At the Danger Analytical Force Room
Hope returned.
It wasn't subtle. It didn't creep in quietly. It crashed into the room the moment the Hammer Saint of Indravana appeared on the screen, floating high above the battlefield like an unmovable law of nature.
Across the west coastline, the S-Rank Interstellar—moments ago tearing through land and lives—was slammed into the ground, its colossal body crushed flat, unable to rise.
Not destroyed.
Suppressed.
This was the Hammer Saint's domain.
One of his most feared abilities was active:
Saint's Pressure.
A zone of absolute dominion.
Within it, every source of energy—chakra, kinetic force, thermal output, even raw momentum—was turned against itself. The more power an entity possessed, the heavier its existence became. Movement demanded strength. Strength demanded energy. And energy became weight.
An endless, merciless loop.
The Interstellar thrashed, its serpentine body cracking the ground as it struggled to lift even a fraction of itself. Once an A+ Rank, now forcefully elevated to S-Rank, it still resisted—barely.
That alone unsettled everyone watching.
If even this monster could still move under Saint's Pressure…
what kind of being was the man imposing it?
Across the city, across the nation, millions watched the live broadcast in stunned silence. Confusion mingled with relief. Fear tangled with faith.
Their final hope had arrived.
Inside the DAF, the shift was instant.
Voices rose. Shoulders straightened. Analysts leaned forward. Soldiers clenched their fists with renewed belief.
Michael, who until now had shown no interest in the unfolding catastrophe, slowly stood up.
Without a word, he walked toward the massive screen.
Mr. Vayanshi noticed it.
So did Dru Kitta.
Both men exchanged a brief glance—sharp, curious.
For the first time since the crisis began, Michael looked… engaged.
Not inspired.
Not relieved.
Alert.
Vikram Vellory leaned forward eagerly, eyes locked on the screen, pride blazing through him.
"Come on, Dad," he muttered. "End it already."
Neha clicked her tongue in irritation, arms crossed.
"Tch…"
Nagul and Ranveer watched with bored expressions—not because they admired the Hammer Saint, but because they already knew the outcome.
This fight was decided the moment he arrived.
Truth was truth, no matter how much one despised it.
Varsha, as usual, showed no reaction at all.
Her eyes didn't widen.
Her breath didn't hitch.
She simply watched—silent, unreadable, detached.
On the screen, the Hammer Saint hovered above the crushed Interstellar, his presence alone rewriting the battlefield.
At the Battlefield
The Interstellar twitched.
Just a single movement—its colossal body attempting to defy the invisible weight crushing it into the earth.
That was enough.
The Hammer Saint, Rajendra Vellory, did not speak.
He did not shout.
He did not threaten.
He simply raised his left hand.
One finger—his index—lifted calmly into the air.
Then, with deliberate indifference, he slid it to the left.
Reality obeyed.
Inside the Interstellar's massive body, an absurd concentration of energy was forcibly drawn inward—every remaining ounce of kinetic force, thermal residue, and corrupted essence collapsing into a single point.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then—
BOOM.
The explosion was silent at first, like pressure imploding upon itself—then the shockwave erupted outward, ripping through the battlefield with overwhelming force.
Buildings within several hundred meters buckled and shattered, windows disintegrating into dust, streets cracking open like brittle glass.
Yet the destruction stopped there.
An invisible barrier shimmered around the city—an immense energy shield, perfectly curved, absorbing the excess force. Civilians near the coastline were untouched. Not a single scream followed.
Because the Hammer Saint had already accounted for them.
Dust and smoke billowed into the sky, blotting out the sun.
Seconds passed.
Then silence.
As the haze slowly cleared, there was nothing where the Interstellar had been.
No corpse.
No fragments.
No residue.
Erased.
High above the ruined battlefield, the Hammer Saint floated alone—unmoved, unscarred, untouched by the chaos he had just ended.
The realization hit all at once.
It was over.
The city erupted.
Cheers thundered from the shoreline, from rooftops, from evacuation zones. Soldiers raised their weapons in triumph. Civilians collapsed to their knees, crying, laughing, praying.
At the Danger Analytical Force, analysts stared at the screen in stunned disbelief.
Victory had never looked so absolute.
On the ground, reporters swarmed the landing zone, microphones raised, voices overlapping in desperation.
"Saint! Hammer Saint! Just one question—please!"
"Chairman Vellory! A post-battle statement—!"
Even as they shouted, another presence crept closer.
A rival news helicopter, sleek and aggressive, drifted in from the side, cameras rolling, attempting to steal the moment mid-broadcast as it hovered at what it believed to be a safe distance.
Above them all, Rajendra Vellory remained silent.
Without a single word, the Hammer Saint swung his hammer once.
The air itself bent.
And then—he was gone.
A streak of light vanished into the sky, leaving only silence behind.
