After the long royal meeting ended, Michael left the hall with his mind heavy and restless.
Thoughts piled over thoughts.
Questions without answers.
Doubts without proof.
Rage without release.
He walked.
Down one corridor.
Then another.
Marble floors echoed beneath his steps as towering pillars slid past his vision, unnoticed.
Behind him, Vikram followed in silence, watching his brother's back.
What's with him? Vikram thought irritably.
He's always like this—lost in his head. What the hell is he even thinking about all the time?
Michael didn't slow.
Didn't look back.
The palace gates opened before them, revealing the vast runway beyond.
And Michael stopped.
Lined up across the open stretch were cars—hundreds of them—waiting like obedient beasts.
Not ordinary vehicles.
World-dominating machines of luxury and power.
Rols-Royan.
Bentrix.
Mayrex.
Bugara.
Mercedon.
Auden.
Lexar.
Ferraux.
Every leading brand known to mankind stood gleaming under the sun, polished to perfection, engines silent yet alive—as if waiting to be chosen.
Michael froze.
For a moment, his breath caught.
This wasn't amazement alone.
It was disbelief.
A week ago…
I was sleeping under broken tiles.
Vikram, without hesitation, walked straight toward a sleek Ferraux—low, aggressive, crimson like flowing blood. He opened the door casually and slid inside as if it were nothing more than a daily habit.
He glanced sideways at Michael's stunned expression and smirked.
"Possibly something you've never seen in your entire life, huh?"
Michael didn't answer.
He walked.
Past Bugara's roaring designs.
Past Mayrex's brutal frames.
Past Auden's elegance.
His eyes scanned them all—not with greed, but with quiet observation.
So this is how this bastards really lives, he thought.
Luxurious. Untouched.
While we rot beneath it.
Then he stopped.
Before a white Rols-Royan.
Pure white exterior.
Interior matching in ivory tones, accented with refined wooden textures—subtle, dignified, timeless.
No excess.
No arrogance.
Just authority.
Michael opened the door and stepped inside.
He sat down—not casually, not hesitantly—
But like someone who belonged there.
Like a king reclaiming a throne he never knew was his.
The driver immediately entered, removed his cap, and bowed deeply.
"Good morning, Young Master."
The engine purred to life, smooth and silent.
The Rols-Royan rolled forward and stopped beside Vikram's Ferraux.
Vikram glanced over.
For a split second, surprise flickered across his face.
Then… approval.
At least, Vikram thought, "he still has the right mind on top".
The cars accelerated forward, side by side.
Michael stared ahead, eyes reflecting the world rushing past.
Vikram leaned out of his Ferraux, engine snarling beneath him, a crooked grin cutting across his face.
"Hey, freak!" he shouted, voice dripping with mockery. "What about a race to the C.O.S.M.O.S. training grounds?"
For half a second, the Rols-Royan beside him remained silent.
Then Michael's window slid down.
Without a word, Michael raised his thumb.
Up.
The response was instant.
Both drivers stiffened in alarm.
"Y–Young Masters," one of them stammered over the engine noise, "due to safety protocol, this is strictly prohibited. We cannot—"
They never finished the sentence.
Michael grabbed his driver by the collar and shoved him out with ruthless efficiency.
Vikram did the same—almost gleefully—sending his driver stumbling across the asphalt.
Both slid into the driver's seats.
Engines roared.
And then—
They launched.
The Ferraux exploded forward like a predator unleashed, tearing through the road with violent acceleration.
The Rols-Royan followed—not sluggish, not restrained—but smooth, deadly, and precise, its power coiled beneath elegance.
This wasn't a race.
It was a declaration.
Vikram drove like the world beneath his wheels didn't exist.
Traffic lights were suggestions.
Barriers were inconveniences.
Other vehicles were obstacles to be erased.
Metal screamed as he clipped cars, shattered side mirrors, and sent civilian vehicles spinning into guardrails.
Horns blared. People screamed. The city's road network descended into instant chaos.
And Vikram laughed.
This was how he had been raised.
Above consequence.
Above fear.
Above everyone else.
Michael drove differently.
But the result was the same.
He didn't laugh.
He didn't shout.
He didn't revel in destruction.
He simply didn't care.
Pedestrians scrambled out of the way as the Rols-Royan cut through intersections with surgical cruelty. His eyes were calm.
Focused. Empty.
If something stood in his path—
It ceased to matter.
Not out of arrogance like Vikram.
Not out of entitlement.
But because somewhere deep inside Michael, a switch had flipped long ago.
The world had already decided lives were expendable.
So why should he pretend otherwise?
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Traffic collapsed into gridlock behind them.
Concrete cracked. Glass shattered.
Two brothers raced forward, engines screaming side by side—
One driven by pride.
The other by apathy far more dangerous.
And neither intended to slow down..
Then—
The sky screamed.
A meteor tore through the clouds and slammed into the center of the road behind them.
BOOM.
The impact detonated like a localized apocalypse. Asphalt folded inward. Shockwaves rippled outward, flipping cars, shattering windows, and throwing people off their feet.
A column of dust and debris clawed its way into the sky.
