's jaw tightened.
"Then what happens next?"
The analyst stared at the screen.
"That," he answered, "is now in War General Rudra Shakthiraya's hands."
Behind them—
Vikram Vellory smirked.
"See?" he said loudly. "That's the power of our family."
Ranveer clicked his tongue in irritation.
Neha scoffed, unimpressed.
Cheers thundered across the seashore.
Rudra Shakthiraya stood unmoving at the heart of his fortress as civilians cried his name, as hope—fragile and desperate—returned to the air.
But high above—
Rithvik Rajmiran heard only one thing.
Applause.
From the Vaanjet slicing through the sky, his jaw tightened. The sound crawled under his skin like insects.
"Tch."
He dropped from the aircraft, boots slamming onto the dome's surface. The fortress trembled under his weight.
"Don't celebrate yet," Rithvik snarled, flames licking around his fists. "You didn't finish it."
Rudra turned sharply.
"Rajmiran—don't—"
Too late.
Rithvik slammed his fist into the dome and roared:
"Burn the Rules!"
The world screamed.
Fire erupted—not normal flame, not chakra fire, but something obscene. White-hot, warped, violent. A thermonic inferno that ignored physics, devouring oxygen, space, and restraint alike.
Inside the DAF—
The Chief Analyst's face drained of color.
"…How," he whispered, "how did this lunatic ever become Chief of the DEF?"
His hands flew over the console. Then he froze.
"…We're doomed."
Dru Kitta spun.
"What happens now?"
Mr. Vayanshi followed, voice sharp.
"Speak!"
The analyst swallowed.
"The fortress is enclosed by several tonnes of seawater. If that level of heat interacts with—"
Vayanshi's eyes widened.
"Steam," he finished. "High-pressure. Massive kinetic release."
The alarms detonated.
Red flooded every screen.
"WARNING—ENERGY SPIKE DETECTED!"
The analyst screamed,
"Fuck—no—this isn't possible!"
Numbers skyrocketed.
"INTERSTELLAR CLASSIFICATION UPDATED."
A+ → S-RANK
At the seashore—
The fortress exploded.
A thermal shockwave tore the dome apart, steam and fire merging into a catastrophic blast. The Interstellar erupted outward—no longer contained, no longer restrained.
It was bigger.
Far bigger.
Its body glowed with infernal heat, scales fractured and reforged by energy. It slammed both Rudra and Rithvik through the air like discarded weapons, their bodies crashing into the shore with bone-shattering force.
Silence.
Then—
Panic.
The Interstellar hit land.
It rampaged.
Buildings collapsed. Streets split open. Everything that moved was hunted. Everything that screamed was silenced.
Hope died.
At the DAF, no one spoke.
Across the broadcast, anchors went silent.
On the shore, people ran—until they couldn't.
Then—
The beast stopped.
Mid-stride.
Its massive body slammed into the ground as if crushed by an invisible mountain.
The earth cracked.
A pressure unlike anything before flooded the battlefield.
Rudra coughed, forcing himself upright.
Rithvik staggered to his feet, eyes wide—not drunk now. Afraid.
Above them—
A figure descended.
Slow. Absolute. Unquestionable.
The sky itself seemed to bow.
Inside the DAF—
Dru Kitta whispered, voice trembling:
"…It's the Hammer Saint."
The words echoed through the room.
Vikram Vellory surged forward, eyes burning as the screen filled with his father's silhouette.
Neha clicked her tongue.
Ranveer cursed under his breath.
Nagul scowled.
Varsha didn't even blink.
And Michael—
For the first time since the outcasts sacrificed—
Raised his head.
The name Hammer Saint struck something deep inside him.
Not awe.
Not pride.
Hatred.
The air tightened as the man descended toward the battlefield—
The pillar of the Order of Hammer.
The man who decided who would live and who would die.