For a heartbeat, the reporters stood frozen, mouths open, microphones hanging uselessly in the air.
Then the shoreline erupted.
Cheers roared like thunder. People screamed his name, some cried, some fell to their knees in relief. Cameras shook as anchors struggled to speak over the noise.
The sound of cheering dragged Rithvik back from darkness.
His eyes snapped open.
Pain screamed through his body as he pushed himself up from the shattered sand. Blood dripped down his temple as his vision focused on the sky—on the retreating figure of the Hammer Saint disappearing into the clouds.
His jaw clenched.
"That fucking bastard…" he muttered.
"…stole my prey."
BOOM.
A fist slammed into his back.
Rithvik was launched forward, his face plowing through sand and debris, carving a trench before crashing to a stop. Dirt filled his mouth. His vision spun.
He staggered up, coughing, fury igniting.
"Who the hell—"
He froze.
Surrounding him in a perfect formation stood the Order of the Hammer's soldiers, weapons raised. Behind them—Executioners and elite units of C.O.S.M.O.S, their presence crushing the air itself.
And stepping forward, armor scarred and eyes burning—
War General Rudra Shakthiraya.
No surprise crossed Rithvik's face.
Only irritation.
Rudra's voice cut through the tension like steel.
"Rithvik," he said coldly,
"you are under arrest—for interfering in an active mission, violating command authority, and all the shit you pulled today."
Rithvik blinked.
Then laughed.
"What?"
"You've got to be kidding me."
His aura flared.
"Ashen Authority."
Flames exploded outward.
The air warped. Soldiers staggered back, choking, skin blistering as the heat surged beyond tolerance.
But—
CLANG.
A dome slammed shut around Rithvik's body.
Not a barrier—
A prison.
His limbs were locked. His flames turned inward, feeding back into himself, threatening to burn him alive if he pushed any harder. Only his head remained exposed.
"What the fu—?" Rithvik hissed, eyes darting.
The soldiers parted.
Heavy footsteps followed.
From the crowd emerged a towering figure, broad as a fortress, his presence alone suffocating the battlefield.
Bheema.
Second-in-command of C.O.S.M.O.S. Equal in rank to Ajay Meer.
Guardian of the system.
Rithvik's expression finally cracked.
"…Bheema."
Bheema stopped before him.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
"I entrusted you with the position of Chief of the DEF," he said.
"Because my brother believed in you."
"Because he thought you would make him proud."
His eyes hardened.
"He lies in a hospital bed. In a coma."
Silence fell.
"You failed him."
Rithvik swallowed.
"Wait—listen. I'm not—"
"Enough."
Bheema turned away.
"Reflect on your mistakes," he said over his shoulder, "in prison."
He walked off.
The soldiers moved in.
At the Danger Analytical Force Room
Silence ruled the hall.
The massive screen replayed the final moments again and again—
the Hammer Saint's descent,
the pressure zone,
the annihilation.
No one spoke.
Then Mr. Vayanshi broke the stillness.
"He deserved it," he said calmly, referring to Rithvik.
After a brief pause, he turned toward the Chief Analyst.
"He's SS-rank now, isn't he?"
The room stiffened.
"SS rank?" Dru Kitta repeated sharply.
"How?"
The Chief Analyst adjusted the data feed, his expression grim.
"The Interstellar evolved from A+ to S-rank mid-battle," he explained.
"To eliminate it effortlessly, the Hammer Saint's combat output had to exceed it by an entire tier."
He let the implication sink in.
"That places Rajendra Vellory… firmly in SS-rank."
Shock rippled through the room.
Vikram Vellory broke into a grin.
"That's my dad," he said proudly.
He gestured toward several distant command feeds—other strongholds, other analysts frozen in indecision.
"Looks like they don't even know what to do next."
He laughed.
The sound earned him nothing but envy and silent rage.
Mr. Vayanshi turned back to the Chief Analyst and Dru Kitta.
"My thanks," he said formally.
"Your coordination prevented a complete collapse."
Then he faced the trainees.
"Learn one thing from today," he said, voice firm.
"Never act against direct command. Power without discipline is destruction."
Vikram Vellory.
Neha Khuraar.
Ranveer Rathore.
Nagul Senapati.
Varsha Aarin.
All stood straight, listening seriously.
Then—
Yawn.
The tension cracked.
Michael stretched lazily, completely uninterested.
Every eye in the room snapped toward him.
"So," Michael said casually,
"what's next?"
For a moment, everyone wondered if he was serious.
Mr. Vayanshi sighed.
"That's all for today," he announced.
"There will be a major announcement in upcoming days, so wait for it."
He turned and walked out.
The trainees filed past him, eyes filled with resentment, rivalry, and ambition.
Michael didn't move.
The screen replayed the Hammer Saint's battle once more.
He stared at it quietly.
SS-rank, huh…
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Wait for me," he thought.
"I'll stand at the rank above you."