Michael slammed the brakes.
The Rols-Royan screeched to a halt.
Vikram didn't.
He didn't even glance back.
His Ferraux surged forward, engine howling as if the meteor had never existed—because to Vikram, the race mattered more than anything else.
Winning always did.
Michael stared through the rearview mirror for a fraction of a second. Then he turned the wheel.
He abandoned the race.
The car roared back toward the impact zone.
By the time Michael reached the site, the Danger Eradication Force was already there.
Black-armored units swarmed the area with terrifying efficiency, forcing civilians back while erecting a massive energy dome over the crater.
From the outside, the barrier was invisible—only the sudden dead zone where sound warped and air felt wrong betrayed its presence.
Evacuation orders blared through loudspeakers.
No one listened.
Instead, people gathered like moths to fire—phones raised, flashes popping, voices buzzing with excitement as if this were entertainment instead of annihilation waiting to happen.
The DEF tried pushing them back.
Failed.
And then-
He arrived.
Roshan Sahay stepped out onto the fractured road.
Six feet tall. Perfect posture. Features so sharp and symmetrical he looked like something torn straight from a fairy tale.
The crowd erupted.
Girls screamed. Cameras went wild.
Roshan's expression didn't change.
Not even slightly.
His eyes swept over the civilians with open irritation.
"Don't these people have anything better to do with their lives?" he muttered.
He turned away, already bored.
The Vice Chief rushed toward him, helmet tucked under his arm.
"Chief, the crowd isn't dispersing."
Roshan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"No need to worry about them," he replied flatly. "The meteor's only C-rank. Even if something happens… it's on them."
The Vice Chief froze.
Roshan was already walking toward his reinforced Auden, voice trailing behind him.
"I'm leaving this site to you. Don't mess it up."
The car door shut.
The engine purred.
And Roshan Sahay drove away without another glance at the crater—or the people standing too close to it.
The Vice Chief stared at the retreating vehicle, teeth grinding.
"Fucking bastard…" he spat under his breath.
"Junior to me back at the academy—and now he's my superior."
His fist clenched so hard his knuckles turned bone-white.
"After Bheeshma went into a coma, I should've been Chief," the Vice Chief muttered through gritted teeth.
"But they didn't. They made Rithvik Chief instead—a drunkard. And what happens? He gets arrested."
His jaw tightened, resentment boiling over.
"I thought this was finally my time. And then suddenly—this golden-spoon son of the C.O.S.M.O.S founder shows up and starts bossing me around like I'm nothing."
His burning gaze followed the Auden as it disappeared down the road.
Then—
A disturbance rippled through the crowd.
Whispers spread. Heads turned.
Michael—Adithya Vellory to everyone else—emerged from between the civilians, walking calmly toward the restricted zone.
A floating white cloak draped over his shoulders, untouched by dust or chaos. Etched onto its back was the unmistakable insignia: two crossed swords, and between them a massive war hammer.
The symbol of the C.O.S.M.O.S.
Recognition hit instantly.
"Isn't that… the Hammer-Saint's elder son?"
"What's he doing here?"
"I heard he joined C.O.S.M.O.S…"
"Then why is he at a DEF crash site?"
The murmurs reached the Vice Chief.
He turned—
And froze.
"What's this platinum spoon doing here?" he thought sharply.
"Better stay on his good side".
His resentment vanished beneath a carefully forced smile as he stepped forward.
"Ah—hello, Lord Adithya Vellory," he said warmly.
"Isn't this the time for you to be training for your rank promotion?"
Michael's eyes flicked toward him, emotionless.
"Well," Michael replied calmly, "that's exactly why I'm here."
Without hesitation, he continued walking.
"I'm going inside."
The Vice Chief blinked.
"Inside?"
Michael was already nearing the invisible energy dome.
The Vice Chief raised his voice, authority lending him courage.
"Stop right there. Even if you are the Hammer-Saint's son—no one apart from members of the Danger Eradication Force is authorized at the crash site. Even C.O.S.M.O.S personnel are restricted."
Michael stopped.
Slowly, he turned his head.
"Stop acting already, old ass", he thought.
Out loud, his voice was calm—almost polite.
"Turn a blind eye."
He took a step closer.
"You'll be rewarded well by our family."
The Vice Chief staggered, eyes widening.
"What…?"
His expression hardened.
"I swore on my family," he said firmly.
Michael smiled.
Not warm.
Not friendly.
A smile that made the Vice Chief's spine itch.
"As you wish," Michael replied lightly.
"But remember what you said today."
Swore on my family? Michael scoffed inwardly.
My foot.
Before another word could be spoken—
Michael stepped forward and vanished straight through the energy dome, as if it didn't exist.
The crowd erupted into confusion.
"Did he just disappear?"
"Where did he go?"
"What is he planning to do?"
Inside the dome—
Michael felt it instantly.
The pull.
The hunger.
Black Essence.
A surge of exhilaration rushed through his veins, sharp and intoxicating.
His lips curled upward, eyes gleaming.
This is it.
For the first time since morning—
Michael felt genuinely happy.